In These Shoes?

22 06 2011

For those of you who missed the title’s reference, a musical interlude!


Believe it or not, I hate drawing attention to myself in public spaces. Granted, it’s different in a kink setting, such as a play party, where there’s the inherent expectation of performance.

When I walk in the rest of the world, however, the thought of being evaluated by strangers’ eyes fills me with inexplicable anxiety. I think it developed in high school, as so many insecurities do. Back then, I had a pair of velvet ankle boots with a chunky heel that was oh so popular in the late ’90s. The first day I worked up the chutzpa to wear them to school was mortifying. Not because of anything anyone did or said, but because of my own internal narrative. No one else was wearing dress boots. I went through the day dead convinced that I was being stared at, picked apart my my classmates and people passing by me on the street. It took me a year or so before I tried to venture out in them again.

I thought back to those boots as I tottered down Michigan Ave wearing five inch black stiletto heels.

The Stroll

It was a sun-bleached Saturday afternoon, and the tourists were out in force along the Magnificent Mile. I leaned slightly on my male companion’s arm as I navigated the crowds and unforgiving pavement.
“I feel ridiculous.” I said in his ear, smiling through clenched teeth.

“Nonsense,” he beamed a wicked smile. “You look gorgeous. There’s no need to feel ridiculous.” He gestured to a young women who had stopped to take a picture. She was wearing leggings styled to look like jeans and a tank top stretched a bit too tightly around her frame. “Now she should feel ridiculous. You, my dear, should feel fabulous.”
I narrowed my eyes at him. His smile grew Cheshire Cat wide.
My outfit felt a bit more demure when I’d met him for coffee the day before. Purple tank top tucked into a knee length pencil skirt and cinched with a wide black belt. Then again, when I met him for our date, I was wearing a sensible pair of sandals.
He sauntered next to me in dark jeans, a button down shirt, and technicolor sneakers. I could have sworn I saw a people glance from him to me as we walked past.
“People must think I’m a prostitute or something.”
He shrugged. “So, what if they do? At least you’re a well dressed prostitute.”
Eyeing the flip-flops and flats breezing past, I longed for my sandals.

To add insult to injury, I’d just purchased the implements of my demise. Earlier that morning, we were planning the day, and discussing a leisurely walk to Millennium Park. He expressed mild disappointment that I hadn’t shown up to our date in heels.
I explained that since I didn’t know what the date had in store or how much walking we were going to do, black sandals seemed most appropriate.
“However,” I offered, being ever so helpful, “If it means that much to you, Nordstrom Rack is not all that far away. I can probably find an inexpensive pair of heels to wear.”

Famous last words.

My Purchase

Much as it pains me to admit it, I’m not above the influence of consumer culture. I have a deep appreciation for beautiful things, and I love playing dress up. Call it a weakness. I browsed the sales racks of Nordstrom. After considering a few options and giving my companion an abbreviated fashion show, I found the infamous black stilettos. They fit well, looked pretty, and were actually within my budget. The sales lady gave me a meaningful look as I walked back and forth in front of a nearby mirror.

“Wow.” She said. “They fit you perfect.”

I glanced at my companion for verification. He gave an enigmatic smile and nodded in agreement. I sat next to him, the heels dangling from my fingers. As I started packing them in their box, my companion gently touched my shoulder.

“You do realize,” He said “That if you get those shoes, you’ll have to wear them all the way to Millennium Park.”

Millennium Park was just shy of a mile away. When not wearing heels, I can walk that distance without a second thought. I glanced at the shoes, then at him, then at the surgical scars on my left ankle. It’s been almost two years since I broke my ankle, but it still flares up when I overstrain it by doing things such as… I don’t know… walking in heels on concrete for extended periods of time.

“You’re kidding me.” My face was a mask of incredulity.
My companion’s voice was firm. “You will walk in them from here to the park.”
“Can I at least bring my sandals to change into for the walk back?”
“Your sandals can stay in the hotel room.”
“Oh hell no!” I spat. “Absolutely not!”

