So essentially, when it comes to kinky sex tips, I got nothing. I am not going to start telling you how to do bondage with cat litter or how to make a quick and effective bullwhip out of all the discarded thigh high fishnet hold ups you have lying around.

But I do got this.

How to make your kinky more fun and exciting with intertexuality. Now, honestly, I don’t really do stuff that involves much of a safe word, and also there are probably rules about how safe words are important and should be snappy and easy to recall in the heat of the oh-jesus-christ moment, but, look, fuck that. Here’s what’s fun.

Just tell him, just make it clear, that from now on there is only one effective safe word. And it is this: Do it to Julia! Do it to Julia!

And if you were wondering how awesome I was. Precisely that awesome is the answer.

Okay, so here’s the thing. You know me, I love a pun.Punning is the highest form of wit because it combines stupidity and poetry. And those are the two most beautiful things in the world. Well, after biceps and tears and cocks twinkle-sparkling with precome in the midsummer sunrise… (God, I started to sound a bit like a fucking pagan or something then. Which I’m not. (Although that may be surprising seeing as how I am a fat white woman that doesn’t like to wash so much.) But I am not. I heart science. Sorry. Sorry, science.)

So, look, the thing about punning and kink is that as kinky sex don’t change much, it is still, even after a thousand years of endless marching forward into infinite futures, still essentially about the same thing. So, see, most of the puns – you have to understand – kinda done. Especially the most common one where a phrase in common usage is made, uh, hilarious, because of certain context. Really. This has to stop.

There are certain words you associate with perversion: kink, ropes, whip, etc. And there are certain phrases in general use that might have those words in them. Those two true facts do not mean that using those general phrases in kinky contexts, or, say, kinktexts, counts a (a) funny (b) clever (c) acceptable in any way. (Really, not when you have your whole life ahead of you.)

Look, I’m not saying it was never funny, but let’s face it, it really probably wasn’t.

And because this is important. Trust me, my head is throbbing and my eyes are blurring and my ears are dripping blood like I’m about to start yelling for chrisitng Sookie!, just thinking about this. Here are the phrases you need to stop using in relation to anything kinky. i.e in kinktext (has that caught on yet?). We need a form of zero tolerance. I propose that we ban all these phrases from use as smug kinky in-jokes. And everyone reading this swears (just reading these words means you agree and swear properly and everything and I can flick you on the nipple if you don’t comply), but yeah, you swear you will absolutely not sex anyone who transgresses. Promise. If we all stick together we should have these cringers gone in about a year. It basically the plot of Lysistrata (I can wait while you google it, you blunt fucking pencil) with a few minor tweaks and a much more serious end goal.

We can add to the list, but these are the first phrases that need to be gone.

Ironing out the kinks
Anything like this. Just no. I think this is one for which mandoms are often responsible. ‘Cause, you know, men being funny is all macho and shit. Laddish. (Eurgh.) So there is a style of mandom that is full of the cracking of hilarious zingers just to show how heartless they are about their poor victim’s poor victimy predicament.

This would be fine if the jokes were actually funny. But most mandoms are thick (look, I don’t know why, but they are – maybe it’s a dominant trait seeing as how it’s uncanny how many dominant women have the exact same IQ scores as small piles of damp sawdust) and so the jokes are lame. And he never finds out just how lame because (a) thick and (b) assumes the lack of laughter is down to the gag. How wrong you are, captain, how very wrong.

(No really, I saw a mandom say this on some bit of low res crap on You Tube. (Hey, remember when you could get, like, anything on You Tube? Remember when all you had to do was type ‘bondage’ into the You Tube search box. Yeah, I got a lot less done then. (No, really, even if for that to be literally true I would have to be erasing things from my hard drive.)) But, yuh, mandom says this as he removes the gag off of tied up woman and replaces it with other – presumably more horribler gag, but I forget, my attention was waning fast – and he goes, between the two gags, just get the kinks out, or something. So obviously ha, ha, ha, don’t all swoon at once femsubs, he’s the whole package! And also he seemed somewhat unreasonably boastful about gettting one over on a woman who was tied to a chair. Yeah, dude, fiendish!)

(I am very sorry about the use of tense in the last paragraph. I don’t know what happened but we clearly lost a wheel.) (And I think we may have been on a unicycle.) (Which is really the most worrying thing of all.)

Whip Smart
I recently saw a new I was a prodom and here is my memoir book called this. (Well, I say “new”, I’m not exactly sure what the women writing these books are bringing to the table where we keep the reservoir of all human knowledge (it’s a big table – yeah, big enough to have a reservoir on it…um, anyways): Essentially there is a job called prodomming. It involves everyone dressing up. The men are creepy. It’s subtly different to other kinds of prostituion. Great. Thanks for taking the trouble to write that down, ma’am. Really, we could never have done it without you.

