BDSM and The Faulty Personality Presumption

I know I’ve posted about similar things in the past, but I feel that what I’m going to say bears repeating lately as it seems to perpetually crop up. I was watching last week’s episode of CSI, a show I usually love, when I was wacked across the face with a similar storyline to what I’ve often seen before – BDSM portrayed in a negative light.

The quick and dirty synopsis of the episode is that a basketball coach is found murdered and the investigation uncovers that is “having an affair” with a professional domme after a large number of rather delicious (in my mind) BDSM toys are found at his house. The investigators jump to the quick conclusion that this domme is the prime suspect in his murder. It’s a story line I’ve seen played out time and time again. CSI itself has used this premise multiple times previous, famously when Lady Heather was introduced in the second season. Back then, I was pleased when this character was used as a way of explaining BDSM. She put a rather positive face on kink in primetime television, something so rarely seen. All too often it’s the Law & Orders of the world that jump to the conclusion that because someone practices BDSM, they are automatically guilty of whatever crime was perpetrated.

I would like to state on the record at this point that just because someone enjoys BDSM, it does not mean automatically they are a criminal or have criminal tendencies. There has been no conclusive evidence to support this claim to my knowledge. If anybody has any links to studies that make this claim, please send them my way because I want to know about them.

As human beings we are quick to label and judge as abhorrent that which we do not understand, something I try to fight against in my own life both in the way people act towards me and in my own judgments of people. We act out of fear when we call people names, slut shame, and label.  Militant feminists label male dominant, female submissive relationships as “degrading.” Religious people label most anything sexual as “immoral.” Even now the American Psychiatric Association still considers sadism and masochism (both consenting and non-consenting) to be a paraphilia, meaning that they consider the activities abnormal. Thankfully revision work seems to be happening with the latest release of the DSM-IV-TR to say that “paraphilias are not ipso facto psychiatric disorders” and clearly defining paraphilic disorders as “paraphilia that causes distress or impairment to the individual or harm to others.” That gives me hope that when the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders version four comes out in 2013 that BDSM will finally receive the psychological distinction it deserves from non-consenting violence.

BDSM falls in a legal grey zone nowadays. Consent is a tricky issue, with some jurisdictions not allowing anybody to consent to anything more than minor injuries to themselves. Kinky conventions such as Bound in Boston operate in a major middle zone because it is held in a jurisdiction that has previously stated in legal cases that even if a bottom consents to the physical infliction of pain by the top, it does not absolve the perpetrator of a crime.

I have found myself too often reading cases in the news such as the 2011 case of lawyer Alisha Smith who was suspended from the New York State Attorney General’s Office after it was discovered she had a side job as a professional dominatrix. The attorney general’s office made the excuse that she was suspended due to an office policy that employees are prohibited from engaging in activities that earn them in excess of $1000 without consent from supervisors. My gut tells me though that while that may have been a by-the-book answer, higher ups were embarrassed that an upstanding pillar of the New York legal community, one that assisted in a $5 billion settlement against Bank of America, could engage in such activities.

Few people know exactly why I have chosen to stay “undercover” other than to protect my identity. It is because in my profession, I can be disciplined by the governing professional body for if I were to “commit a criminal act that reflects adversely on the [professional]’s honesty, trustworthiness, or fitness as a [professional] in other respects” or were to “engage in conduct involving dishonesty, fraud, deceit, or misrepresentation.” There have been past limits on that authority, but to me that is a pretty broad basis to professional discipline someone. Thankfully there are many kink aware and supportive professionals that are willing to make themselves known through the National Coalition for Sexual Freedom’s list of kink aware professionals.

Here we are in almost 2013, roughly 40 years after the start of the modern LGBT rights movement and BDSM practitioners are still fighting for their rights. I am an upstanding, law abiding citizen. I pay taxes and vote and have assisted in the prosecution of domestic violence in the past. I am not a criminal, but that is the way I feel sometimes when I see the media portrayal of BDSM. Whether it comes from a sense of wonder or “cultural curiosity with S/M [that] stems not from social acceptability, but a desire to ogle what is perceived as aberrant sexual conduct” (a quote from an awesome law review article titled “Beyond the Pleasure Principle: The Criminalization of Consensual Sadomasochistic Sex” by Monica Pa in the Texas Journal of Women and Law. 

We live in a culture absolutely obsessed with sex. We use it to sell everything from toothpaste to vibrators. We exploit the innate interest we have in it, but are ashamed of it at the same time. In the interest of fitting in, we shame those who have the guts to explore desires that are perfectly normal among consenting adults. Because that’s what ultimately counts here – consent. Why should the consent of rational, sane, informed adults be so carelessly discarded and made insignificant? The same goes for the interplay between female submission and feminism. The root goal of feminism isn’t the promotion of one gender over others. It is the equality of all genders. As a woman I should have the absolute right to freely give my submission. Taking submission without it being freely given isn’t BDSM; it’s abuse. That is the finite point here. 

This is a fight that all BDSM practitioners must be willing to engage in. It’s not something we can ignore. It is about the existence of a lifestyle and a way of life, both different means to an end. The only way this almost morbid curiosity and exploitation of our practices will ever be cured is if we stop putting up with it, if we stop staying silent to save face and save our anonymity. Be brave. Be willing to stand up and say “Yes, I practice BDSM and it doesn’t make me any less of a person.” One voice is quiet, but many voices cannot be ignored.

Dear world, I’m not so kinky somtimes

Dear World,

Sometimes I’m not so kinky. It’s one of my more shameful confessions, but sadly it’s true. I’m not terribly kinky. Okay, I’ll amend and clarify that. I’m not so kinky lately thanks to several circumstances. That’s an important modifier clause there.

So why am I not so kinky lately? I think the biggest thing that has held me back lately is moving to my house. Granted when I lived in an apartment with paper thin walls, I wasn’t particularly kinky on a regular basis either, but it seems lately that I’ve been even more kink-less than normal. I think it was the whole moving process that did it to me. Between packing, moving, lifting, storing, collecting, placing, organizing, unpacking, painting, cleaning and all together getting my house in the shape I want it to be in, I have very little energy left at the end of the day to be kinky. More than that – it seems like I have very little time.