A Small Detour

By the time we hit Michigan and Wacker, my ankles started to give. My companion noted the change in my gait, and looped his arm around my waist to give me more support.
A gaggle of giggling teenagers cut in front of us.
“I hope alligators devour you.” I menaced as best I could.
His demeanor remained unchanged. “Just keep your head up. We still have a ways to go.”
“God,” I mused aloud, regarding my now wobbly gait “Now people are probably going to think I’m drunk or something.”
“Bah,” He waved the comment off with his free hand. “To give people that impression, we’d really have to sell it. You’d have to rush over to a trash can and pretend to dry heave. But then, you’d have to run up to the trash can in order to make it believable. Judging by how you’re walking now, I don’t think you have the speed to really pull it off. I should have thought of that when we started out. Now I know for next time.”
“Alligators!” I threatened.

“Now here’s a thought.” My companion mused, “I should find a store and buy you an even higher pair of heels for you to walk back in. Doesn’t that sound like fun?”
I muttered a profanity or two under my breath.
Before long, the corner of Millennium Park came into view. I breathed a sigh of relief, thinking excitedly of the many benches the park must contain.
“Well, we’re here.” I beamed as winning a smile as I could muster. “Almost time to go back, right?”
“No.” His voice was that of a patient school teacher. “I didn’t say we’d walk to the edge of the park. We are walking to the other end of the park.”
I opened my mouth and promptly closed it.
We were about to pass the Chicago Cultural Center, when he stopped for a moment.
“Have you ever been to the Chicago Cultural Center?” He asked me.
“Yes,” I regarded him with suspicion. “Why do you ask?”
“I’d like to check it out. And just think of all that marble flooring. It’ll be good for you.”
I forced a grin, bearing my teeth. “Of course it will.”

Thankfully, the Cultural Center had more carpeting than he had anticipated. We walked silently for a while, admiring the intricate moldings, ornate columns and vaulted ceilings. My companion led me up a few flights of stairs. We walked in aimless circles. When he decided he’d had enough of the Cultural Center, we left. Much to my surprise, my companion turned us towards State Street and away from Millenium Park.
“Where are we going?”
My companion’s smile was as enigmatic as ever.
Holy shit, it dawned on me, the bastard was serious!

Price to Pay

Within minutes of scanning the racks of discounted designer shoes, I found a beautiful pair of Ferragamo peep toe sandals. I’d never seen anything like them. They were made of pale rose and antique violet leather, with intricate designs along the sides and along the toe. While I’m not one to put that much stock in name brands, I don’t think I’d ever seen a pair of Ferragamos up close. I thought they were myths told by trophy wives and perpetuated on by Sex and the City reruns. Even I knew that finding a pair of those shoes for under 200 dollars was almost unheard of. My companion looked on as I admired the shoes.

“The heel looks a little low.” Said my companion. They were 4 1/2 inch heels. “But they are quite beautiful.”
It almost pained me to take them off. “Well, they’re a definite possibility.” I said.

I started to walk away with the black stilettos dangling from my fingers. My companion shot me a meaningful look. I heaved a sigh and put them back on.

My companion kept a slight distance as I browsed aisle after aisle of shoes, falling ever more in love with the Ferragamos. None of the other shoes stacked up. This pair was too chunky, that heel was too low. Another pair looked too much like the pair on my feet. I eventually returned to the Ferragamos.