But, yuh, anyway, Whip Smart. Heh. Good title. Clever. Or, you know, it would be except that every other prodom memoir book ever written is, like, also called that.

Learning the Ropes
Hey Mandom, yes you, Master Bator. You rope top, Afficianado of the delights of the restrained female form or what ever fucking nonsensisical borderline misogynistic guff you have decided to spout today. (Oh, yeah, look, forget that. I know, I know, it not all about the woman hating. (Well except when it is. (But bondage is hardly unique there.))) But anyway, at least now I have your attention and I am going to use my direct line into your soul to say, look, sir, please, godamnit please, please,when you run your bondage “workshops” (quotes there purely to be facetious) just try not using the phrase ‘learning the ropes’. Really, like, just try it. You might like it. Not looking like a twat, that is. (Course if you find you enjoy not looking like a twat even more than you like tying up women you might have to rethink your sexual choices, but hey, that’s your problem, daddy cool.)

 All Tied Up at the Moment.
Femsubs, this one is mainly for you. (I know, I know, it was hard having to wait so long before you got any attention. Thank god you managed to do it without unleashing the big guns and getting ‘bratty’. I can’t tell you how grateful we all are.) But, yeah, so, you’re on a kinky forum. You’re making a profile page. You’re posting a pic of yourself. Or maybe, you’re the type to post several million pics of yourself (you know who you are), but look, anyway, fine, go for it. Enjoy. As I am pretty sure you have to wash your inbox out with boiling dettol every morning more power to you for grabbing your fun where you can. But, sister, wait! Wait right there. Photo caption time. Think once, think twice, think about rethinking captioning that pic of you upside down in the hempy harness that celebrates the ancient Japanese art of Atari as “I’m all tied up right now”.

Comedy is a tricky thing. A subjective thing. Not here though.

Pleasure Bound
Yeah, ‘cause, like pleasure is nice and so is bondage (you know, if you like bondage). And then bound also means heading towards (or whatever, I’m a tetchy, low-frequency blogger not Dr fucking Johnson). So yeah, cool. Lots of meanings. Cle-vah!

Yeah, great, sadly biggest meaning of all if you use that phrase to title your kinky website, or niteclub, or life, is I am either so clueless I don’t know this has been done a hundred times before OR I’m just an idiot. Don’t advertise these things about yourself. They are not sexy. Hey, free advice: if you’re trying to get someone interested in your action, try and hide your flaws. Then when they are later revealed they may provide a useful early get out for a relationship that is beginning it’s natural painfully-disappointing wane.

See also Bound to Please. Or don’t. In fact, instead, poke your eyes out. With pokers. That’s what they’re for after all. That’s why they’re called that. Pokers. See? Or rather don’t see. ‘Cause you poked your… anyway. Fuck, though, Bound to Please. It’s so clever it’s stupid. And, it’s not actually even clever.

Women on Top (or, alternatively Girls on Top if you like pluck at one of my most hopeless, gossamer-flimsy, hair triggers and call women over 18 girls. Unless you want me to be thinking pigtails and lollipops, the word you want is women, you pathetic, wilfully ignorant fucktard).
This phrase is actually especially hateful. It the first femdom specific one and I hate every single last thing in femdom that carries an implied ooh weird, women in charge OMG whatever next vibe) which is shit for me as that means I basically end up hating the whole of femdom: from the ridiculous caution! caution! of making the word dom into the word domme, right up to the fuck me that’s so submissive sub-man iconography where he’s doing the fucking ironing (Jezeus!).

So, multiple bleh points to Women on Top. Which is (a), like the others in this list, lame and tired like my poor ransacked heart. But, yeah, also (b) implies utter sexist shit i.e. the lamity-crap that women being in charge is so unusual and weird and down right wrong that it need to have a fucking lampshade hung on it every time it happens (I do not like this – I am shy and sensitive and lampshades itch) (see also Girl Power)

I’m sure there are more over used stupid kink phrases. Kinky cliches, or kinkliches (come on!). Why not tell me yours. (And if you are feeling creative – why not be your own cut out and keep Bitchy Jones by adding a paragraph of pointless swearing to illustrate your frustration. Really, it comes easier than you’d think.)  

(I would also like to see the end of the cleverly (aka stupidly lamely unimaginatively) co-opted song title. ‘You Always Hurt the One You Love’ , ‘Hit Me Baby One More Time’.)

Of course, I suppose, the problem is, without these things, most kinky magazine articles, conferences and workshops are now not called anything at all. Which is a shame, of course, but I can’t solve everything. There are only so many hours in the day. And I need 22 and a half of them for sorting out my own problems. (Or messing up my own life. End result is pretty much the same.)