My place is great for kink. Three bedrooms, two full baths, walk in master closet, dedicated office/shoe display room, basement room I’m turning into a “play space.” It’s got everything. It just seems like right now it has nothing I want it to eventually have though. The room that I ultimately plan on being my place space was the only room I didn’t get painted before moving in, mostly because it was the subject of ceiling fixes thanks to faulty plumbing and the subsequent leaks. It’s white – stark white. I’m wavering if I want to spend the money and paint it a rustic faded barn red, the color I really want it to be, or save money and use grey and slate blue paint I have from elsewhere in the house. Ideally I want it to be a romantic room and red just seems more suited for that kind of thing. I’ve put off doing work on that room because I’ve been focusing on living spaces, but now I’m being confronted with my debilitating worst enemy – making decisions. I’m terrible at making decisions.

Bookcases I’m using for shoe display

The hardest decision I’ve been wavering over lately is how I want to store my toys. In the process of moving, I went through a majority of what I had accumulated over the three and a half years living in my apartment and it really shocked me how much my collection of toys, bondage gear, shoes and lingerie had really grown without me even realizing it. I have a lot of stuff. Right now the shoes are being displayed in my office. The lingerie is in its own five high dresser. My toys are in a couple different locations, spread between boxes, temporary dressers, cases, my play bag and various boxes I’ve labeled with “hair” and “toiletries.”

I simply cannot decide how I want to store my BDSM toys. My grand idea is ultimately to have metal store display grid panels attached to my walls and hang items with S hooks in similar use groups. I shamelessly stole the idea from The Studio dungeon space in Chicago. It just looks so darn classy and menacing. But then the thought occurred to me – my parents will probably go in that room … which will lead to them seeing my toys … which will lead to a conversation I don’t necessarily want to have with my parents. “What’s this?” “Well Mom. It’s an anal hook that I use when I get suspended with rope at kinky conventions.” Somehow I don’t think that will be an interesting conversation. So instead my new thought is to get a wardrobe and baskets that everything can be organized in inside that. Maybe hang the floggers, crops and canes from the inside of the wardrobe doors. Then the quandry is finding one that fits my taste and budget.

Okay, I seemingly have gotten off track here. I’m supposed to be talking about how I’ve been a terrible kinkster lately. Between moving and my inability to find local partners who have an open schedule, I’m quite frankly stymied. That’s it right there. There are people all over the country I want to play with who have similar schedules as me … but they’re all over the country. There are people locally I want to play with … but their schedules are absolutely insane crazy busy. We can’t always do what we want when we want and my friends and potential playmates demonstrate that principle very well.

At this point I’ve probably lost quite a few of you with my nonsensical ramblings so I’ll make it short. I’m a bad kinkster. I’m not as kinky as I’d like to be, though mostly it’s mostly because a lack of suitable timing, space, and energy, not because I don’t want to be. Hopefully you’ll stick around with me and humor me until things get easier and my kinky times return. After all – isn’t the point of moving into a new space to have an amazing housewarming party?

Love, Kitten

My Awesome Life

The last couple of months I’ve been crazy busy. My life has been a huge whirlwind of activity. Between work, family and personal time, I feel like I’ve been running non stop since pretty much April. There have been slow moments, maybe a week or two at a time where I haven’t done anything significant, but generally speaking life has been pretty crazy.

The best part about it though? I really am enjoying my life. The more I think about it and the more I experience it I realize there are a lot of things about my life I really love. Sure there are things I wish I could improve, my job and my living situation for one thing, but in the grand scheme of things I’m doing pretty well. I have a steady job that pays for my bills and allows me the flexibility to do stuff at night and on the weekends when I want to. While my apartment may be small (and getting smaller every day it feels like!) it suits my needs and is cheap.

I think the best thing about my life right now is I know that I have friends that love me for me, not because of us being in a situation together. I went through a phase after law school where I was really depressed, mainly due to seeing all the supposed friends I thought I had made in law school disappear into the wind and avoid me. People I’d known for three years suddenly treated me like I didn’t exist. A girl that lived downstairs from me that I spent a significant amount of time with and I felt like was really good friends with me hasn’t texted, called, emailed or otherwise contacted me since August of 2011. I suppose some of the blame lays with me, not reaching out to her as well, but the fact that she simply vanished from my life tells me she never really wanted to be friends with me. A true friend will make time for someone even if they’re busy.

My friends now aren’t that way. I have friends all over the county, ones I’ve mainly connected with through kink events, Fetlife and my Twitter account that I consider better friends than any of the ones I ever made in law school. I have people I know I could count on in the event something terrible happened to me. When I tell them I’m depressed or need help, they jump up and come to my rescue, offering cuddle time, a shoulder, an ear and most importantly support. While we may not always be able to hang out, whether because of geography or simply busy schedules, but I know they’re there for me and I hope they know I’m there for them too.

It seems like every weekend I have something to do, whether it’s seeing friends, hanging out, going to events, or generally fucking around with booty calls. “Hey do you want to hang out?” is code for “I’m really horny and want to mess around” and I’m totally okay with that. When I think about it, it makes me feel like a total whore, but I actually went back and counted. I’ve slept with six different guys this year alone. The best part is that the year’s not even over yet!

In 2010 when I went on my chastity bender, I promised myself I’d only break it for having a connection with someone. 2011 was a completely dry year for me, apart from SINSations in Leather and the bondage play I did there. I learned a lot about myself in that year and learned that I shouldn’t ever have to settle for less than what I’m worth. 2012 has been a year of putting that belief into practice. So far I think I’ve done a pretty good job. There are few things I did in 2010 I wish I hadn’t done, things I might even go so far as saying I regret doing. While 2012 so far as been on par with the craziness of 2010, there’s been nothing so far that I regret. I’ve enjoyed everything I’ve done and have managed to grow in the process. Sure, there’s been some negative moments and been involved with some people who have brought me down, but thankfully I’ve learned that those are people I can and should remove from my life as soon as I realize they are huge balls of negativity. There’s been a lot of growth for me in the last couple of years, growth that was long overdue and much needed.

