Posts tagged chains
Shuttering to Think

Men at bars ask if he’s my father. He grabs my ass lasciviously saying, “What? We have a very progressive relationship.” 

The stranger that was trying to hit on him up curls his lips in disgust and looks at me with pity.  “He’s what we’d call a pig, isn’t he, dear?”

I grin and grab my friend’s ass in return, closing the circle of our bodies so that we’re thigh to thigh. “I usually call him uncle,” I say.

“So he’s your husband?”

We both laugh and turn away from the nosy stranger.  We’ve spent years not putting a label on our “relationship” why the hell would we start now?

It started as photos. So many photos.  Each shoot darker, edgier, racier.  There was no limit to what I’d do for his lens.  When he wore a tie and shiny shoes so I could kneel at his feet, I fell deeply in lust.  I pretended to play with myself in a mirror while this faceless man watched, my friend playing the man while taking photos with the other hand.  Dr Jekyll and Mr Otto. When he grabbed my hair to angle my head for a photo, I wasn’t pretending for the camera anymore.  The moment was real. Or was it?

Photographers are complicated.  I’ve been a little bit in love with all of the good ones. I kind of have to be in order to give that much of myself to their camera and art.  If I faked it, it would show, the photos would look limp and lackluster.  But as soon as the lens cap goes on, the lights go off, and we put on street clothes the moment ends, the fantasy is gone.

Except when it lingered. There have been a few men able to hold my heart in their hand long after the job was done.  That lust remaining in the air even after we’ve put the fantasy on the shelf.  Or were we still holding onto our roles?  Confused?  Unwilling to let the moment pass, tempted by something that wasn’t there?

Maybe, which is why I don’t make a habit of tussling with photographers.  It gets too weird too quick, the line between reality and the art too thin.  Besides I’d rather shoot a million times with someone whose images I love than fuck them once and ruin it all.  Because that’s how it usually goes.  Once we’ve had each other, why bother pretending for the camera.  Reality can’t live up to the fantasy. 

Until it does.  This particular photographer and I danced around each other forever.  The yearning was there but neither of us wanted to be the one to break the rules and step over our professional boundaries. It wasn’t until I said, “Touch me.” And took his hand to direct it towards my body that we allowed ourselves to bring a dose of reality to our camera games. 

And those years of not touching made the finally touching that much better.  There was no question both of us wanted the other.  Requited lust had us breathless and giddy by the time we had to call it an evening and part ways.  And yet we hadn’t ruined the fantasy.  I still wanted more of him and to crawl around in rope and chain and latex for his camera. He was an exception to my very stringent rule.  The one man I will touch and pose for as the spark never gets old.

“Father, uncle, hubby, pig.  Want to hit me now?”  I asked him recently.  Biting my lip and giving him a sassy grin, I was ready to move from the socializing to the playing section of the evening.  He cocked his eye brow and looked down at me like, of course! His chuckle turns into a breathy “Yeah.”

At the cross he clips me in with carabineers and leather cuffs, stretching my arms wide.  The thrill of our play so deep that I don’t mind the lack of rope, he more than makes up for it in other ways.  He’s warm and just the right amount of scary standing behind me.  I never know what to expect from him, just that he always stays in my boundaries so I don’t have to stay on the alert, I can melt into his cruelty.    

He starts with floggers, building the intensity as I dance and moan under his ministrations with leather flails. I know what we look like together, how hot our play is. Its well documented, recorded a million times over in billions of pixels for the whole world to see.  So I know what he’s seeing.  That my ample ass turns him on.  No question about that. No reason for him to shoot it so frequently and thoroughly if it weren’t true.  So I can be totally in the moment, enjoy the pain me expertly doles out with no wonder or worry. 

He hits me until I literally feel like I’m flying though I’m pinned to a cross. He hits me until I have bruises that last a week. Tiny purple circles like a connect the dots game across my thighs that I smile at in the shower and bathroom.  Reminders that pull him to the front of my imagination in the middle of the work day.  He hits me until I’m so high I can barely stand or speak.  He’s filled my head with happy chemicals and in a brain newly free of pharmaceuticals I am awash only in the dopamine and serotonin that we made together.  I’m tripping on our weird connection, the drugs we’ve made with our bodies.

This is real.

That Time I…Went to an Swingers Party and No One Got Naked

I go to a lot of kinky parties and see a lot of things.  Casual nudity, public sex, or catching the tail end of a scene where someone gets a dildo rammed into them with a rubber mallet.  None of it really fazes me anymore.  

I remember the first time I went to a play party at what was then called The Wetspot in Seattle and being positively scandalized.  Until then I’d only seen very prim and proper, fully-clothed play in bars which were the only play spaces we had at the time in Madison, WI.