This was inspired by a reader comment, but I forget which one. I think it was someone asking me to write about the stuff I like to do. And I was all, like, wah, there is no stuff! But, actually ’cause, hey, there is still stuff I like. It’s still there. Just ’cause I’m not doing it right now. So…

It made me think how long it’s been since I wrote properly about that kind of stuff. The stuff I really like to do. And I should because, really, I still think it all the time. But, writing this blog I’ve come a long way since I wrote this.

And although that is the truth, the real deal with me is so much more geeky and weird and just basically permanently vibrating between the smallest inconveniences for him and outrageous fantasy death match abhorations that will never actually happen because of time and money and not wanting to go to jail and great yawning maw between my occasional nocturnal purple passion and the reality where I tie a guy up and smack them a tiny bit and then get all weepy and loseriffic because, ‘oh and oh and oh I don’t like the idea of you being hurt, baby.’

See, I am lame. I am no good at this kind of sex even though it is officially the world’s easiest kind of sex and all it involves is lying on your arse whining. And, really, you would think I’d be good at that, but I am not. Well, I suppose, by some measure I am good at *that* but I am not good at the dominatrixin version of that.

The reason, I suspect, that I am not good is because I actually like it and therefore care. For serious. I got this really inneresting email a while back from a woman who has friends who are prodoms (I often hear from these mysterious women) who told me that a lot of pros are sub in their real lives and, that it makes a lot of sense when you think about it because sub women would make better pros. Not because of my snark that, god you’d have to be into humiliation to want to dress like that etc, etc, yawngasm…but because someone who has submissive fantasies is better at making a submissive fantasy come true. And, you know, I think there is a lot of truth in that. And if it’s true I think it comes with problems attached, because although I think submissive women are great and cool and have their own barrel full of shit to deal with about how their sexuality is portrayed (not as big as my barrel, just saying, but mine is the biggest barrel. I got here first. I assigned the barrels) but I think problems could be astemming from the fact that the authors of my sexuality are (a) submissive men (aka men who fetishise imaginary idealised women who don’t want sexual contact with men) and (b) a bunch of submissive women who know just how to be mean in that way where it’s hot, but just aren’t really into the idea of being dominant themselves really, in their own time, for the sexy kick back.

But, never forget these women from group (b) are going to be way better at fulfillling your dom-dom fantasy than me. Which is why you pay them and have them standing on the doors at all the nightclubs and ignore me, which is understandable as I am, at best, completely annoying.

‘Cause me? Your fantasies? I fulfill my fantasies. Although, as covered in depressing detail, this happens entirely cerebrally. 

But when he comes along: I like games. Cards. I like bridge best and poker also. I like odds and abstraction. I like a simple set of rules that sends one tumbling into endless possibilities. I’m a bit too spacially-spazzed to play chess well – but chess is super high romance to me, and I’ve had more than one crush entirely fuelled by omg, he’s good at chess. In fact my first crush of adulthood (aptly named because it actually did feel like the medieval method of execution -a subject that you are no doubt unsurprised to find me well versed in. Ah, yes, moving on…) was on the guy who taught me chess. When, in fact, I already knew how to play chess. But, guh! Crush! I LET HIM TEACH ME AGAIN! 

I like to lie in bed and rework the Marilyn vos Savant puzzle. (Because I find the counter intuitive nature of it so beguiling I have to rework it every time I think of it). I love probability .Probability is the big bad wolf. I love the way it can lead one down the wrong path if you don’t watch every step.

It twinkles and confuses. The helpless, hopeless, kludged together, built-for-another-world human mind trips in the same way over and over.

Chance. Odds. Oh yes, and I also love to be outrageously blatantly unfair just because I can. I make the rule. I skew. 

Dice make me excited. It’s true. I must have spent too much time thinking hot thoughts about die so, now, rolling a dice around in my hand is like a sex thing now. All I think of is his face, how he needs to roll a six to have even the tiniest chance.

I like to add new rules. Like those weird endless online games. I like to make it so complex neither of us can remember. It doesn’t matter. I’m in charge. So a roll of four means the cane not that you come. Of course I’m sure. So don’t roll again. Roll over.

Course, a game like that, he wouldn’t stand a chance. And that bores me. Black. White. Who likes to play on grey?

‘Cause, see I like him to have a chance.

No really. Just not a big chance.

But I like the idea that if he risks enough he could win. That there’s a chance it could be me that loses. That it could be his triumph. My Waterloo.

That he could win and win big. Because that way he could be persuaded to gamble everything he has. His dignity, his cock, his life, on that one roll. Gambling, see, is so, so pretty. And that, for me, that is where romance is. Always. Did I mention that romance is what this is all about.