I don’t always stop and write down every awesome thing that goes on in my life, something I’ve been meaning to do for awhile. I want to document these things so that I can remember them and come back in 10, 20 or 30 years and see my crazy life I had when I was in my 20s.

Right now though? It’s a good life. It’s my life. I’m going to enjoy it – every last little bit of it. 

The Crazy Life

The other night I was sitting around with a friend, talking shop about my experiences so far in the world of kink. I was recounting the various things I’ve done and experiences I’ve had. At one point I sat back and said “wow, I’ve done a lot of things in a very short amount of time.”

I first started getting into exploring BDSM around 2008. I was graduating from college and there were some big changes in my life. I’ve talked before about how I really allowed myself the freedom to openly explore things that I’d only really fantasized about in the past around then too. The more I think about it though, the more I realize I hadn’t even fantasized about BDSM before then. In a lot of ways, I went from zero to sixty in a very, very short amount of time.

At the same time though, I think back to when I was much younger and very naive.

Announcement – “Comfortable” available on Amazon!

My novella “Comfortable” is now available for purchase as an e-book on the Amazon Kindle store. At just $1.99 it’s a great deal for a summer read. Don’t have a Kindle? Never fear! You don’t need a Kindle to read the book. Simply download a free Kindle reading app on your Android device, iPhone, iPad, or computer. With free wireless delivery to any of those devices, you’ll be reading in no time.


 Stephanie and David are stuck in a dead end relationship, simply going about their daily motions instead of living their lives to the fullest. When Stephanie begins a new past time, she finds something she never thought she’d find – a woman she’s attracted to who brings a new spark to her life that is otherwise cold. When her betrayal comes out, relationships change and evolve into something totally different and unexpected. When love and honor is on the line, you’ll do things you never thought you’d do. 

Make sure to check it out if you’re  in the market for a hot summer read (it’s erotica!) or a romance novel that brings things to a new and different level.

“Comfortable” is now available for purchase at

An Open Letter to Wannabees

Dear Wannabees of the World,

We as a BDSM community are generally pretty accepting (though albeit a suspicious bunch). I can totally see why you’d want to land in our open arms and surround yourself by all that we as a people have to offer. Shit, there’s naked people, sexy clothes (on people of all genders!), fun play, public sex, and generosity and kindness that know no bounds. I can see how this could be misconstrued to people on the outside as there being lots of opportunity for exploitation – no, not that exploitation. (Side note – the only time I have ever felt exploited was when I allowed myself to feel as such.)

In my porn browsing I have come across all types of porn, good and bad. Type in “bondage” to any porn tube video site and you’ll come across a lot of decent stuff but also a lot of really, really bad stuff. Throwing a cheap collar on the girl doesn’t make it a “bondage” porn. Anal doesn’t make it a “bondage” porn. Spanking someone four times super lightly doesn’t make it a “bondage” porn. I have a lot of bones to pick with porn in general, but lately my main one has been porn producers using what you can tell are “vanilla actors” in a “bondage” movie. Now I’m sure the actors knew what they were getting into ahead of time and I’ll give them the benefit of the doubt, but something tells me that someone (namely the producers) probably threw in an extra bit of money to convince an otherwise recalcitrant actor to agree to be in such a film. But when it comes time to actually perform? Oh man. It’s painful to watch. Not in that good way either. You can tell they’re not enjoying it even in the slightest and listening to the (generally) girl bitch and moan the whole time does not make for an enjoyable viewing experience. Quite frankly, I’d rather read the Sunday New York Times’ editorial section than watch a bad “bondage” porn performance.

I have seen a growing number of otherwise vanilla people try to claim an interest in “fetish” or “bondage” simply because they think it will get them somewhere. Perhaps it’s the old thought process of “Oh, she shows her tits in pictures so clearly she’s an easy slut” which motivates some. Perhaps it’s the lure of easy money in a large, but niche market. Those of us who genuinely have an interest in the things we claim to be interested in can sniff them out from miles away. I’m not saying I’m the most “hardcore” of players. There’s stuff I wouldn’t touch with a ten foot pole. On the other hand, a lot of what interests me could be seen as too twisted. That’s okay. I repeat – that’s okay. We all have our own interests and while I may not agree or like yours, I’ll defend your right to be interested in it as long as it’s safe, sane, consensual and legal.

If BDSM isn’t your thing, that’s okay. If you only like missionary sex in the dark with your socks on, that’s okay … though I’d like to introduce you to a Kama Sutra book. There is a world of options out there. BDSM isn’t for everybody and please don’t belittle our interests and pretend you’re “hardcore into” it if you’re not. The first time we bring up anything a little to twisted for you, you’ll be running for cover. We’ll laugh and move on with our day. Because that’s the best thing about the BDSM community – there’s always someone out there who will share your twisted interest, even if they’re few and far between.

I’m Tired

I’m tired of shitty things happening in my life.

I’m tired of being treated like crap.

I’m tired of allowing myself to be treated like crap.

I’m tired of passing off bad behavior of people as “oh that’s just them.”

I’m tired of making excuses for why people act like assholes.

I’m tired of being labled as “clingy” or “needy” because I have this novel notion that someone actually pay attention to me.

I’m tired of always being the one that tries.

I’m tired of being the only one that tries.

I’m tired of my shitty ass, tiny, ridiculous apartment.

I’m tired of walking through my building and getting a contact high from everybody smoking pot.

I’m tired of living in the middle of goddamn nowhere.

I’m tired of Walmart at 8am being my only excitement in my life.

I’m tired of photographers using the “Hey I have a camera and you’re really beautiful” pick up line only to never again suggest a photoshoot.

