http://www.etsy.com/listing/88257173/the-squildo

Seriously how badass is that?!?

Don't you dare judge my taste in Elder Gods.

Now all I need is some Cthulhu porn and a date with this guy and I’m all set!

I hit upon an analogy that I’ve been unpacking for a bit and I have found it has resonated for me very deeply. It has brought up more questions, and that to me is the sign of a great point in my process.  Unfinished thoughts are unfinished, but…

I thought about someone who might own a piano. That takes money, resources, space, a certain amount of knowledge. These, however, are all things that, provided with diligence, focus and determination, pretty much anyone could do. I could start of broke as hell and ignorant about music. But I could read, study, apprentice myself. I could get a job at a piano dealership. Intern at a music school. I could work really hard and save money, find the perfect apartment where I could have that piano, practice every day, and become a competent musician.

But would that make you a master of the piano? Would you have a natural gift of musicality? Be able to work the instrument in a way that is transcendent?  Would you be willing to make the pursuit of perfection on those keys a central part of your life? Would people wait for hours in the cold to listen to you play?  Would playing that piano mean the world to you, or would you be just fine walking away, selling it?

I shifted my analogy to horses…they work so well in these analogies, I’ve found. Millionaires may own horses and sit in the stands, proudly beaming over their equine property. That horse belongs to them, and this is not unimportant. But the person who masters the horse, the person who’s voice spurs them on to that last extra burst of speed, the one who rides them so lightly as to seem as though they have become a seamless being, rider and horse…the one who sits by the horse’s side through a colic and knows when even the smallest pebble is in the frog of their hoof…that person is practicing a type of mastery, too.

I don’t believer being  master and being an owner are mutually exclusive. I don’t believe one is intrinsically better than the other. Some horses do FAR better left running, barely contained, perhaps owned but never mastered. And pianos need to be played regularly, lest they fall out of tune more quickly.

I think back on the handful of relationships I’ve had that were specifically focused on power exchange. I am sitting with them in light of this thought. I’m wondering about the dominants I have served, and loved…and I’m contemplating where in the owner / master spectrum they might fall.

But even the good stuff enervates. The play’s the thing, as the bard said. But wow would it be nice to be able to play in the darker sandlots in which do enjoy romping. Not having a regular partner makes the type of play that really feeds me truly rare, indeed. And that aches, too.

I need more play. Good play. Not just good…paradigm-shifting holy fuck I could die right now and be happy motherfucking hot play with someone I love who loves me back.

There, universe. Gimmie it.

Rehearsals for “Good Goods” are going well. The show opens at the end of the month and the process is rolling along quite nicely.  But even that hurts a bit. The character I’m playing is driven to some seemingly ruthless manipulation by….wait for it…loneliness. Yeah, ouch. But it sure gives me a leg up on my fucking character work.

I’ve been getting up on stage to do my storytelling thing, taking advantage of my stint here in the Bay Area to perform at several events…and it has been fun and felt so great. I even managed to have some new experiences and learn about some new boundaries for myself…emotionally and sexually.  So it ain’t as if I’m sitting around bloody moping. Tonight I sat down to knock out my next column for SexIs, and felt my usually pretty even-keel emotional state shift into hurtiness.

Now, I get sad. And I am learning to accept that. But the sadness that hits abruptly is sometimes so strong it picks up other emotions along the way and becomes an avalanche of feelings that awe me into silence.

As is my wont, I blurted it out and had quite a few “Me, too.” sentiments echo back across the void that loneliness can create.  I am not gonna pretend that I have cornered the market on any emotion, but I could short-sell the fuck out of that empty feeling.

It aches to sit and write a chipper article with helpful hints for how to set the mood in your kink life. Because I am flooded with memories of the simple rituals my first dominant gave me, or the abrupt, dizzying brutality of another play partner whose idea of mood-setting was a slap out of nowhere that left me breathless and laughing and aroused. Brought back a flood of thoughts about how much I have loved and lost and really wondering how much better it is to have done so.  Feeling proud I have stood my ground and not “settled” for a person or situation unsuitable for my needs yet still wistfully wondering why this leaves me gasping on the shore feeling as though my heart is slowly desiccating in this lonely downturn.