‘Cause some people seem to think it is about these weird guys who, if you are mean to them, take you shopping and do the ironing. And, really, you know, I have no idea who those guys are, or what they are on about almost all the time, but I really wish I didn’t keep getting their mail.

I found this clip via io9 and I watched it and really enjoyed it whilst feeling very conflicted about enjoying it. And I was going to write a great long thing about how much I enjoyed it and how much I really would rather not feel that way, because, god, gross! But maybe I’ve just said it all. 

At the top of the post over here

I was a lonely girl. I grew up in the countryside. As a teenager I was an socially graceless frumpy mess, who made her own clothes and would turn down each and every social engagement for an evening knitting and listening to Radio 4 (on a valve driven radio I still own and prize despite my new pink Sony digital thing and the fact that Pan threatens to leave me every time he is reminded I still have it. We live in a small flat – it’s a large radio.)

And yes, I know you’ve lapped me, in so many ways, nothing has changed. 22 years on I am still that awkward fourteen year old mess with greasy finger marks on my glasses and all the social skills of crisps.

Anyway I would recommend this isolationist method of child rearing if you would rather your spawn were good at writing than at speaking other humans because the other thing I did, while hanging out in the attic of my parents house was write.

I wrote stories. Fantasy epics. Frankly because actual table top gaming would probably have involved too much human social interaction (and also because the only group playing at my school were writing their own future cliches so dedicatedly they did not allow girls to play – but it’s a weird truth that when someone tells me about their D&D playing youth I am all, wow, you were one of the cool kids). And, I can’t remember much about that epic story except that it involved a lot of brutey men and capture and cruelty and floggings and public execution… and who the fuck am I kidding here I remember every last damn detail.

My self insertion character was very smart but short and fat so no one wanted her. (Shut *up* – I was a teenager). She was in love with some kind of spin on Prince Charming. And my god, was he charming. Fuck’s sake I knew how to knit my own boyfriends back then. But she was married to some earthy worthy type who was some kind of Lord Chancellor. I’m sort of ashamed of typing that. Lord Chancellor, Zeus god, geek much? But I have avoided so far telling you that my self insertion was an enchantress so at least I’m holding onto some shreds of dignity.

Here’s a confusing aside. The Chancellor husband character was, in my head, played by Michael J Fox. I had a huge crush on Michael J Fox (if you want to make some kind of Parkinson’s Disease/good in bed type joke, take it, but please bear in mind you are talking about THE MAN I LOVE.) My crush on Fox was entirely based on one tiny mistake. In the opening of Back to the Future* Marty McFly is in bed asleep and it looks at little bit as if his hands are tied behind his back. They actually aren’t. And, yes, really, that’s it. That is how starved of filth I was (and still fucking am), which kind of neatly brings me back to my teenaged felt-tip driven attempts at happy one-handed  reading materials.

In the story the land where my enchantress heroine and her husband and her desperate and doomed crush is invaded by and ultra baddie – who is of course built for badness with oozing muscle and has evil villain hair. Pretty much exactly like this. (God, the shame.) Anyway, here’s what I am trying to tell you – in order to get the heroine (yeah, me) to do what he wants ‘cause she is all super powerful and fucking magic and shit he threatens Michael J Fox, specifically he asks her to do, god, well, spells, I expect and she says no way and he says, fine, cut his fucking hand off.**

Oh, hands.

Hands are so it.

Hands are where I look. Really, even before crotch. (Actually I am far to nineteenth century to really look straight at a man’s crotch.) Hands first. Everyone does, don’t they? (No one really looks at eyes. Who cares. Mouth, sure, but what are his eyes going to do? No one’s gaze is *that* penetrating.) Hands. Every straight woman. Everyone with a vagina, even. Or everyone with a hole in their body that they like to sometimes not be a hole. Long fingers, big bumpy knuckles like aching tree knots. That’s your magic wand, Harry.

Hands. Oh hands and to be marooned on a pacific island with a piano playing spinal surgeon.

I like his hands. And because my lust always drops into certain grooves sooner or later, I want to take them away. Or one. The dominant one. So nine out of ten times the right one. His dexter. His starboard.***

Locked behind his back. Via mechanisms I would bother to research if this constant craving were ever coming up off this page. (Feel free to design me some kind of harness if you are bored.) Watching him fumble with his wrong hand. For sore and crampy hours. In bed, or not. I just love the idea of taking something so small away and seeing how long it would take for that to break him.

Sometimes I think about him wearing a gag and having to communicate by writing. Because watching him having to write stuff for me is delicious anyway. Lines – god. Watching him write wrong handed, letter by painstaking letter, some please may I whatever randomness, is almost autogasmically hot.