My companion flashed me a predatory smile, coming close enough to hiss in my ear. “I will buy you those shoes if you like them, but only under the following conditions.” His voice was low and calm. “You will wear them all the way back to the hotel. I will stay behind you and will not support you. You will support your own weight the whole way back.”
I swallowed hard. Ok, that would be difficult, but not impossible. If I took my time, I might be able to endure the journey.
“That’s not all.” My companion continued, “Every time we pass by a trash can, you will go up to it an pretend to dry heave into it.”
I went pale as he spoke. The very thought of fulfilling his demands wrenched at my stomach.
“No.” I pleaded, my eyes growing wide. “Oh please no. Please don’t make me!”
My companion barely even blinked.
Words all but failed me as panic took hold of my voice. “I’ll walk… I’ll walk all the way but not that. Just… Please. Please Don’t make me.” Tears started to blur my vision.
My companion’s expression did not waver. “That’s the deal. I’ll be downstairs by the cashiers.” I stared after him as he vanished down the escalator and then regarded the heels in my hands.

Decisions and Consequences

It wasn’t about the shoes. Not entirely, at least. Hell’s bells,[*] I probably needed another pair of shoes like I needed a hole in the head. My companion’s ultimatum pitted my stubbornness against my pride. The stubborn streak in me didn’t want me to fail my companion’s expectation. Ironically enough, I teach a class where I stress both the challenges and the importance of respecting one’s own limits. I was really feeling the challenge bit in that moment. If I came down the escalator empty handed, I’d have to admit both to him and myself that I hit a wall. On the other hand, just how far was I willing to go? Was proving a point and getting the shoes worth drawing that much negative attention to myself?

I chose.

My companion was waiting for me at the bottom of the escalator, typing something on his phone. He glanced up at me as I stepped onto the escalator.
I looked him in the eye when I reached the bottom.

My hands were empty.

“I can’t.” I said flatly. My companion’s face was inscrutable. “I just can’t.”
In that moment, his entire posture relaxed. He looked relieved, almost overjoyed.
“You know,” he said, “I really would have been heartbroken if you came down the escalator with those shoes.”
He held me close. It took me a while to register his words.
“Go,” He said, eyes beaming. “Get the shoes. I’ll meet you at the checkout line, and then we’ll take a cab back. You can wear them out if you like.”
I blinked at him in astonishment. “You really don’t have to.” I stammered.
“I know.” He replied. Another smile wrinkled the corners of his eyes. This one was warm and inviting. “Now, go get your shoes.”

I did.

Why, yes I have been reading the Dresden Files series. Why do you ask?

Sex Life Snapshot: Connection

20 06 2011

We lay in his bed, somewhere not quite on the edge of sleep. I was sprawled across his chest.
“Your touch feels amazing.” He breathed.
“Thank you.”
“I feel like a black hole. Like I’ll just take and take however much you give me. And I don’t have the energy to give back.”
“Well,” my voice was quiet, “By showing appreciation for my touch, you are giving back. The acknowledgment feeds me.”
“You’re running low on emotional stores. Maybe you’re not a black hole, just an empty vessel.”
“It’s just…” He let out another breath. “I’m worried I’m going to drain you dry.”
That statement threw me. For one thing, I wasn’t feeling remotely drained. I had plenty of warm fuzziness to spare. Furthermore, the path I’m on right now is, at least in part, about taking ownership over my own well being. If I had started to feel drained, it would be up to me to turn off the spigot, so to speak.
“That’s not your job.” Was all I said in response.
“Thank you. I appreciate that.”
After a while, I shifted onto my side. His arm coiled around my waist.
“For the purposes of being blunt and honest,” He said into my neck, “I’m not going to make any moves on you tonight.”
“I kind of figured as such.”
He continued as if I hadn’t said anything. “It’s not that I’m not attracted to you or not horny or anything. I’m in a place where I’d just be taking, and that wouldn’t be fair.”
“That’s fine. Thanks for letting me know.” I drifted off to sleep.

Before long, the alarm on my phone began to chirp. Sunlight leaked through the edges of the curtains. I bemoaned the time, turned off the alarm, and burrowed back into his arms.