Whatevs. What can ya do? It is what it is.

I sometimes hear people say that submissive and slave types are more sensitive to those solo stints. Usually there’s some bullshit “Princess and the Pea” style mojo around it. But i think there may be some truth to it. Not because we are more emotionally vulnerable or evolved. But because we are the sort of people who do better when we are with than when we are without another person to serve as that external focus.The loneliness is therefore compounded by the fact that we aren’t in our optimal configuration when it comes to  moving through the world.

Aaaand I’m rambling now. But I feel better for having given some pixels and bandwidth to the part of me sitting with the discomfort tonight. The part of me that craves the needful energy of exchange and just sits…idling…while that loss is deeply felt.

I guess that makes me human or some shit. Damn it.

Just got off of the phone with my Mom, and listened as she opened the package that has been sitting and silently holding the little secret gift I’d ordered weeks ago, so that I wouldn’t forget. She seemed to really like the gift: 4 little hand-crafted silver pendants with the initial of each of her 3 daughters, one for her granddaughter and a bird-shaped pendant that said “Mom” and “Grandmother” on it. Apparently Moms LOVE shit like this. I’m just glad to be able to bring a smile to her face.

“I don’t understand it,” my Mother said.

“I don’t entirely understand it either, Mom,” I replied, sitting on the edge of my bed, phone cradled to my ear as I fiddled with the enormous stack of papers that always threatened to bury me under its formidable bulk “there is a lot that no one really knows. But I’ll do my best to tell you what I know.”

“OK,” my Mom sighed, “can you tell me why you do it? Avoiding pain seems like a natural thing. But you don’t do that. You seek it out on purpose? Why would you do that?”

I stretched my feet into the patch of sun that was warming the hardwood floors in my flat, nudging one of my cats out of the way in the process. I took a deep breath.

“That’s a great question, Mom. And you’re lucky that your firstborn happens to be the kind of pervert who runs around talking to people about exactly this kind of shi¬— ¬stuff. So, I can tell you what I’ve learned about myself in the past few years…”

I hadn’t expected to come out to my Mother about being involved in BDSM on this particular Saturday afternoon. In fact, my Mom and I had been a bit distant for several years. It doesn’t really matter why anymore, but we, like many mothers and daughters, had our disagreements. But we were awkwardly, tentatively, reaching out to one another again, and had been having an amazing discussion about much that had gone unsaid for many years. Toward the end (or what I thought was the end!) of our chat, she asked me a rather pointed question about a convention I’d attended a few years prior. I’d avoided providing her with any detail about the focus of the event and now, years later, she was all curious. I took a deep breath, asked her if she really wanted to know, since it had to do with my sexuality. She said yes, she did want to know. So I braced myself and told her I’d been in Washington DC to teach a class at Black Rose… a kink and BDSM convention.

“BDSM?”

“Bondage & Discipline, Dominance & Submission Sadism & Masochism. You know, the whips and chains people.”

“Oh! Wow. And here I though you were a lesbian and were embarrassed to tell me.”

I laughed silently. But I figured now wasn’t the time to lay on the outing myself as bisexual as well: if my high-school triad hadn’t given it away, she didn’t need this additional data point right then!

She asked me some surprisingly challenging questions, and when she asked me how it was to give people spankings, I realized I had to come out to her again… as a submissive.

“Now that is a surprise. I would have though you would be a dominatrix!”

“Yeah, Ma, so does everyone else…”

We had a really great discussion that ranged in so many directions. Her most pointed questions were about how I could deal with being black, a descendant of African slaves, knowing our history, and yet “play” within this world where “masters” and “slaves” acted out roles that looked and sounded a whole lot like the horrible atrocities perpetrated against our ancestors.

“It’s a consent thing, Mom. We have choice. I do it because it fascinates me, it scares me and…” I hesitated. Was this just too much info for my nice, middle-aged Baptist church-lady Mother? “…and it turns me on.”

“I see!”

I wasn’t sure she did, but that is a far thornier thicket than we needed to machete today on this, my Coming Out Moment.

