2011 was a year of new connections, adventures, and living the life I’d put off while I was in an increasingly ill-fitting relationship situation. I made incredible memories, got to know amazing people who have become very dear to me, and dove deeper into two – no, three – types of work.

The first: my companion work.

I approached it as a true calling and by the end of 2011 had felt it become a job. Part of this was because I’d switched up my marketing to test profitability, with some success; part of this was because I was falling in love, and I’m prone to randomly distancing emotionally when I’m in that stage, mostly to keep myself from succumbing to utter sappiness. (It’s too late, of course; I’m smitten.)

Part of this was because I was still unraveling the threads of the previously mentioned ill-fitting relationship situation; we’d been live-ins for a long while, and it wasn’t an instantaneous unbinding. That took more out of me than I’ve wanted to admit. Frankly it still does; it did tonight. And tonight was the last night, in a way, for a lot of things behind that door.

I joked that I broke off the engagement with SC to become a full-on polyamorous sex worker, and that he may have dodged a bullet. It went unspoken that I was the one who’d dodged the bullet: monogamy, obligations and ideals that would have stifled me and kept me from doing my work (with a capital W). When it became clear we weren’t suited I threw off the idea of trying to cram myself into someone else’s box and then proceeded to do exactly that, with much greater (and juicier) success, by following my strange and twisty path.

That strange and twisty path led me back around to the path I was on when I first dove into sexuality: energy work, magic, woo, what have you. I spent so long carefully leaving my religion out of my work that I completely forgot that my related practices, at times, might be an asset. I’ve had phone and cam clients catch me at it unconsciously from time to time. It’s just a part of me.

That was the second sort of work, and the third. Diving back into sacred sexuality, serving my community, and committing further to education and advocacy. This is just what I do, matter-of-factly, whether I’m being paid for it or not. Whether I’m being credited publicly for it or not. It’s important and I can’t seem to stop myself, so there you go.

I still don’t feel I do enough of it.

As for my calling-that-became-a-job, I’ve found my way back around again; open hearted, within the container of our meeting, and prioritizing the sessions that nourish and inspire me over the sessions that leave me feeling as though they weren’t quite there for what I do. Those will always exist; the clients who simply want to check off another pretty face, a list of acronyms, and don’t feel the comfort level or the desire to genuinely connect. They’ve been rare in my practice, but over time I’ve experienced more of them, of course. I simply happened to get a cluster at an unfortunate time.

I still have fun with even those clients more often than not – but it’s not my work, if you get me.

My sessions this week? I felt myself plug in, charge up, and be there; I felt those I was with do the same. There is such joy in that. D/s isn’t the only form of power exchange. A gift for a gift, they say…

…And I feel I’ve received such gifts this year. From my dear clients, who inspire me, make me smile and enable me to do what I do. From my friends, colleagues, lovers, and beloveds, who nourish me in the most unexpected ways and whom I adore wholeheartedly. From my family, who’ve come full-circle from the initial expected slut-shaming to supporting my work (and me doing it). And from those who I shared love with for a time and grew apart from, for teaching me lessons I would have learned no other way.

I feel that things are moving where they’re supposed to. I’m happy, and hopeful, and wish the same for every one of you reading for the year to come.

A pleasure denied is a pleasure savored, am I right?

Picture this: silk cuffs with a suede lining (LELO – gift from a dear client) wrapped around wrists taut with desire. Body squirming, hips bucking, back arched right off the crisp white sheets. Fingers running over flesh. Flesh becoming eager, becoming impatient, then holding impossibly still waiting for the next touch, and the next before lapsing into a writhing collection of desires for more hair, more kisses, more smooth skin, more touch.

Ah. Denied.

The blindfold: on. The finger: wetted, then drawn over lips hungry for a taste of the possibilities of the Other, that grantor and withholder of pleasure, the gatekeeper of desire. Silken hair draped over his face as I leaned in, tickling his ear with hot breath and whispering impossible dilemmas: I would remove my silkiest, most intimate articles of clothing, now that he couldn’t see…

Even through the blindfold I could see his face cross the threshold between broken desire and joy at having the promise of Tantalus held there for him, just barely out of reach.

Five years.

I went to sleep in my lucky seafoam green bra and panties with a matching lace-hemmed satin slip on top. I still want to retire that slip in style, in a luxe bathtub, letting the wet satin cling to my ripe curves.

Tomorrow a certain something special goes live. I’ll be ready, in new sheer black stockings and a satin corset I bought in the company of no less than five other PSOs.

I’ve been quiet on this blog for a while. Recent posts will hint as to why.