I’m tired of applying for literally hundreds of jobs and not getting a single one.

I’m tired of making $27,000 a year and yet having a law degree and law license.

I’m tired of answering phone calls about people’s hairy shower drains, clogged toilets, and dead lightbulbs.

I’m tired of being under appreciated, under paid and under utilized at my job.

I’m tired of people not taking me seriously as a person because I’m 4’9″.

I’m tired of people calling me “thick” and “fat” because my thighs are not rail skinny.

I’m tired of not being able to walk into a goddamn shoe store and finding a shoe to fit me.

I’m tired of feeling guilty because I’m splurging on a $9 lunch or a $20 rope order.

I’m tired of having to sleep with earplugs and a sound machine on high because I have loud neighbors who don’t care that it’s 4am and I have to work.

I’m tired of feeling like I have no idea what is going on in my life.

I’m tired of saying “it is what it is” and “things will happen eventually.”

I’m tired of hiding my tattoos from my parents.

I’m tired of feeling like I constantly have to please someone else only to please myself.

I’m tired of living so far away from my boyfriend.

I’m tired of living so far away from my Daddy.

I’m tired of having to tapdance around specific topics with specific people because they’re not strong enough to actully face things head on.

I’m tired of having to censor myself.

I’m tired of feeling like I’m the karmic joke of the universe.

I’m tired of not being able to afford the things I want.

I’m tired of being the afterthought.

I’m tired of my shitty ass shower that never drains properly.

I’m tired of losing my hair at 26.

I’m tired of being gluten intolerant and not being able to eat 95% of the things I love and crave.

I’m tired of spending $4.95 on Nerf football-sized loafs of bread.

I’m tired of having to hide my kink activities from my parents.

I’m tired of people saying goodbye to me by just ceasing to talk to me.

I’m tired of being the butt of people’s jokes.

I’m tired of having little children scream “Mommy, she’s little!” when I’m out at stores.

I’m tired of being dragged to church on holidays and told how I’m going to burn in hell if I don’t believe in the Catholic church.

I’m tired of listening to Fox News and Rush Limbaugh constantly when I’m at home with my mother.

I’m tired of not having room in my tiny apartment to put all my shoes.

I’m tired of people not appreciating me for the damn good person I am.

I’m tired of constantly striving to do the right thing and have it flung back in my face.

I’m tired of having anxiety attacks over every little thing.

I’m tired of being the only one at work for 3 hours because my stupid coworker can’t haul her lazy ass out of bed to be there when our office opens.

I’m tired of being “good old dependable Isabel.”

I’m tired of being told I’m too this and too that.

I’m tired of expressing interest in someone and having them run away in abject fear.

I’m tired of always being told that I have to be good.

I’m tired of letting fear hold me back.

I’m tired of being frustrated and stymied about the lack of progress in my life.

I’m tired of being left out.

I’m tired of assholes being assholes.

I’m tired of emotions fucking over my life.

I’m tired of my head fucking over my life.

I’m tired of not getting what I want.

I’m tired of being tired of all of these things

An Undercover Kinkster Primer

This is a post that is a long time in the making. It’s something that has been rattling on the fringes of my thoughts for awhile now, mostly because I’ve seen people I interact with get very confused about some of my actions, inactions, mannerisms and motivations. It’s about time that I actually set down on virtual paper a little bit about me and exactly what to expect if you’re interested in playing with me. Warning – this will be epically long.

If I’ve directed you here in during the scope of negotiation or discussion about getting involved in some way, please read this piece in its entirety. I know it’s long but there are some really good things in here that will be very helpful and will avoid lengthy discussions or misunderstandings. 

My Mentality 

Playing with me is a privilege, plain and simple. In my time in BDSM and since I’ve been sexually active, there haven’t been many people I’ve played with. I don’t want to embarrass myself or seem like some horribly green newbie, but suffice it to say the average kinkster has probably played with more people in one year than I have in my kinkster career. I’m okay with that. I’m selective about my play and sex partners because I have to be. 
Why is that? Because I am hurt so easily. Not physically (though I am beginning to have doubts about the hardiness of my bum), but more emotionally. I get attached to people very easily. I’m quick to fall for someone and quicker to be infatuated by them. Someone that shows me any interest or attention is someone who I am susceptible to falling for. If they’re smart, well-spoken, have similar ideals, and play in a remotely similar style as I do, watch out heart because you’re going down. It’s something I’ve had to deal with frequently and something that nine times out of ten comes back to bite me in the ass … and not in the good way. Because of this tendency to fall hard and quick, I am very hesitant to express those feelings. It sounds like almost a paradox there. It’s true though. I’ve been accused of coming off as cold and distant when I do like someone but that’s because I’m trying so hard not to go from zero to sixty with them and look like a giggling schoolgirl. Most people don’t fall as fast as I do and I want to give that person an appropriate amount of time to express some feelings about me back. 
Similarly, I’m very shy when it comes to expressing those feelings. Ask me flat out if I’m into you and I’ll probably beat around the bush, hem and haw, and maybe if you’re lucky ultimately admit to those feelings. Where does that come from? Years and years of rejection. I have literally lost count the number of times that I’ve expressed interest in someone to the tune of “I just want you to know that I like you more than a friend” and that’s literally the last I’ve seen or heard from them. While that has taught me that a lot of people weren’t worthy of those feelings in the first place, it also has taught me to not tell someone for fear of being rejected. Anybody who has known me for any extended period of time knows that rejection is my huge trigger point. It’s what will bring me to my knees faster than a swift kick. It emotionally cripples me when I even get the whiff of something that could remotely be construed under the worst possible conditions as rejection. Even things most people would never dream of as being rejection can be twisted and perverted in my head into someone rejecting me. The lesson here to people is if you’re interested in me – please express it. Tell me. Tell me I’m wanted and that while you may be taking longer than I am to get or be interested in me, if there’s even a remote chance you will be interested in me, it will get there. 
If you do express that interest in me, I will treat you like royalty. No kidding here. I will do your dishes, clean your house, rub your back, get you presents, send you notes, and generally make you feel like the most important person in the entire world. Why is that? Well, simply put – I want you to be happy. I want you to like me. Easier said than done sometimes but that’s ultimately what it comes down to. I’m not trying to make you feel weird, put out or force you to return the favor (though that would definitely be appreciated). It’s just who I am. Long ago I decided my purpose in life was to make people happy. This is how I show it to people that I’m interested in. 
I will get emotionally attached to you if we talk, play, or become friends. It may be on a deeper level than you’re comfortable with, and simply put if that’s something you would rather avoid, you need to tell me upfront so I can save the emotional wreckage for someone who will actually appreciate that attachment.