But at the Wetspot there were so many naked people!  They were all touching!  I had no idea what any of the implements people were using on one another were called. Or whether screams were good or calls for help. Some people would get down being strapped to a thing and then lay in a heap; are they dead or sleepy?  I saw bodies do things I things I didn’t previously know were possible.

I was a like a kid in the candy store taking it all in while also wanting to close my eyes and not see this: the newbie kinkster version of watching a horror movie through splayed fingers.  So when I saw this tiny and very happy, very skinny man suspended from a bondage bed being alternately beat and sucked by a bevy of women, I almost lost my shit. My brain couldn’t handle that much flesh or figure out if it was all good or if someone needed to step in. Like I said this was my first time seeing “real” play.  Eventually a friend distracted me with some rope to tamp down my over thinking.

After 10 or so years of seeing such things I’m pretty unflappable now. Oh Bob is 6 women deep and they’re all wearing strap ons? Just another Friday.  Or Betty is suspended by one toe and is reciting the alphabet? Cool yeah sounds about right.

So I wasn’t expecting to feel much of anything out of the ordinary going to a swingers party with a friend and play partner.  It would just be the same ole same ole but with an emphasis on sex instead of spankings. I was so wrong.

It didn’t help that we ended up getting there early (no small feat after having to drive an hour to get there) and so we had to sit in the silent and empty living room being watching by the bouncer like the naughty kids in the principal’s office.  And it felt just that awkward.  Anytime we would try to talk to one another the bouncer would say, “What?!”  And anytime we tried to talk to the bouncer he stared at us like we’d run over his cat.  My girl boner had retreated to another zipcode.  But we drove an hour, we were determined to have fun.

Things got better when people started showing up and we got a tour of the multiple bedrooms, the room with a pool table, the location of the blessed bar area where we got some wine, the porch with the hot tub.  There were a lot of rules.  So many rules.  Some of them good, like don’t touch without permission. Some of them that made me wonder what other people had gotten up to at parties in the past: no drinks (not even water) or smoking in or near the hot tub area, you can close this door but not this one, only two people on the stripper pole at once.

This wasn’t helping either of us feel more at ease or turned on.  It was the sex party equivalent of reading the product-may-be-hot warning on a cup of Starbucks.  I’m happy for everyone to be safe, but who were our fellow party-goers if they needed this level of hand holding?  Soon we found out.

Everyone showed up at the same time; an unexpected mix of college kids in cheap lingerie from the sex toy store and middle age suburbanites in their weekend jeans and sweaters. Quite the contrast, the cliques were like oil and water on opposite sides of the room.  My friend and I kept waiting for someone to start playing or fucking so we could watch and find out what the vibe was like at this party.  We didn’t want our rough and sarcastic BDSM to scare anyone.  Kink hadn’t been covered in the rules.  We were a little lost.

After an hour, everyone was just standing around trying to mingle.  “Fuck it, want to go do some spanky spanky in the room where we can close the door?” my friend asked.

“Oh my god yes!”

We hauled our bags into the private room, closed the door and laughed at the awkwardness. “Is this really happening?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“Can I hit you with things until you make noises that make the swingers wonder what’s going on in here?”

“Please do!”

We hit a snag in discovering there were no tie off points in the entire room so my friend got creative with chains to pin me down to the bed while he did indeed beat me in delightful ways until I was giggling and squealing.  When we left the room laughing and sweaty, the party hadn’t changed. Everyone was still fully clothed and standing around.

“This is a sex party, right?” I whispered to my friend.

“I think so…Oh!  Look!  There’s a couple fucking.”

I looked around until I saw a fully clothed couple humping in one of the rooms and glared at my friend.  “That barely counts.”

He shrugged.  “Hot tub?”

“You read my mind.”  Surely there would be some people in the hot tub.  So far we hadn’t talked to anyone but the bouncer and briefly the party host who was sweet but understandably busy.

No one was in the hot tub.  At the other end of the porch dozens of people were smoking and ignored us when we asked how to use the jets on the tub.

“Okay then. Well now my wrinkly butt is getting naked just to spite these people.” My friend undressed and hopped in, I followed and we had a hot tub meant for an army of sexy cuddling people all to ourselves.  We giggled, we flirted, no one joined us.

Just as we were leaving a group got in.  “You made it look so fun!” They said.  Those were the only naked people we saw in something like 5 hours of the swingers party. 

So the weirdest party I’ve ever been to in my days of sex parties galore was the one where no one played or got naked. I’ll stick with kinksters from now on, their weirdness I understand because it’s my kind of weird.  Swingers confuse me no matter how hard I try to understand their scene.  For all I know the party didn’t get started until after midnight and my friend and I were the weirdos getting naked too soon for their protocol.

Erika Moen went to the same party and saw things go down, so it’s possible we were there on an off night.