“You sleep ok?” I asked, curling my back into him like a lazy cat.
He tightened his grip around my waist. “I’ve been going back and forth about whether to jump you.”
“Ohh?” I asked “So, what’s the fear exactly?”
“Like I said,” He gave a weary sigh, “I don’t have the emotional energy to give right now. I’d just be taking.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“I mean I’d be using you like property.”
I wondered if he noticed my body shift.
He heaved another sigh, this one tinged with frustration. “But I really want to.”
I think I said something about being responsible for my own headspace.
“Well,” I finally asked “where are you in the decision process?”
“Sounds like there’s a whole lot of indecision going on.”
“Yeah.” He said, “Something like that.”
“Well, if you did use me as property,” I mused, waxing academic, “what would that look like?”
The response was far from academic. He rolled me on my stomach and pressed his weight into my back. His breathing grew heavy.
“Do you consent to being used as my property?” He rasped in my ear.
I nodded.
His hand reached up between my thighs. “Remember, this isn’t for you.” There was a cold edge to his voice. It sent shock through my spine. I nodded again, my senses slipping out from under me. He slid his hand away.
Before I could orient myself, he dragged me to the floor by my hair.
“Whatever I put in front of you, you are going to lick eagerly. Do you understand?”
Another nod. I was at the brink of falling into the cavernous depths of subspace. The effect was both inviting and terrifying. My thinking brain sputtered to catch up, to pull me back from that ragged edge.
I felt his hand on my neck, then my tongue on his skin. I muzzled my thinking brain and let myself go under.

Time passed. He lay back on the bed, still buzzing from what looked like a much needed release. My head was nestled against his thigh. His fingers drew lazy circles in my hair.
I broke the silence “On what planet was that you not giving emotional energy?”
He regarded me for a minute before answering. “Huh. I guess that was.”
“So, it’s not that you’re out of emotional energy… You’re more like a printer that’s out of black toner.”
He gave something that sounded like a laugh. “Well, the print is all yellow and weird.”
“Well, I didn’t say it was perfect. My point is, you can still print.”
He smiled. “Point taken.”

We talked for a while longer before it was time to enter back into reality.


I can empathize with that fear of taking, though it was incongruous with my headspace at the time. I think that state is something we all struggle with at some point or another. I know I have.

No one wants to be that black hole. There is so much stigma around being labeled angst ridden, needy, or an energy vampire. Now, there are some people who are in a perpetual state of need, who can be genuinely draining to those around them.

At the same time, who hasn’t been in those spaces? Moments of feeling drained and in need of replenishment do not an energy vamp make. There are points when we all need to be selfish so that we can muster enough energy to move forward.

Online Networking, Real Life Digits, and Boundaries

16 06 2011

Recently, there’s been an influx of new people messaging me on Fetlife. Which is unfortunate, timing wise, because my bandwidth for new people is very low at present. A confluence of life changes will do that to ya. But that’s besides the point. There was one person who messaged me, however, who seemed pretty cool. We started chatting back and forth. To protect the innocent, I’ll call him Bob.

Bob wanted to meet me in person. There’s a local munch that I frequent, and I told Bob he could meet me there. I like having a first meeting at someplace like a munch. It’s a safety thing. If I meet this person and we hit it off, we can talk one on one in a public place. I can get to know him in a low pressure environment. If things go wrong or we don’t click, I’m surrounded by a number of people I know and trust. It works all around.

Bob asked me for my phone number. I told him that I tend to be wary about giving out my phone number to people I haven’t met in person. He can see me at the munch and we’ll go from there.

And then he kept pressing, saying that he understands and respects my desire for privacy. But… If I could give him a little credit and trust him. He would understand if there were only certain times of day I wanted him to call, he’d honor that, but really. It would be much easier to coordinate if he had my number.

Upon receiving this message, I noticed myself growing increasingly agitated.

I said I’d see him that evening. Turns out, I got the date of the munch wrong. It was the following week. I messaged him as soon as I realized and said I’d see him the following week. Apparently, he did not get this message until he was already at the place where the munch was supposed to be. Oops! I felt genuinely bad about that.