My Communication

I need it. I crave it. There is no substitute for it. Everybody stresses communication as the most important thing in any relationship. Often times the people who are its biggest proponents end up being the ones worst at it. I will admit that I talk a lot. Often times about totally meaningless stuff and stuff unrelated to any immediate need, want, or desire. There’s a fine line between ignoring that talking and humoring me. My love of talking and communicating is something that is inbred in me. Shit, I’m Italian. It’s what we do. We can turn a 30 minute meal into a three hour event just by opening our mouth and talking about our day. 
Communication for me goes beyond simply talking about random stuff though obviously. It’s telling me your thoughts about me, you, your life, my life, our life, etc. It’s telling me when you’re thinking about me and what you’re thinking about. Okay, sure you don’t have to tell me everything because then there’d be no mystery. But if you’re out somewhere and see something that reminds you of me, it’s taking a picture and showing me. It’s the occasional “just thinking of you” text message. It’s taking more than five seconds to read anything I send you and either dismiss it, not respond, or respond with something unrelated or something short. A 160-character text should probably not get a “ok” response unless that’s all that’s warranted. A three page email shouldn’t get nothing in return. I guess this is the part where I will fully admit to being attached at the hip to my cellphone. You can always reach me and should do so generously. We are all busy people with busy lives and I accept that, but a quick hello says so much more than what you’re actually saying. It makes my heart and soul fly. 

My Play and Hard Limits

This part is hard for me to write because my play style is very fluid and depends a lot on the person I’m playing with. I feed off their energy and interests. Sure, I have some basic things I’m interested in and like to incorporate into my repertoire, but I’m still open to trying new things and seeing what does interest me. Case and point – up until recently I had a hard limit of any kind of breath play. It just made me too nervous. Then I played with someone who allowed me to let my guard down and we incorporated a little choking into our playing such that I was comfortable with it. While the more extreme side is definitely still in my red zone, I can comfortably say that it’s something I’m exploring and enjoying that exploration.

In general, I fall on the submissive side. I have my moments where I want to feel dominant and enjoy trying on that role, but more often than not it feels very forced for me. It’s more like being an actor than really being myself. My job is such that I have to make decisions and being the enforcer of rules all day. I don’t want to come home or have playtime and have to do those same things. When presented with a set of options such as “Do you want to eat at [insert restaurant name] or [insert restaurant name]?” generally my response will be “Which one do you prefer?” This is not to say that I’m indecisive or apathetic. Often times I really do prefer one or another but ultimately having to make that decision is something I would rather not do. This phenomena is not new to me or only in my BDSM life. I’ve been doing this all my life and annoying people when they ask me that aforementioned restaurant question. Something as simple as “Where do you want to eat?” literally creates such indecision in me that it paralyzes me sometimes. This is the place where a dominant personality steps in.

I’ve always been naturally submissive though you wouldn’t know it by interacting with me on a daily basis. I’ve had friends literally stare at me in disbelief when I tell them I’m submissive, simply saying “no way in hell.” Yep, it’s very true. Take me on a journey, a ride, hold my hand and take me where you want to take me. Make me serve you. Push my limits (while still respecting them of course). I will fetch you drinks, be your assistant, iron your clothes, hold your toys while you hurt another person. On the flip side of this, I am not a push over by any means. I’m probably one of the most obstinate submissives you’ll ever meet. I definitely like things my way and having a say in things that don’t paralyze me with indecision. I’ve lived alone most of my adult life and as such definitely have my own way of doing a lot of little household things that most people would probably find weird or unusual. That’s just me. One aspect of this is that I’m really anal retentive when it comes to cleaning and organizing certain things. It makes me physically uncomfortable when things in my immediate surroundings are untidy or unkempt. Stacks of stuff strewn every which way cause me to twitch and want to pick up. Drinks in the fridge need to have logos or labels facing outward. Bathroom toiletries need to be lined up in an orderly fashion on the sink. Little things like that.

Tying this back into BDSM play here, I feel it’s the dominant’s/top’s responsibility to respect those little idiosyncrasies about me. Sure, there’s something to be said about making me uncomfortable on some level. There’s a club in Chicago that has framed photos on the wall just a little off kilter purposefully to make those OCD-type people uncomfortable. Something like that I can respect and see the logic in. Something like knowing about my quirks and exploiting them to the point that it causes me to lose respect for you is something entirely different.

If I tell you I’m uncomfortable with something to the point of it being a hard limit, you must respect that. We can talk about it in a safe setting where there’s no judgment and no worry about pushing those hard limits and I will be okay with this. Often times things that are hard limits are things that are just misunderstood. Rational thinking and discussion could very well lead those me changing my opinion of these things. Until I’ve actually said though that something is no longer a hard limit of mine, you need to respect that though.