“But…so you deliberately let people hurt you? On purpose.”

“Yeah, Ma. That’s one of the things I do.”

“Why?”

The eternal question, isn’t it?

Why?

One of the things I talk about when I present on BDSM is knowing your whys. So many people live unexamined lives: lives circumscribed by fear, by the rules, by the morality thrust upon ‘em, balking from their darker shadowy selves because they don’t want to risk ostracization, because they fear losing control.

The allure of Leathersex was, to me, exactly this risk. The depths of cruelty, the paradox of masochism spoke deeply to me. And I spent several years unraveling my “why” before I made the conscious decision to step into the world of kink, Leather and BDSM.

Most of us are raised to think of pain as something to avoid. We are not taught that submission and dominance, as sexual expressions, are healthy. Only recently has the medical establishment declassified the participation in consensual BDSM as a paraphilia that required treatment. We have a lot of training that tells us that BDSM is “sick” and only people who don’t respect themselves or others, damaged people, sociopaths… only they would deliberately inflict agony on another or permit themselves to be subjected to pain.

But I wasn’t acting out on some desire for actual destruction. I didn’t think I deserved to have the world treat me like shit, I didn’t enjoy trips to the dentist, and I still launched into a stream of invective when I stubbed my toe on an aggressive table leg. So, what was this masochism thing all about, anyways?

Knowing why I am the way I am isn’t vital to enjoying a spanking, or relishing my submission. But it is vital to my peace of mind when it comes to insuring my emotional health and wellbeing. For me? Knowing that my masochism comes from a place of desire and lust, not a place of fear or self-loathing, helps me to know I’m on the right path.

I took another deep breath.

“Well, Mom, I will tell you what I know about my ‘why.’

First, because I simply enjoy it. You know how some people have differing tolerances for sensation? Mine is just extra high. Although I think I probably inherited that from you and dad! Remember that time he cut his hand open to the bone and sewed it back up himself, with a sail-mending needle?”

“Oh my goodness, that was horrible…”

I laughed “Yeah it was, and that’s pretty unusual, frankly. But I also remember you reaching into a pot of boiling water to pull out a spoon you’d dropped in there and immediately turning to me and saying ‘Don’t you ever to that, Mo. That is very dangerous!’ and I remember thinking you had super powers!”

My Mom laughed. “I remember that! I was sure you were going to try it right then and there. You were always getting into something…”

“It’s true. It’s still true! So yeah, maybe some of this is nature; just a higher tolerance for pain that runs in the family. Some of it is just being the sort of person who needs to have everything turned up to eleven in order to have it feel right.”

“But why do you go back and do it again and then again?”

“Well, Mom, maybe you can answer that question for me. You being pretty darn masochistic yourself!”

“Me?”

“Yep. You always told me how terrible it was when you were in labor with me. How long was it? Almost two days?”

“Oh no, well, it was about 38 hours…”

“And that had to suck.”

“It was very difficult! The pain was terrible, and you wouldn’t come out! You kept crowning and then going back in!”

“Well, I had to make an entrance. Timing is everything.”

My Mom laughed. “You always were a ham.”

“Damn skippy! And yet, even after all of that, all of that pain and suffering, you went and had another kid. And another one. What were you thinking, risking that pain and suffering all over again?”

“Oh you don’t remember the pain. Once the nurse put you in my arms, and I saw you there, and how beautiful and perfect you were, I loved you so much, and I forgot all about the pain because I had this wonderful little baby right there with me.”

“Well, it’s kind of like that for me, too. See, when I am in the middle of the pain, it transforms me. I become…different. More. Not just me, I am me in the middle of an amazing transformation, an experience that pushes my body and my brain. It is difficult, and sometimes it is so excruciating, but sometimes you get kind of high off of it, like a runner’s high, you know? And then afterward? I have this incredible sense of bliss like…like I pushed myself to experience this and I won. I won, because I survived. And I can hold myself in my arms and see how beautiful and wonderful I am. And I don’t remember the pain, not really. But I do remember the journey.”

“You know, that…I can kind of see that.”

“Also? To keep it real? It just turns me on.”

“OK then!”

We laughed.