He wrote back saying this is why he wanted my phone number, but if I didn’t want to give it to him, that was ok.

I never responded back. Perhaps that was bitchy of me. I just… couldn’t engage him on that topic anymore. Some part of me wanted to throw something against a wall.

I was surprised at just how strong my reaction was to his request for my number. I can’t remember the last time I was so peeved by a Fetlife correspondence. The more he asked, the more annoyed I got, and the less I wanted to give him my number.
It wasn’t the request for my number that bothered me. Not really anyway. What bothered me was the reaction to my no. I said no. I stated a limit, and this person kept pushing. And, while in the grand scheme of things, Bob’s persistence was not exactly a grave offense, I couldn’t help but wonder. If this person won’t respect my desire not to divulge my number, what will his reaction be to other, far more important boundaries?

Am I overly sensitive, paranoid, or cynical? I don’t know.

I realize that I do similar versions of this test a lot. Oftentimes, I’ll do it subconsciously. I will set a limit with someone to see what the response is. If he respects the limit without issue or question, it makes me more comfortable and my boundaries with that person become more elastic. The more resistance I get, the more walls I put up.

Perhaps that could be read as a manipulative move on my part. I guess, technically it is. At the same time, this pattern of mine is a direct reaction to some horrendously manipulative behaviors I’ve experienced in the past.

There is the very definite possibility that Bob’s intentions were pure, relatively speaking, of course. It could very well be that Bob is a nice and respectful individual who just wanted to simplify the process of coordinating a meeting with me. He may very well be angry at me or think I’m completely nuts. I chose, for better or worse, not to find out.

At the end of the day, honoring my limits and my sense of safety takes precedence over worrying about the feelings of people I barely know.

An Object Lesson in the Dangers of Telephone

2 06 2011

I get annoyed when people speak definitively about something they saw in passing or experienced fifth hand.

After I got back from Shibaricon this past weekend, I debriefed with a friend of mine.

“Hey,” she said “did you do a rough body play scene in the main play space Sunday night?”

“I did.” I said cautiously, detecting an edge in her voice “Is that a problem?”

“No. It’s fine. I just have to ask. Is it true that you were being thrown around the dungeon by a rope tied around your neck?”

I blinked for a minute before answering.

“Ummmm… No. I’m pretty sure I would have remembered that. I mean… I was thrown around by a rope attached to a chest harness, but that was pulling on my chest. And there was a rope around my neck at some point, but that was more a gesture of humiliation and it wasn’t used as a leverage point. Who said I was dragged around by a rope around my neck?”

“I don’t know. I overheard someone saying that’s what they saw, and that the DMs had to stop the scene. Since that really didn’t sound like something you would do, I wanted to ask you first before I made any assumptions.”

“No, I appreciate that. But yeah. That’s weird. The scene was not stopped. The DMs almost stopped the scene for something that looked like breath play, but I didn’t find that out until after the scene ended.”

“Ok. Thanks for clearing that up.”

I really hate to think that someone’s reputation  (and mine, indirectly) is being tarnished for an infraction that didn’t occur. In reality, the scene in question was awesome, and its memory has been filed filed away for many a future “I’ll be in my bunk” moments. Furthermore, my play partner did everything that could reasonably be expected from a conscientious top.

Whoever the overheard party was may have seen something that appeared to be violent and not ok. What he our she didn’t see were the moments where the top in question adjusted my harness when I told him my arm was starting to wrench, or how said top checked in when he didn’t know how to interpret changes in my body language. But I guess its hard to see the entire context of a scene when it’s just one facet of a busy play space.

I vented my frustration about the situation to my trainer. Kink aware trainers are immensely useful creatures. He thought it was hilarious.