I’ve watched a lot of scenes in my time and have listened to a lot of people wax poetic about the idea of subspace, ropespace or something similar to those things. I’ll tell you right now that very, very rarely do I get anywhere close to those things. My brain simply cannot shut off. Maybe that’s why I’m in BDSM – the search for that one thing that will shut my brain off and allow me to simply exist for nothing more than the moment. It’s happened a few times. As a presenter once said (and I paraphrase), “When you get a sub into subspace, they’ll pretty much agree to anything you ask. More whipping? Yes. Harder paddling? Of course. Cut off a limb? Why not.” Getting to that point is part of my quest. I yearn for it. Crave it. Hunt for it. Reach for it. I have literally gotten to the point that I am sobbing during playing because I feel it so close but can’t quite reach it. It’s not an easy thing for me to handle that I haven’t ever been to that place. I liken it to listening to my friends talk about the most amazing baked goods and sitting there being gluten intolerant. Some things are just not possible for me. I hope at one point to get into that place, though I worry that I may not want to leave it.

My Aftercare

With someone such as me who is so into communicating, you’d think I’d be very good about communicating my needs after playing, right? Totally wrong. It’s one of the things I’m terrible at and one of the things I’m demanding from here on out I be better at. Aftercare isn’t something that is negotiable here. It isn’t something that can be glossed over or tossed out like a used cum rag. It is 100% necessary for my mental well being. When I don’t get the aftercare I require, my emotions spiral downward. I can go from okay to not wanting to move for hours on end very quickly if aftercare is neglected. 
Some point can get along fine with minimal aftercare or a short period of drop. I can’t. Plain and simple. After a scene or playing, I go through a few phases. There’s the immediate adrenaline rush of the scene and immediate adrenaline drop right after. Physically I get a lot of the typical symptoms I’ve seen other bottoms get. I get really cold, shiver, mentally out of it, need water, etc. My mind is still cloudy and while the cloudy is something I prefer to sort through on my own, the physical needs must be addressed. Hold me close, pet my hair, look me in the eye (even if I’m shy and look away) and tell me I did a good job. Keep me warm and let me feel your body. This is the crucial few moments where physical bonding means more than what’s going on around you. People might want to come up and talk to us, but push them away. In that moment I’m depending on my dominant/top to be my protector and white knight. I can’t do it myself. This period of time could range from 10 minutes to an hour after a scene. 
The second period I need care is much longer. This is where the previous mention of feelings of rejection come in if I’m not taken care of properly. My emotional drop has previously lasted for upwards of four days after a really intense scene. On average I usually range between two to three days I need emotional and intellectual support. During this time it’s imperative we stay in touch. While we physically may not be close due to any number of reasons, this doesn’t mean you can assume I’m okay and doing fine. Not only this, but I typically reach out during this time in weird way. I won’t come right out and say “I’m not okay and need help.” My brain has been trained to not want to feel like a burden to anyone. I will say stuff like “I’m okay but I’m down” or “I’ve had a rough day mentally.” Please see this as what it is – a cry for help. When I get to the point that I’m actually saying “I need help” you will know it’s gotten really bad. During this time, it is imperative you make me feel wanted and important to your life. Make me feel like my needs are important and you’re paying attention to me.
I was talking to a dominant friend of mine a few days ago and he made some very good suggestions that I hadn’t really considered before about my aftercare. He suggested that my aftercare needs were a lot in line with my little girl side that I have. That the holding, caring, wanting to feel needed, were very similar to what my little girl side needs even when not playing. That after scenes and in that recovery period I have I go into my little girl shell very intensely. I think that’s a very good way to look at it and I’m really happy he suggested that. 
Of all the things that I could stress as important, I think aftercare is perhaps the most important. Even great play and sex will lose all meaning if I don’t get the aftercare I need after. It will lead to feelings of rejection, resentment and ultimately may cause the relationship (whatever it may be) to fall apart in its entirety.

My Little Side

I have two very distinct sides to me – an adult, very capable side and a little girl, very dependent side. They are sides that are co-dependent and intertwined. During the day I’m the capable adult who can make decisions and be in charge with no problems or questions asked. That’s simply what I have to do. I can put on the big person suit and heels and feel in control. When I get off work though I don’t want to be in that position any more. The little girl part of me wants to be taken care of, wants to be swaddled and loved. I want to sit on Daddy’s lap and have my hair played with. Play video games and eat chicken nuggets. 
I’ve talked before here and elsewhere about my little girl side and how important it is to me. It’s a vital piece of my psyche and helps me maintain my sanity. I think if I didn’t have that “out” so to speak I would probably be a lot crazier than I already am. Anybody who plays with me or gets involved with me needs to be okay with that side. Actually they need to be more than okay with it. They need to actually foster and encourage it. I have a lifetime of stuffed animals in my apartment that would freak out a less than committed partner. One of the threshold questions I ask potential playmates is if they’re okay with the fact that I have twelve stuffed animals on my bed every night when I sleep and if they’re okay with the fact that I have to be holding at least two of them. One little mini penguin goes down my shirt and the ever important koala gets held in my arms. If at least those two stuffed animals are not “allowed,” then I have to seriously ask myself if this is someone that I’m really interested in continuing on with.
Being a little girl allows me to not worry about stupid adult stuff that will drag me down and get in my way. It allows me to be me without worrying about what’s going to happen tomorrow at work, my budget, gas prices, global warming or any other shit. I can focus and have that escape from things that otherwise weigh me down. 

My Reservations

This is by far not a comprehensive outline of things people need to know if they want to play or be involved with me. I’m sure later today I’ll have an a-ha moment and think to myself “why didn’t I talk about [fill in the blank]?!” So I guess what that means is you will just need to get to know me. I’m not everybody’s cup of tea and certainly not everybody is capable or willing to handle me. That’s okay. I don’t need to be perfect for everybody; I do need to be perfect for whoever wants to play with me. There are some things I can work with and work around, but there are also some other things that absolutely cannot be compromised on. Most of the things I’ve laid out here are things I would be very hesitant to compromise on except in very rare circumstances. 
Will this primer evolve and change as I do? Of course. But for right now, it’s a pretty darn good outline of who I am as a person, a submissive, a bottom, and a little girl. If you have any questions, please ask. I’m an open book and more than willing to share my experiences and stories with you.

This Kinkster’s Views on Polyamory

A partner of mine who is new to the idea of polyamory asked me “What does being poly mean to you and how does it affect your life?” This is my answer.