In the past couple of years things have been a whirlwind; enjoyable but in constant flux. Structure was a dirty word to me, a form of self-bondage I just didn’t crave.

It didn’t suit me.

Now it does.

Now I crave it, a setting-off point, a harbor to return to and launch from on my next adventure.

I’m building that structure out of nylon and whispers and kisses, out of venom and twisting you around inside until sweetness is cruelty and you crave the bite behind my kiss.

I think you’ll like what I’m going to show you. I hope you’ll stay with me for the next leg of the journey. I’m so glad you’ve joined me so far.

Thank you, for the comments and emails and in-person hugs, for the unexpected kindnesses and the scorching-hot calls. Thank you – always – for reading.

xx
Sabrina

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It’s that, with self-examination and self-expression. The need is there, I just don’t have much appetite… I can’t be bothered to actually do it. I don’t find my own ideas interesting enough to even think them. It feels like running in circles, or revisiting the same vacation spot. I don’t feel like I have new ground to tread, or if I do I can’t figure out how to do it under this name.

I’ve been doing a lot of external travel lately (and some internal dialogue, though not much internal journeying yet). It’s nice, it feels good, but somehow compulsive; not satisfying. I’m not writing it out or thinking it through. I’m mostly running around eating at different restaurants, and I feel like I’m missing the point.

I need to have a self-indulgent, introspective personal blog again. I’ve been putting it off feeling that any writing I do elsewhere would be taking away from my poor neglected sex blogs. It’s not true. Or, at least, not keeping one isn’t helping me neglect them any less.

I’d forgotten how much of my thought process – hell, even my self-awareness – is dependent on writing sessions with my brain. Lately it feels self-indulgent and lazy. Spoiled. Pointless, a masturbatory form of leisure time. And it is.

But sometimes I really need to masturbate.

I can’t keep forgetting that.

And like any other form of masturbation, doing it for yourself in private doesn’t make you stop wanting more. Quite the opposite in fact.

I’m meeting with a friend tomorrow I hadn’t seen in years, a random encounter who became a night owl chat companion, then a writing buddy, then a very dear friend. He – along with his lovely wife – is stealing me away for the weekend, and it’s got me thinking about words and sensuality, memory and salt on skin…

I just realized that one of the first bits of erotica I ever wrote was inspired by him. I wonder if I still have it.

Have you ever gotten bored with something you loved?

Not because you stopped loving it, no – but because it stopped being new, stopped having something new to tell you for a while. Something to figure out. You stopped even having interesting thoughts about it, or feeling interested. You missed its touch, but just like trying to fuck an old lover you’re going through a rough patch with, you couldn’t make yourself feel that fire.

I’m the kind of person that needs fire.

So after a while of being shiftless and aimless, starting a hundred somethings and not having the oomph to push them through (or perhaps being distracted by that other, more immediate sputtering fire… which one do I see every day, after all?), I realized a few things.

One: I hate the city I’m in, truthfully. I’ll be out in a year.

Two: I really don’t have any desire to be a hack, mostly because I don’t have the heart for it. I admire the balls on marketers and hustlers – but I’m not one. That’s not my gift. I can do one thing, and that’s tell the truth, as hard as I can. I can use lies to tell that truth, sure. I’ve never flinched at that.

But I can’t spin lipstick and promises, and I’m not really into making anything I can’t look back on and be proud of. There are thousands of people in this world who can make pure straight-up smut better than I can. I say this as someone who happens to like straight-up smut.

I’m not someone to come to if you want it – which is strange given that it’s something I enjoy and participate in – I’m someone to come to if you want that strangely uncomfortable feeling that “she knows.”

I think I’d like my multimedia to be rare and excellent, and I think I’ll spend some time this year improving my visual and audio skills accordingly. But it’s the exchanges that fuel me the most.

I lust after the interaction and the dynamic of live, full-on phone sex and cam. I savor the tango of face to face, instinct to instinct… sadist to masochist, dominant to submissive. And that’s why I’ve made the move to traveling more, living more, continuing to spend time with my cherished phone and email pets, and now: real-time sessions.

Take a peek at my new fetish escort website, and keep watch for tweaks to my phone site (including new photos and an availability indicator for my direct dial line) as well as more here on this blog.

I’ve missed you. Thank you for reading.

(Many thanks to the wonderful Sarah Sloane for pointing out that stagnation and boredom can lead to burnout, and that depression hates change. Words to live by… And thanks to my wonderful clients and to all those at Desiree Alliance this year who both reminded me that it’s the connections we form with clients and fellow sex workers, the energy we exchange and the ways that we give back to each other that make this work worth doing, always.)