Sometimes he wants out. He can’t bear it. He wants his hand back. He offers to buy it. Not with money, silly, that’s hella dull compared with, well, compared with him buying his way out with pain. Time without his right hand weighed against strokes, implements or swapped for time in clamps, time without orgasms, time in cages.

Sometimes I just watch him, leaning in the kitchen doorway. He’s washing up one-handed, swearing under his breath. Then he sees me and, holding my dumb, mouth-open, over-wrought gaze, says, super-soft, I love the things you do to me. And he’s naked. And he has an erection. And then he fucks me in his stupid chains. The chains of my stupid desire.

And that’s nice.

*Oh, I checked and it’s not the opening scene. It’s a little later. You can view the moment my little heart went ping in all it’s 7 second ultra low res glory here (skip to about 6.40)

**Yeah, I am well aware of this familiar theme, in that I am not the perp of the violence (or the threats). In some ways the me in this story is one of the victims. And yet, what I like, is the power. I’m not the baddie, but I have the power to make the bad things stop. Slice that up any way you like.

***Bitchy Jones fact file: Starboard is my favourite word.

I just want to state for the record that last night I had the most enjoyable Saturday night for a long, long while, alone but for the company of this blog and an electronic device. Enough almost to make me think I could actually become a separatist - you know, if it ever actually comes to that.

(Although the fact this blog is written by a man does actually contribute to the way it thoroughly does for me, so that’s a thing, I guess.)

If you are pushed for time, or wish to make some kind of desire graph of me: here and here, were, um, highlights and by highlights I mean exactly what you think I mean.

(ETA: And a quick read through reveals that this post is probably now the top google search result for the word ‘actually’ – because my writing! it has the word crutches!)

I’ve been reading a few radical feminist bloggers for a post I want to write – and, you know, maybe actually will write if I ever get off twitter and put my knickers on. But, it made me think about me and my, you know, thing as a feminist who writes about female dominance. ‘Cause occassionally in a comment thread someone will say that someone else ought to read me (and the three million other people will come along and go GOD NO, DON’T READ THAT POLEMICAL SHREW – SHE THINKS ALL WOMEN HAVE VAGINAS. Or something. Damn those haterz.)

It’s odd that a lot of my best known writings are about trying to prise femdom out of the paws of patriarchal structures where it is being dutifully reshaped into something that looks exactly like mandom but just with men being the ones with the weak dripping pussies and women being the ones with the towering phalluses of power. Not that mandom is bad so it is bad for femdom to look like that – it’s just that femdom isn’t mandom. That, for me at least, is something of the point. I do not want to be a mandom for a million reasons – but one of them is that I do not actually want to unleash my cock-dragon on some slutbitch-hoar.

In fact it strikes me more and more that what I am actually looking at when I look at femdom’s *stuff* is some kind of cross dressing version of mandom (like a mandom panto version) that has been somehow misfiled as femdom. And actual femdom has been lost in the cataloguing system.

And that makes BJ cry.

So, cross-dressed mandom has become the femdom norm. And that’s annoying. And that’s a lot of what I write about. And thoughts I have had in my head (which is where I mostly think) about why that should be the case has led me to write a lot about gender and sex and feminism.

But here is this. I never meant to do that.

When I wrote about strap ons being rubbish, my main point wasn’t really that this being the femdom sex norm has rather heavy implications about the whole of BDSM being about the en-phallused person being the dominananant and power wielding sex partner. And if that’s what BDSM is about that’s somewhat problematic. *coff*. I wrote it purely because I didn’t like the come-shot of femdom sex being a kind of sex where I didn’t get to feel a whole bunch of pleasurable sensations all over my body. (And by my body, I mean my vagina – and with that kind of reductive thinking about women’s bodies I could probably get a job as a man. (Ha! Bullseye – told you I was a feminist.))

Really, all the other stuff about strap ons sucking and having an offensive level of presence in femdom is true, but I was never motivated by that so much as by my own frustrations about the sex I like having such deep foundations in acts that stop me getting pleasure.

‘Cause, for serious, I like to get fucked. I don’t think every woman alive likes to get fucked. But I do think a lot of them do. And that’s why I think sex were the woman is dominant needs to wiggling around a bit so that getting fucked can actually be part of it. Because it feels nice (I don’t mean the wiggling around – though if you’re in the mood). And I want nice feeling stuff in my sex. Don’t tell, but I may well be more of a hedonist than I am a feminist.

Similarly I mainly complain about forced fem because I don’t find cross dressed men hot. The whole thing where it automatically equates femininity with submission and femaleness with a kind of lesser-ness is one thing. And I do care about that. And forced fem always made me uncomfy for that reason. But truly, the main thing that pisses me off about it is the fact that I want submissive men to look utterly hot. I want to look at pictures of male submission and grab a vibe not a sick bag.