To me, the idea of polyamory is synonymous with the idea of more. Perhaps I’m a bit of a hoarder, a bit of a collector or maybe I’m just plain old greedy. I’ve always had a problem with the idea of monogamy only because I found it extremely hard to believe that one person could be committed 100% to another for any term of time. Humans, by their inherent nature, are hunters and gathers. We constantly hunt for the best thing out there. It’s the whole idea of the conquest. We do it with food, things, jobs, etc. Why not do it with people? We have these thoughts anyways, but most of the time society tells us to lust after someone who is not our partner is a shameful thing. With shame attaches guilt. Why not remove the guilt in the first place?

I have always adhered to the idea that if people were to just love more it would solve a lot of the world’s problems. I never really put a title on my beliefs or really knew about poly until I was probably in my early twenties. White bread suburbia doesn’t typically have households with two mommies, a daddy and a couple boyfriends or girlfriends (for example.) When I was growing up, I didn’t know what my sexuality was for the longest time. I was a huge tomboy and liked how girls looked so I figured I was a lesbian (when I knew what such a thing was.) But I found myself attracted to men too and being around men. I didn’t know that you could like both men and women. I found myself looking at happy couples and wanting that too … but not either or – both. I wanted both of them. Poly kind of incorporates that ability for me. My parents were always very cold people to each other and I think that formed my need for love from multiple sources. The more love, the better in my mind.

This is really hard for me to exactly put down what poly means to me mostly because it’s just a feeling for me. It’s a feeling that that’s what’s right for me. I want a primary partner (or partners) but I also enjoy the idea that if I meet someone I have a connection with who isn’t one of my partners I could enjoy their company in whatever fashion we decide to if everybody is okay with it. I think that’s what separates poly from cheating. Everybody knows what’s going on and there’s an openness to everything we do. I’ve had to learn that the hard way. Having had relationships (even minor ones) crash because I couldn’t be honest with them. Seeing it in people around me also struggling with poly relationships.

Poly is not an easy thing, not by far. It’s very time consuming and delicate to balance time, personalities, egos and desires. When it works though, it works so well. It makes me happy to see my partners happy. It makes them happy to see me happy. I think this also stems from my “pleaser” personality. I want to make people happy in any way I can and if it takes letting a partner go off and romp with someone else knowing that what they do doesn’t detract from our relationship, I’m fine with that.

Admittedly I do have problems sharing. I’m not good with it. Growing up essentially an only child for all intents and purposes, I never had to share my toys. I struggle with knowing someone I’m involved with is off having fun with someone else, but I then have to remember it’s not fair for me to demand that I can do those fun things with other people but my partner can’t. That’s just not fair. It’s not just about balancing other egos, but also about balancing yours as well.

Love is not finite. There is no boundary on how much a person can love. Meeting someone and loving them doesn’t take away from me loving someone else. It just means I love more. It means I love fuller. That’s the affect it has on my life. I love more.

I do want to clarify something though – when I say “we constantly hunt” it doesn’t mean I’m always out there looking for more partners. I can be happy with what I have. I don’t always search for new people to fall in love with or be with. Sometimes those people just find me. They fall in my lap, so to speak. Sometimes there’s something that a partner of mine doesn’t want to do or isn’t interested in that causes me to go on the hunt for someone who will. Having the freedom to do that, all while still staying committed, is what prevents resentment from setting in. I’ve seen that with my parents. I think to a large extent my father resents my mother for just shutting down the whole sexual side of her after I was born. He’s not the kind of guy to go out and have an affair, so he shut that part of himself down too. I don’t want that kind of resentment in my relationships. This is where having that freedom to play becomes useful.

Poly affects me because I don’t feel weighed down by the boundaries of what might be a typical monogamous relationship. Monogamy works for some people, don’t get me wrong. There are perfectly happy couples out there who have a very fulfilled life. I wish them well and with them happiness. For me though, monogamy makes me feel boxed, closed in, isolated. I’m flirty by nature and as hard as I try, I can’t turn that off. It’s just another part of me, like having green eyes or being small. It’s just who I am.

It’s just who I am. Poly isn’t a choice for me. It’s simply who I am.

Original Fiction: “Beat”