“You know what you should have said… You should have been like ‘You know, after all that breath play, I think I went into a coma.’ Or better yet, ‘Wow, I really shouldn’t have had so much to drink beforehand!'”

“Nah,” I shot back, “it was the PCP that really did me in.”

(Let it be started for the record that in no way was I actually inebriated during the con. My trainer and I are just terrible people.)

He dropped a wobble board at my feet and grabbed two free weights from the rack. I glanced at the wobble board, then glowered at him.

“Oh, come on,” he eyed the black and blue splotches on my arms, “after the weekend you just had, this is nothing.”

I teetered on the wobble board and he placed the weights in my hands.

“I hope something eats you.” I snarled.

He just laughed and signaled for me to do arm curls. Who needs a D/s relationship when you have a trainer…

Anyway, tangent aside, I wish whoever it was had asked me what was going on instead of misrepresenting my scene. I think that’s just good practice in general. We all bring our own stuff and out own issues to the play space, and it affects the way we perceive how others play. I hope that in the future, more people will have the courage to go up and ask (at an appropriate time, of course) about something that triggers our challenges them.

This public service announcement was intended for the education and betterment of the deviant community (tm Buckycat)

It’s All Dancing

15 03 2011

It feels very strange coming back to this space after such a long absence. Not that I’ve ever been good about updating with any regularity. But now I come back in a completely different place, physically, mentally, emotionally.

Around this time last year, I discovered partner dancing. I came to hear my friend’s swing band at a fancy hotel. After about an hour of feeling awkward, someone asked me to dance. And I’ve been going back ever since. Dancing feeds my soul. It’s a physical and creative outlet, much like kink. Thing is, I’ve lost almost 50 pounds dancing, which I was not able to accomplish with kink. I feel like I have a new brain and a new body. It’s kind of awesome

By no means have I given up kink. My energy has just shifted to create a different life balance. If anything, my experience dancing has deepened my relationship and altered my perception of kink. This realization didn’t actually hit me until just recently.

For my class on psychotherapy with GLBT clients, I gave a class presentation to on the therapeutic considerations for working with kinky clients. This is a topic that, as many of you know, is near and dear to my heart. It’s part of why I decided to become a mental health professional in the first place.

(To be clear, I’m not implying that kinky people need therapy. My position is that a therapist’s understanding a kinky client’s experience with BDSM may be vital to the work and therapeutic relationship regardless of the presenting issue.)

I related an exchange I ‘d once had in therapy. As I told the story, I saw a few people’s eyes widen, which I kind of anticipated. Outing myself to my class was a scary but calculated risk. I then posed the following to my classmates “By telling you this story, I’m taking a major risk. What do think about me now that I’ve disclosed this to you? Do you think I’m sick? Are you titillated? Are you uncomfortable? What would you do if I was your client? What would you do if my partner was your client in and talked about how he left marks on someone that lasted for weeks?”

It was really cool watching the expressions of recognition and uncomfortable self-awareness flash across everyone’s faces. We aspiring counselors like to think of ourselves as pretty open minded and accepting. Being confronted by one’s own prejudices can be tough. I then went into all of the data coming out about the importance of culturally sensitive care and how there are mounting studies out that disprove the link between BDSM and mental illness, etc.

One of the main points I made in my discussion was about the importance of understanding the difference between consensual activity and abuse. I also stressed that acting on a strong revulsion to kinky activities makes it impossible to assess for signs of actual abuse or non consensual violence. I’ve discussed many of my views on the subject here.

My presentation was pretty well received. Some people came up to me afterwards and commented on my bravery for sharing. A few people expressed interest in learning more about the community. My professor gave me an A. He’s gayer than a tree full of monkeys and has worked with people in the gay leather scene, so I knew wasn’t all that surprised. But I digress…

At the very end of the time alloted for questions, however, one girl raised her hand and said, “I don’t really understand how this is at all comparable to homosexuality or sexuality at all. You’re hurting people or getting hurt. I mean, I work with domestic violence victims, and if someone talks about their partner beating them or justifies their partner beating them… I mean… How does that work?”