I say all this because if I do write what I am going to write next week, it will be all hard and thinky and use the word patriarchy a lot. So I’m just here right now to remind you that, really, deep, deep, not-really-very-deep down, I’m all about the fucking fun, baby. All about the fucking fun.

So, yuh, radFem/BDSM debate. I am a-coming. Running all the way. A truly, this brain of mine that you love so much, ‘tis a-fire. Though not necesarily with anything that useful. And if you’re reading this thinking I’m going to be on your side, whoever you are, I’m probably not.

Hey, so, I have a question. And this is what it is:

How come submissive men aren’t the best looking bunch of fucking men in the fucking universe?

And I don’t just mean how come this isn’t true for my pathetic cheap frills in my otherwise pretty pointless window of wakey-wakey-consciousness.

And look, what I am talking about here is not submissive men being pulled from an above-average gene pool – I am talking about them taking care of themselves for the hottery. What I mean is why don’t submissive men dedicate themselves to looking hot? Like, a lot. What could be more submissive than that?

(And, don’t tell, but if you are really into humiliating feminisation, the tyranny of looking sexiliciously buffgasmic 24/7 is far more like what the submissive state of womenhood actually is than walking around knock-kneed in shoes you got off the internet, you woman-hating fucking twatburger.)

Look, just look! How come Club Pedestal or even one of those god-frighteningly awful looking footnight things (hmm, is femdom built on a fear and hatred of women, well I wonder… click for answers) aren’t full of the buffest most worked-on men available anywhere. How come the men on Men in Pain aren’t all modelicious lickables?

How come women aren’t queueing up for dominatrixing lessons? (Well they kind of are, vaguely, in palaces to offensively narrow definitions of female sexuality like Coco de Mer, to get their gas bill paid or project some kind of exotic sexuality on to their weary clit-worn selves.) But how come women aren’t all over this sexuality because the men are so fucorsomely hot, because their actual fucking kink – the thing that makes them hard and makes them wet – is to pay attention to what women want and deliver it to the best of their sweaty head-shaven muscle-toned genetic ability?

Wouldn’t that make the most sense? Every submissive man a strawberries and creamy dreamboat? More sense than the current eye-bleed inducing situation, no?

Hey you guys, female pleasure is your supposed thing, right? You’re all about it. All you want, you tell me, is to be a plaything for a superior mistress, a creature of delight for a harsh hatchett-faced horridious harridan. To put all your own wants and needs aside and exist purely for her pleasure.

Alrighty then.

So then how come so often you will see words like this – expressed, here, on the internet but that is not the only spot – in a written profile consisting of one sentence to that effect (why write more, when all you exist for is her pleasure, what else matters, right? You’re just fodder for her lust-canon; she ain’t going to want to be weighed down by the specifics of boring old you – little details like height and favourite colour and perso-fucking-nality), but, yuh, in this passionate urge to express nothing at all one thing will be expressed All I want is to please and serve and suffer and what the fuck ever and then, if there is a pic (mostly there isn’t a pic, but…) the pic will be, like, oh god here is me in a cheap pointless wig and a cheap pointy rubber bra – what a dumb slut, I am?

Er, whut? In what universe to these two things match? I just want to do whatever you want. I have preempted your desires by doing something to myself that no fucker in the known universe would ever require done. Seriously, you imagined that the first conversation with the woman of your dreams would go like this.

You: So I just want to do what ever you want and be your slave
Princess Amazing: Oh great, so could you dress up in ill-fitting man-made-fibred lingerie and stick a carrot up your arse
You: Baby, I am already two steps ahead! (Shows photograph)
Princess Amazing: Actually I was joking. And I am now crying so hard I can’t actually see the photo – so at least there is some benevolence in this cruelty zoo that is my sexuality. (Possibly you did not imagine this last bit – but there is no other possible ending.)

I present for your consideration, femdom, my hapless traveling companions: How did it all go so wrong?

But, look, right, let’s workshop. And by workshop I mean I’ll keep hitting these keys until feel less-sectionablely-hysterical and then we can all get on with our lives. What the fuck is an out of shape submissive man all about? How does that even make sense? If you really truly are all and only about my pleasure, how come you’re not all working out round the clock and living on egg whites just to see me smile?

How come you’re not all (or an above national average proportion of you) totally buff and groomed and lust scented like gay men?

How come submissive men aren’t all about well cut jeans and tight t shirts over their lickable torsos and expensively cut knicker-dampening suits and butchy boots and dirty looks. Yeah, not all women like the same thing, but their are vague ideas, there are archetypes women find hot and until you can buy a Hot Sissy Maid 2010 calendar in my supermarket I’m betting the look most submissive men are going for isn’t one of them.