The intense bass line of the music pounded into her skull. She could feel it deep inside her, pulsing and pushing her blood through her veins at a rate usually reserved for other activities. She had come here because she knew she could find him there, stalking the club for his next prey.
She had first been lured here by friends, and she had come completely unsure of what she’d find. She preferred quiet evenings in her apartment to social events where she’d have to talk and meet new people. That evening she’d caught glimpses of him and every time he’d entered her line of sight, she couldn’t help but wonder what he was like.
At the time he had seemed tame enough, but she could tell there was an undercurrent of ferocity laying dormant. The lithe moves, the sharp eyes and the strong, capable hands. She was a student of male anatomy in general, and a student of male hands in particular. She had a theory that you could tell a lot about a person by the way their hands looked. His hands told her that he enjoyed his work, whatever it was, and that those hands could bring about destruction and happiness at the same time.
A couple of times she’d caught him looking at her with a curious look in his eye, but she brushed it off, not yet ready to admit to herself that she wanted something. Denial had always been her strong suit.
Her friend had given her knowing looks that whole evening, but she’d brushed them off like everything else in her life. Not now. Not yet.
Months rolled by and she almost forgot about him. Almost. Happenstance pulled her back into his world and she once again found herself in his territory. This time though, things had changed. She’d changed. She wasn’t the shaky, scared little girl she was before. Or at least that’s what she thought.
It was a cold night, but she’d picked a short skirt and very tall shoes. She knew every man in there had his eyes on her ass and she made sure to shake it just enough to titillate them. Eat your heart out, she almost was saying.
He was there again that night, lurking in the shadows and coyly enjoying the sport of the whole thing. His manicured nails tapped on the table rhythmically, polished in a deep mahogany shade. Most men would call it a bold choice, but for him it was second nature. That ass of hers called to him, a siren song amidst a sea of other sirens.
She didn’t dance like most girls, instead choosing to enjoy the scene more in a social setting. In many ways she was still unsure of her own body and how it worked, mostly because it often betrayed her. It tended to give away her secrets when she wanted to keep them secret, but as it so often happens, her body always had a way of knowing what it wanted even when her mind didn’t.
The bathroom was calling her name, and her kidneys were in desperate need of relief. On her way in she caught him looking at her and she bit her lip, ducking into the crowded room and she sucked in a deep breath at the thought of him.
Her panties were damp when she came out, as if the scrap of fabric could be called panties in the first place. She looked down for moment and ran into what felt like a brick wall. Only this wall had arms and she quickly looked up, seeing him right there in front of her. The pit of her stomach dropped out and once again her body started betraying her.
His eyes were dark and bored a hole right through her soul. He didn’t even say anything, just smiled coyly and wound his long, slender fingers around her neck. He could feel her pulse there, beating uncontrollably. It made him excited to feel the blood coursing through her veins. The hair on the back of her neck stood up and while the flight or fight instinct should have been kicking in, once again her body decided differently.
Those strong fingers curled around the base of her neck and grabbed at the hair there. The height difference between them became readily apparently when he pulled and her head fell back with little resistance. Her breath was coming quickly now and she was embarrassed at her reactions to all of this. Normally she’d be fighting and protesting, but there was something about him that made her want to give in. To submit to him.
With his fingers still wrapped through her hair, he led them through the space, through the people, to a little door just off the main floor. Ever gangly on her feet, she stumbled and bumbled, knowing she should be screaming but instead wondering what he was doing. This felt dangerous. This felt different. This wasn’t her safety zone. And the surprising thing was that she liked it.
The air was cold outside, much colder than when she’d entered the building. Immediately her soft little nipples pebbled up under the thin top she wore and he roughly grabbed them, twisting and enjoying the gasps she was making. Out here in the cold, the beat of the music could still be felt from inside the building. The whole time, he kept his eyes on hers. Speaking without speaking and telling her that she was his, even if just for this short time.
With his hand still at the nape of her neck, he pushed her into the cold brick wall of the building and she turned her head just enough so that he could still see one green eye from the side. The look of abject terror was overlaid with curiosity and intrigue in that eye. That was the look he dared to bring out in her. That was the look he was hoping to see and the look he had risked claiming her for.
The tiny skirt of hers was first to go, pulled up over the round, plump ass he had long admired. Each ass cheek was pale, too pale for his liking. Her skin was ivory white compared to his mocha tan and he spread his large hands out on each round globe. He pulled and kneaded them, his nails raking each time and leaving bright red streaks. The contrast of red to white was lovely and he knew that her ass looked better with his marks. She’d have more before he was done and probably would carry them with her for days after, a reminder of where she’d been and what he’d done.
He leaned into her, pressing his hard cock still securely behind a straining zipper into her ass and she gasped. If she was perfectly honest with herself, she’d feared this but also wanted it. Yes, she’d wanted it for a long time. It was something she’d denied many times. She craved the violence. The brutality. The taking.
He traced his fingers along the string between her ass cheeks, and he saw her puckered little hole clench and relax. It knew what was coming and while he knew he’d have to work for it, the end result would be more than worth it.
With deft fingers he pulled the little fabric aside and traced her lips, noting that she wasn’t protesting the invasion. In fact, her breath was becoming shallower and that look of terror was being replaced with one of pleasure. Pleasure mixed with pain and desire. That was ultimately the goal of this whole thing. There was a innate beauty when those things came together, a feral beauty springing forth from deep inside a person’s soul.
She felt his finger press into her and her nipples grated against the hard, cold building through her top. A plea escaped her lips and he growled at her, his other hand again wrapping around her neck and tightening ever so slightly. She felt like a common whore, in the alley behind a club with his fingers inside her ass and her skirt around her waist. A beautiful, used whore. This was what she was searching for all along. To be used for another’s pleasure was pleasure for her too.
He released her neck and she gasped, her vision clearing. Something cold and slithery dripped on her asshole and those lithe fingers worked it in with skill. She knew what was coming and she shook her head almost to say no. But for the third time that night, her body betrayed her and her found herself saying yes.
Firm hands grabbed her hips and strong thumbs pulled the round cheeks of her ass apart, giving him room to slide the head of his hard cock between warm skin and flesh. She groaned as he pressed into her, her body resisting at first and them ever so gradually giving into him.
A slow entry with a fast withdrawal followed by a slam, slam, slam over and over again. She moaned and cried, her hips arching back into him as his fingernails dug into her hips. She cried not because she disliked it, but instead because something inside of her was breaking. The long held belief that she was always to be strong, always to be independent, always to be the one in control. Here in this alley way with her ass being invaded, she felt herself changing.
His marks would litter her body the next day, the day after that and the day after that. He had made sure of that. He wanted her to be reminded of his will and how it was stronger than hers. How while there were no winners and losers, there certainly were more powerful and less powerful. Her tiny body would bear the result of his power.
His fingernails dug sharply into her hips as he came and his larger body fell into hers. He molded himself to her, kissing the back of her neck and brushing the sweaty hair from her forehead. Her eyes sparkled and spoke volumes to him. He whispered his thanks and kissed her temple. She smiled and giggled at his now sweet actions compared to the animalistic actions of only a few minutes previous.
When respective clothing was back in place he took her hand, his larger hand swallowing up her smaller hand. He led her back inside the club and checked to make sure she had enjoyed herself. The light he saw from inside her told him she had and that something had changed inside her. It had been an experience filled with growth.
They parted with a hug and whispered promises of next time. They were both sure there would be a next time, even if when that next time would happen was in doubt. It was a only a matter of time, you see. Planets take time to rotate. Bodies inevitably come back together. Flesh always seeks out flesh. It was a truth of the universe, one they both acknowledged.