Since I only had a few minutes, I just said “On some level you’re right. It is very counter intuitive.” People tend to hear you better when they feel validated. I continued “The thing to look at is the intention behind the action, not the action itself. Then again, if that’s a bias of yours, maybe this isn’t a population that you could ethically work with.”

She shook her head vigorously. “I totally couldn’t. I think I’d feel sorry for them.”

I think about all of the awesome, strong, self empowered submissives I know. What’s there to feel sorry for?

I recognize that she’s coming at this issue from a very specific lens. Having worked with DV clients and trauma survivors myself, I can see why she had the reaction she did. At the same time, her reaction belies a slew of assumptions about how BDSM presents in session and gender binaries in kink. I wanted to tell her how different the presentation actually is. On a biochemical level (which, to be honest, I only kinda sorta of understand) the brain processes kink very differently than it does trauma, and that will come out in session.

Then it occurred to me… What I should have told her is that if you want to understand how a D/s dynamic works, take up partner dancing.

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about the lead follow dynamic in dance. The parallels are pretty glaring, or so it seems to me.

The lead dictates where the follow goes, what the follow does. He (I recognize there are female leads, but I’m using “he” for the sake of ease) sets the tone of the dance. He’s also responsible for keeping the follow safe and making sure she doesn’t accidentally careen into other dancers on the floor or get stepped on.

The follow, however, is not a passive participant in the dance. Her job is to take the energy that the lead gives her, respond to that energy, and give that energy back however she can. Maybe she’ll throw her own styling in. Maybe she’ll take a cue from how the lead responds to the music. The more energy she can give to her lead, the more the lead has to work with. So in a really good dance, a constant feedback loop of energy, of call and response gets generated between the lead and follow.

And that, I realized, is exactly the energy I look for in a D/s dynamic. When done right, and when the dynamic is not abusive, the D/s, Top/bottom, whatever you want to call it dyad is all about energy exchange and connection. The Top (Dom, Master, Daddy, Inflicter of sensation) gives energy to the bottom (slave, sub, whatever) in the form of rope, impact, sensation, etc. The scene falls apart, however, if the bottom doesn’t contribute energy to the scene. The bottom’s reactions feed the top, and allow for that same energy loop to occur. My scene with Cannon way back when exemplifies this for me.

When that energy builds, and the connection works, the results are just delicious.

So let’s dance.

PSA for Fetlife Schmucks: Part 2

25 08 2010

Some time ago, I wrote a post about a Fetlife message I received from a fucktard dominant and my subsequent response.

Well, my inner ranty Mcrantypants was triggered once again, this time from a potentially misguided submissive.

He wrote:

I am a 21 year old male. I am seeking a mistress. my penis is of no use to me. I am a sissy strap on slut and will to do many things for you to make you happy. I am also into mild pain. Love humiliation and I think that you would be a great Mistress. Please give me a chance to please you.

Since he’s young and, according to his profile, relatively new, I decided to seize on this opportunity to educate our community’s youth.

My response:

* * *


Normally, I ignore messages such as the one you sent. However, since you’re young and new, I’m operating under the assumption that you’re not an internet troll, just someone who doesn’t know any better.

You’re going about this whole thing all wrong.

1. Your email sounds like a form letter. That’s bad. There is nothing here to indicate that you took any time to read my profile or even my fetish list. Messaging here is like writing a resume; you want to tailor it to your target audience.

What about my profile gave you the impression that a) I’m into strap-on play or sissy sluts and b) have any interest in being anyone’s mistress, let alone yours?

This goes double for switches. If you’re going to approach a switch about being your mistress, make damn sure she’s into that sort of thing. Many of us are not.