I mean, why? Why are you doing something that no women want or like? Isn’t that, like, the opposite of your entire thing?

I mean sure, *you* might like the feel of silky fabrics on your skin or the restrictiveness of high heels or, god, those hideous zentai things – but this isn’t about you. How you feel, well that’s for you. How you look is for me. Oh and you might like filling your skin with curry and beer but don’t you get off on denying yourself just to please some goddess or other?

Well look, I’m not a goddess, but I have a vagina and that’s the same difference with you lot, isn’t it? If you want to please me, please my eyeballs.

If you’re a female supremacist – well one, you’re a fucking arsehole because deifying a culturally disempowered group is just as damaging as demonising them – but, hey, I’m not going to change your mind, because you are an idiot. But look, if you really do think you are inferior to all women, if you really do think that it is your role to enhance the lives of all women everywhere, why not take a tip from me. Here’s a way you can do that without having to dial down the ultra creepiness ten thousand notches so a woman who isn’t charging fee for being in the same room as you can speak to you without vomiting her own human dignity out of her eyeballs. Look hot. Work out and eat right and get an expensive haircut.

It. Is. So. Obvious.

Course I suppose it might be that the reason submissive men are not all toned, honed wonderlust-objects is because their sexuality is not really about satisfying female desire – whatever rocky course it sets them on – but about fulfilling some arbitrary crass and oh-so-often offensive set of dumb desires of their own. But that can’t be true, can it?

Look, I know you’re going to accuse me of all sorts. Of being shallow. Of buying into lamecore body-fascistic ideas. And I’d answer those points myself but I pretty much agree with (and was, in all honesty, partly inspired by) this essay on 1585 dot com. It’s not about kink, but the point he’s making applies so strongly to submissive men. And the overall point about how men feel they can’t be hot because it doesn’t work with some other image they have going, applies to submissive men as much as anyone. I can’t be buff ‘cause I’m a gimpyboy and who’d ever heard of a buff gimpyboy? Hey, honey, start a trend – and I’ll start saving up for a dungeon.

(Sort of disclaimer or warning or endorsement: I’ve been a fan of 1585 for a couple of years. I think they are genuinely very sharp and clever and do good atheism, which makes me wet and happy, but I’ve held off properly linking to them before because they seem so hung up on those ideas about female sexuality being all about being desired and male sexuality being not that. And those ideas piss me off mightily. And they have a bit of lame feminism-panic going on, which is a worry. Also they seem to think pics of the hot female author are far more important than pics of the hot male author. Clue: not they are not. And, for serious, couldn’t you just write a gender studies essay on the pics on the home page he = sexy in a private space, she = sexy in a pubic space. Oh, yes and WTF? Fugly shoes? Fugly shoes as tessellated wallpaper? Serious? Are you trying to turn me Christian? Because if it’s believing in supernatural oppressive dipshittery or looking at that graphic I’m kind of torn…

But if I haven’t completely put you off…, yeah this essay swung it. It was close (because OMG those shoes) but when I saw the illustration explaining that men should just make themselves into a cross between Wolverine and Shakespeare (just do this, dumbass), forget it. My link was so linking. And really, if you have ever read this blog thinking, OMMFG, how can I get Bitchy Jones to have sex with me, there is your answer right there. I would sell my house and charter a plane, motherfucker.)

*I’m kind of vaguely unhappy about using the word ‘boy’ when talking about submissive men. Just mainly ’cause my pref is all butchy and shit. And, hell, I am much more unhappy about the use of the word ‘girl’ to mean an adult woman. But I’m not going into that now because, really, if you don’t get that you’re just an idiot.

Recently I received some plaintive emails from some hapless lover of sane argument and sane sanity, saying, Bitchy Jones, please come and be on Fetlife and be interesting and engaging on Fetlife.

I said no. I’m mean. But also, Fetlife is horrible.

I do sometimes type my name into the search on Informed Consent. IC is like Fetlife except it does not have white text on a black background and so is infinitely superior. (Seriously how long have we had computers with monitors for? Why is it still even possible to make websites with white text on a black background?)

But yeah, anyway, I do that and I am glad I do because then I find stuff like this

I click-stumbled over a thread about forced fem (quick, moar pink nylon on the men, I heard a woman somewhere in the world might be finding this hot), where some sanes were good enough to cite me as the only fucker who talks any sense on this subject ever. Now, I’m often coming across what I proclaim out loud (to no one but the whirring of my laptop’s fan) as the best defence of forced fem in the world ever. But surely, surely, this has to be the best defence of forced fem in the world ever. I take it all back. For serious, colour me told: a man dressing up as a woman for the purposes of degredation is not misogynistic because:

(Seriously, pause, make a drum roll sound or something, gird things, brace self)

It’s nothing to do with females being held in lower esteem than men. Really if that were the case they would not be approaching what they mistakenly believed to be a female dominant.