“Well Mo, this is a lot to think about. I’m going to talk with my prayer partner about it too.”

“How funny! You have a prayer partner, I have a play partner, and the Lord’s name gets invoked a lot in both cases…”

“Mollena!”

“I’m sorry Mom. I couldn’t help it.”

I wasn’t sorry though, not really…and you know? I’m very proud of us. Of me, for being able to share this part of myself with my mother and of my mother, for her willingness to love me “no matter what.”

So why am I a masochist? Nature, nurture, freakiness?

Whatever the reason, I am content to be so.

WINNERS ANNOUNCED FOR NLA-I WRITING AWARDS 

(Columbus, OH) — National Leather Association: International, a leading organization for activists in the pansexual SM/leather community, announced the winners, for works published in 2011, of its annual awards for excellence in SM/leather/fetish writing at its Annual General Meeting at Tribal Fire in OklahomaCity, OK on May 6, 2012. The judges received a record number of nominations this year, and voting in most categories was quite close.

The winner of the John Preston Short Fiction Award is Laura Antoniou for “The Man with the Phoenix Tattoo,” which appeared in Tristan Taormino (ed.), Take Me There.

The honorable mention for short story went to Jeff Mann for ”Jeff and Sam: After the Concert,” which appeared in Shane Allison (ed.), Brief Encounters: 69 Hot Gay Shorts.

The winner of the Samois Anthology Award is Rachel Kramer Bussel, Surrender: Erotic Tales of Female Pleasure and Submission (Cleis). The honorable mention also went toRachel Kramer Bussel for Best Bondage Erotic2012 (Cleis), which reprinted a number of great bondage stories.

The winner of the Pauline Reage Novel Award is Jeff Mann for his first novel, Fog: A Novel of Desire and Reprisal (Bear Bones Books). The honorable mention went to Cecilia Tan for The Prince’s Boy: Volumes 1 & 2 (Circlet).

The winner of the Cynthia Slater Non-fiction Article Award is Mollena Williams for “Tables Briefly Turned, ” which appeared in her blog at: http://www.mollena.com. The honorable mention went to Jack Fritscher for “Leather’s Burning Man: The History of the Folsom Street Fair, which appeared in the Bay Area Reporter.

Nominations for the works published in 2012 will open later this year.

Well…no.

Most conferences don’t pay speakers. Some will at least cover a hotel room and travel costs if THEY consider you to be a “big name.” Most people are happy to get into a con for free in exchange for presenting a class or two. Some of us have thrown ourselves wholesale into this madness, and want to make this our lives.

And that shit is tough.  Because most event producers see the classes as a free / cheap way to get asses in the door.

The venue has to be paid, you need to print stuff. Who can we exploit? Oh yeah…well, it is an honor to be invited to present. Get presenters to work for free.  And No please don’t lay on me that you’re a “Non-Profit.” I have drawn salaries from non-profit organizations. Being non-profit means

A nonprofit organization (NPO) is an organization that uses surplus revenues to achieve its goals rather than to distribute them as profit or dividends.

Making sure you get the very best information presented by the very best information bringers is a bloody goal. Don’t have enough money to fly in a presenter? Up your ticket price by $10. Get a sponsor to pay for the programs in exchange for banner ads.

People who host sexual lifestyle conferences and do not pay presenters or even cover travel and lodging effectively make it impossible for working class / poor people to present. How the hell does that promote “inclusiveness?”

I’ve stood at cons and seen wealthy white men lauded for their “contributions: to the community,” and listened to glowing descriptions of how wonderful they are for never “taking money to present.” Which is lovely…when you are an executive, or independently wealthy, and a part of the extant power structure.  I had to laugh when, in one of these situations, the person being lauded (and mind, you, this is someone who puts a LOT of time into the Community) works for an airline and therefore never had to pay for their travel. That salient point was omitted.

I’m working hard to make it my business to help people live fulfilling sexual lives. Economically marginalized people do not often receive representation in the rarefied world of “sex education” or the alternative lifestyle. Alt Ed is clearly more easily obtained by middle / upper-middle class /wealthy white folks. And bringing people from wider socio-economic backgrounds does not seem to be the purview or priority of the people who DO have the power to do so, and that is a bloody shame. This poor Black woman has a lot to contribute, and she is getting very very VERY fucking tired of excuses, poor business models and yes, flat out LIES to justify my working for free, or PAYING to work!