I think it started when the thought struck me: What if they had drugged the candy?

I was sucking the sweet peppermint, rolling it around on my tongue, tracing over the red swirls with the tip of my tongue and thinking absolutely nothing at all except simple pleasure.

Mmmmm.

Somewhere inside me with that association muscle memory kicked in and right then all I wanted was sweet, slippery sex. Cock. Pussy. Wet tongues and grasping fingers and the primal base thrusting of fucking motions, which were what I was making right then, fucking the air.

It wasn’t someone I wanted. It wasn’t even particularly an orgasm. I just wanted sex, anywhere, anyhow I could get it. I didn’t really care with whom.

I thought of walking up to the man across the room, having him follow me into the hall. We’d stand in the doorway outside. I would take his hand, run it along the sheer nude pantyhose covering my inner thigh, rumple up my navy suit skirt. I’d whisper in his ear. It’d be commands. I was feeling urgent.

“Make me come. Use those thick fingers and make me come. Fingerfuck me… push your fingers right into my tight cunt.”

Oh yes. I’d use that word. I’d use it and he’d know I meant business.

I didn’t wear panties underneath my pantyhose today. Maybe that’s why I was like that. The seam’d been sliding across my pussy lips all day. (The peppermint melted, sticky, on my tongue…) My legs were crossed. That pushed the nylon seam right between and right up against my poor raw clit.

I squeezed my thighs together, riding the seam. Rocking back and forth. The lawyer was talking, but I was looking over her shoulder at her paralegal. Sheer gray nylons – were they stockings? No, pantyhose. Her skirt was short enough for me to see when she crossed her thick thighs one over the other. My lust heard the nylon swish from across the room.

God how I wanted to eat her through the damp crotch of her pantyhose.

I thought of the brown-haired man, forgettable in face but with muscular shoulders and strong contractor’s hands. I’d be leaning up against the entryway, my skirt hiked up around my waist now, his fingers jammed up my cunt, curling in and out against my pressure in a come-hither motion. I’d come on his fingers. I wouldn’t care who saw. God, they could all fuck me for what I cared. Just line up and service my hungry cunt.

That’s when I thought it: they must have drugged the candy.

The room was watching me, and they could tell, I know it. I was rubbing my thighs together like a greedy slattern and my lips were parted, wet. I was ready to verbally, physically, forcibly and too publicly demand sex from a total stranger.

Total strangers.

I wanted all of them. Yes, even the lawyer, though she looked like a rode-hard middle-aged dyke in a $300 suit and a good highlight job. Her I’d have tonguing my ass. I thought she looked like she knew dirty.

And then she smiled.

God. It was all over then.

I stood up and I dropped my clipboard and she handed me a smooth black pen.

It read: “Moore & Owen Law Firm.”

I uncapped it and stuck it into my cunt. The ballpoint pen nib poked a hole through my pantyhose; they stretched more, being wet, then tore just enough.

The paralegal – Kirstie? – handed me her fat yellow highlighter. The salesman next to me took it from me and pushed it in beside the pen.

Someone went for the umbrella stand. I saw the turned wooden handle – and clenched. The brown-haired man got straight to the point: he unzipped his khakis and pulled out his vein-ridged cock.

I don’t remember when I was moved onto the conference table. I’d been slapped, pushed, spit on. There were folder clips attached to my nipples and labia. They acted as both clamps and mild weights. The lawyer held my hair in her fist and pulled my head back so I couldn’t escape the cock coming at my mouth from what looked like upside down. I tongued first his dick, then her clit. They kept alternating. I lost track. His balls were heavy in my mouth and I had to fight not to bite down on them when the first cock pushed into my ass.

At least I think it was a cock. The first time, it could have been anything, maybe the umbrella handle. It had a curve. The second and third I felt the weight of a person and hands on my legs.

Grey – my company’s lawyer – actually held the walls of my pussy open for one particularly fat cock. I heard myself screaming at him… to stop dicking around and fuck me.

I have a plump bare mound and they beat it… they were beating it with the rolled-up contract. All that work, all those hours of research and I couldn’t help but jump and arch into each smack. I could feel my butt jiggle. It must have looked obscene.

I know they were laughing at the way I begged but if I ever had my mouth free of a hard dick or a hot pussy they’d pop in another mint, close my mouth and let it melt on my tongue. And I couldn’t stop wanting it.

-Alissa Bell, 29, commercial developer.

(Written 11/17/2006. I found this one finished in my drafts folder and thought it could use a little love. Happy Valentine’s Day?)