2. You say you want to make me happy. Coming from a complete stranger, that just sounds creepy. You don’t know me. I know precious little about you. I don’t know what your idea of “making me happy” is. Is it something sexual? Is it taking pain for me? Is it buying me shoes?

More importantly, do you really want to come across as someone who is so eager to please any vaguely dominant and attractive woman they come across on Fetlife? Most dominant people I know who are worth their salt (and I know quite a few) don’t want just any submissive. They want a submissive with substance who responds to their dominant energy. Otherwise, what’s the point?

3. As mentioned above, being a Mistress is not something most people take lightly nor is it something most women will do with just anyone (unless she’s getting paid for it… and even then… Sorry. I digress). Building a successful D/s dynamic takes time, patience, and a lot of trust. Therefore, don’t approach me as if I’m already your mistress.

Better to engage me as a person first, and then find out if you can engage me as a playpartner. Otherwise, I’m going to write you off, or laugh at you, or both. And not in the good sexy way.

4. Have you branched out into your local community? Depending on where you live, there are TONS of organizations, meetups, and events for perverted fucks just like you! See my blog post about it here.

I recommend seeing if there’s a local TNG group in your area, so you can meet more kinksters in your age bracket. You’ve a much higher chance of meeting someone that way then sending blast messages here or on other such sites. If you do branch out into the greater Kink community, many vanilla rules of conduct still apply. Be respectful, be open, and don’t treat every Domme you see as someone who wants to make you their slut. Treat them like people. Trust me. It will get you much farther.

Sorry this is so long. I guess I’m feeling ranty today. Anyway, I hope this helps.

Good luck in your search.


PS. That line about your penis being of no use to you… What does that even mean?

* * *

I do try to keep these emails to a minimum, for fear of becoming that no-life asshole who rants a lot at people on Fetlife.

No, really.

Stop looking at me like that.

Whore (First variation on a theme)

27 05 2010

I’ve been sitting on this post for a while now. It felt a little too raw to write about even here. Now I think I’m finally ready to put the digital equivalent of pen to paper in the hopes that doing so will clear it from my system.

We’d never have to see each other again. Two ships colliding in the night. We had been set up on a date to a formal event. My friend, who had set us up, seemed very happy to watch us flirt over the course of the evening.

I wonder what she must have thought when we disappeared with a bottle of champaign. Probably something close to the truth.

Say it. Say you’re my whore.

I’m your whore.

That’s right. You’re my little jewish whore.

He grabbed me by the hair and brought me to my knees. The floor was cold. He pulled down his pants. I had played this game before. I’d even go so far as to say it’s a game I’m good at. Let a boy slap me around and use me as he will. So far the game was going according to plan.

Here are two almost complete strangers getting off on this sordid (albeit common) fantasy of using and being used.

He later got a text from a girl of his. We were drinking champaign from the bottle in some secluded wing of the building “She’s begging me to fuck her.” he said.

I could hear the pride in his voice. It then came out that he was living with this girl.

“Would she be ok with us?” I asked. A question I probably should have asked before the fact.

He shrugged it off. “She knows the drill. ” he assured me. “She shows up with a wet pussy, and I allow her a place to stay. I can boot her whenever I want.”

“How romantic.” I chided.

“I’m in the middle of a divorce.” he countered. “I don’t have time for romance.”

Something switched for me in that moment, and my stomach dropped. In that instant, what had been a game was no longer a fantasy. I had been used and cast aside as the whore he saw me as. The demeaning names, the power games that had been fantasy just moment ago became tangible, leaden even.

The next morning, my friend coyly asked how my date went. The look on my face shut her up right quick.

Why did I allow this stranger, this schmuck, some time in my head?

I realized too late that I had crossed my own hard limit. When I play with a scene person, I have some expectation of aftercare. A moment when the game stops, and my partner once again sees me for the multi-faceted person I am. In this case, the game was never a game to begin with. I left the encounter feeling shame that was all too real.

This is not a place I can go with a complete stranger. Not anymore.


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