It sort of reminds me of a previous post about cuckolding because a guy found it a turn on for his wife to be fucked by a black guy. Many jumped the gun with the race card and how it was degrading for him to see his wife fucked by a black guy. When infact it’s actually the stereotype of a physically superior male the guy was getting off on.

Oh, well if it was *that* racial stereotype that’s, of course, fine. That’s the good kind of racism. I expect all those foolish gun jumpers who called this person as if they were exhibiting *bad* racism feel like idiots now.

Good racism. That’s what we need more of. I bet the people who try and defend forced fem as not misogynistic but being about ‘being less of a man and having my masculinity taken away and being a slut and being ridiculous and, and, and OH FUCKING SHUT UP BITCHY JONES, JUST SHUT UP, are delighted to have this argument to add to there arsenal of utterly thoroughly convincingly utterly throughly extremely good pro-forced fem good arguments.

(The best of these is probably ‘Women wear trousers!’ Because when you’re trying to deconstruct and evaluate what the position in femdom of forced feminisation as a way of diminishing men and what kind of ideas about men and women it reflects and endorses there really is nothing like an irrelevant non-sequitur to stop you in your misguided tracks.)

I have no idea what the person who posted this is really trying to say in the first paragraph before the weird stuff about race. But, whatever it is I’m sure I have it all wrong. So, it’s pure guesswork but I think he means that forced fem isn’t misogynistic because it is based on thinking women are inferior *but* *also* superior, which is just great. It would probably just be spoiling things if I said I’d like my kink to think of women as human beings rather than whatever fits the fantasy from a grab bag of stereotypes of goddesses and sluts, but hey.

Anyway, that’s the kind of slippery slope that might lead to me wanting control over my own reproductive system and the vote or some other krazy dreamtime.

And – cuh – chanow, any prejudices and horribles you see in kink are just fine and okay, no really, because they turn people on, which means there’s no possible political or sociological agenda to them. And if you’re offended by the casual denigration of black people or women by a bunch of straight white men, just shut the fuck right up, okay, because these straight white men are actually perverts and therefore horribly oppressed in ways you couldn’t possibly begin to imagine. And stereotyping black men as ‘physically superior’ fuck machines and animalistic, white-woman-raping mandingoes is, in fact, the opposite of racism. The opposite of bad racism that is.

If only there were more of this big black cock for my slut wife style cuckolding (like there’s any other style? Like that could be called a ‘style’?) going on I expect the world would finally be in peace and harmony; probably just like fucking piano keys do or something else black and white. Say, penguins. At the very least we’ll all be too busy to be hating each other what with the white women getting fucked by the black men and the white men looking on and wanking.

(Obviously, we can ignore black women. It’s fine, there’s a social precedent for just carrying on as if women of colour don’t exist anyway. They’ll be alright, having a great time getting physically superior fucking off of black men, I expect. Well, until those black men realise they could be doing it with white women! But that’s just the tough breaks, I guess. (Someone call Kanye West! I’ve figured out an ending for that song.))

Oh world of perverted sex, this is why you still need me. Even after all these years. And I am as sad for you as anyone that you need a whiny, ugly, woollily liberal, bad-hearted, profanity-ridden anti-capitalist dominatrix to save you.
But someone has to collect these things and half-arsedly post them on a free blogging platform and ridicule them in front of a handful of lazy, uninterested bored office workers who’ve mistyped something into google. And if not me, then who, baby? Then who?

Surrender Dorothy
Forced Feminisation in Black and White
The Last Cuckoo 

I don’t like to seem ungrateful. No, no, I really don’t. And of course I love to be included in lists. Especially list of top 100 things. 

But I really cannot understand why I am officially one of the top 100 LGBT blogs. 

I mean, I can understand how maybe, maybe, the fact that I have some kind of ALT sexuality makes me sort of queer. (Although probably a lot less queer than it might appear.) But that list’s acronym has no Q! It is L G B T. Which of those letters apply to me?

I love cock – but I don’t have one. I love my cunt – but no one else’s.

This still hasn’t dropped off the front page FFS

Plus the fact that most dominatrix bloggers actually make some big point of their biseckshooality. And I’m the only one that don’t. And I understand that if you wanted to include a woman who gets off on manpain in your list you’d want me because of the whole asshat situation, but I am, I am sure, the least LGBT one. (Which is a fact not a boast – I’m not trying to dazzle you with my hetness. Someone has to be the least gay one, and that somebody is me.)

I’m not complaining. I’m just confused. And I don’t normally get confused about sexuality.