As tired as I get of the looks and the questions, though, I have to remember: What I do is not illegal in Massachusetts, or indeed, in most of the United States. I am not going to have my door busted down for my work. (Although I did almost lose my room last summer over it…) I am not endangering my life every time I sit down in my easy chair for a cosy little 10-minute erotic chat.

This all puts me in a special category of sex worker: someone who can be really open about my work, but also has the option of not talking about it, of not thinking about it, of ignoring the other people in the allied sex trades who HAVE to go face to face with their clients, who are constantly harassed by law enforcement, who bear the brunt of the stigma (all those hooker and whore jokes still get laughs!), who are beaten and robbed and raped and murdered because our culture is so fucked-up about sex that selling it makes you a negligible, disposable quantity.

Today is December 17th, the International Day to End Violence Against Sex Workers. For every dead hooker joke I’ve heard this year told to me by friends I was out as a sex worker to, for every time one of my sex work friends has had to fudge on the “what do you do?” question because s/he was afraid for their own safety if they came out, for every sex worker of every gender who screens their clients, guards their basic personal information, sets up safe calls and knows that one day it still might not be enough to stop someone from killing them because of the job they do – a job which is based on giving others pleasure – I’m telling someone outside of my little bubble what this day means, and why it means so much to me.

Today I’ll advocate for my sisters and brothers in sex work, all my far-flung colleagues across the globe. Tonight I’ll light a candle and whisper to Ishtar for all the ones it was too late for. And I’ll take phone fetish calls, and cam, and make my porn in my safe warm apartment because in a world that tries its best to snuff us out, sometimes the most powerful thing sex workers can do is exist, and keep working, and be happy.

P.S. – The uber cool Renegade Evolution and Jill Brenneman are doing a live radio show today. Listen with me. If you’re a sex worker’s client, tip your favorite a little extra today in tribute. It’ll let her (or him) know that you’re remembering, too.

If you skipped all that, here’s the summary: slips are decadently hot and I lust them. They’re the perfect tease accessory and oops, is my satin fetish showing? Thought so.

One night recently after a (delicious and soon to be blogged) camshow I ended up with deep red lipstick on my white vintage full slip. I took off the slip and rescued it (using gentle hand soap and cold water – fyi to sissies and fellow femmes) but I had to put on another while it dried.

So I did.

It wasn’t enough.

I added another.

When I was up to three silky soft, slippery half-slips sliding over each other I just had to make a video and share the fun. I took them all off, one by one, and started again (this time on camera) in just my white lace bra and panties…

Oh, did you want to see the evidence?

11 minutes of slip layering fetish fun (I layer four different silky vintage slips), WMV, available for discreet download through both eCamPay and Niteflirt. I’ve also got my ever popular Small Penis Honesty clip on special until December 1st, but only through this link.

What fetish, tease, and femdom fetish videos and picture sets would you like to see next? I love finding ways to twist your fetish and drive you completely crazy.

Here’s one: If you find porn you enjoy, pay for it. That way it will keep being made. If you don’t support the stuff you like with cold, hard capitalist cash it won’t proliferate, the models won’t get paid, the producers won’t eat anything that isn’t shaped like ramen, and the “good stuff” will never drown out the disposable, mundane crap.*

There’s a palpable sensuality in “good” porn whether it’s subtle or hardcore in-your-face kink. It’s not a dehumanizing feeling; it’s a primal feeling. It’s energy, it’s responsiveness, it’s connection.

There are too many well-meaning advocates who are pro-1st-amendment, even strong allies of sex workers, but believe that while looking at porn is healthy and normal, spending money on porn is weird and pervy.

Aw. I thought that was part of the fun…

Thank Goddess for weird perverts. They respect my time.

Here’s one more: When you find the good stuff, the porn or smut or erotica that turns you on, let somebody know. Those sticky-fingered, sincere letters? We read them. We laugh, or we flush, or we get a wicked idea for something new – but we remember them. And we glow.

*I’m not falling for the false dichotomy of “good” porn (virtuous, artistic, amateur/alternative/outside the mainstream, often featuring unconventional body types, often run by starving artists and still concerned about scene cred) vs. “bad” porn (evil, corporate, icky, mainstream, tan, in better shape than you, full of lots of sticky, enthusiastic women getting fucked by straight, dominant men). There is hot smut in both camps, there is utter crap in both camps and I’d rather blur the line (enthusiastic, well paid people of all body types and gender presentations having hot sex in every possible configuration).

Niteflirt has been steadily making progress with their site updates, so if you’re already a Niteflirt member and want to try the new beta system I’ll try to be available for calls on Niteflirt as well.

More (multimedia!) updates soon…