Yeah I played the race card. You know why? Because it matters and unless you have been living in Trump Tower you are aware that race, class and money are writhing in a seething, seedy, sticky lumpy bed all together and it ain’t pretty.

When you say “We are not gong to pay you or even cover your expenses.” what I hear is “We do not value your expertise and contributions enough to make this happen, but we will use your name and work to further our goals.”

So why should you pay me?  You should pay me because I’m worth it. Because I am a member of the community and by supporting me you are supporting the community. You should pay me because I have some notoriety, and you can use that to your advantage. Because I’m smart, funny, and I talk to people with respect. I listen with empathy and dedication. You should pay me because, if you try, you can. You should pay be because I have 38 years of experience as an entertainer, and I bring it. Because I write, walk, eat, live and breathe this material. You should pay me because there are events, venues and conferences who respect me, and themselves, enough to do so.

Yep, OK. Rant over.

Now excuse me…I have to go edit one of the 3 books I’m working on before studying my lines and then running in to SF to teach a class.

I am kind of settling into being back in the Bay. Getting used to being in the East bay, and trying to not feel like I’m drowning. Mostly I am succeeding. Some days it is all I can do to get up before I absolutely HAVE to, because I am afraid I won’t be able to do the shit I gotta do.

For example…

I’m doing a class on Tuesday the 8th. I’ll take a moment ot plug it: At the SF Citadel, class starts at 8:00, 363 6th Street, San Francisco CA. $20.

The class is “Graceful Exits: How to Minimize Breakup Douchebaggery.”  That’ll link you to a description.

As I’m getting my brain around the class, I’m wincing a bit to realize that my commitment ot speaking from the heart of my own experience means that I have to open up sealed pots in my soul to properly access information so that I can do what I do when I “teach,” which is essentially break apart my experiences into manageable bits and share it with the people.

For better and for worse, I’m still in the process of processing the ending of my relationship with The Dominant Guy. Long-distance relationships have their own flavor of dissolution trauma. And I’m finding that the pot isn’t sealed on that particular relationship. I’m much better than I was in February, and I’m better than I was last week. It is an ongoing process. And I’m owning it as best I  can. But hey boy howdy do I get that uncomfortable prickle in my sinuses when I think about speaking on it in front of people.

But I always love teaching, and it would be nice to see folks there.

If you can’t make that, you’ll have a few more opportunities to listen to me talking. But for appreciably shorter periods of time.

I’ll be telling a very dirty story about “Daddy/Girl” sexual age/role-playing for Bawdy Storytelling on Wednesday the 9th. Now I am always nervous when I tell stories, but this is a first time for this oe and its more graphic than most of my stuff. Oh and it is pretty dark and fucked up.

And hey, Bawdy’s Impressario, the Majestic Dixie DeLaTour, is having a birthday party! You should come out on Friday the 11th….details are here. I’ll be rolling in late to share about how I earned my “Bawdy Storytelling Got Me Laid” pin. Although I really should have two of those now….

I’ll be reading from my unpublished work “The Admiral” for Perverts Put Out on Saturday the 12th. Only a handful of people have read this work…I started writing it for Jim, the British Musician, back in 1995 and it has had its own life. About six chapters of some preeeety edgy purple-prosey NOT AT ALL Politically-Correct bodice-ripping “romance” novel / Victorian-style pr0n about a slave in the colonies who meets a rather… presumptuous…Admiral of HRH Navy.

Yeah its pretty fucked up. And it still gets me wet almost 2 decades later.  I should make it a book…I’ll add that to my “To-Do” list pronto.

Monday the 14th sees me at The Shout: a new Storytelling event in Oakland’s Grand Lake Coffee House. I will probably be telling stories about my crazy-ass Father.  New on the storytelling front for me. I told some of his stories in 69Stories: One Pervert’s Tale but I haven’t much explored how it is to talk about him.

Oh yeah and in all that I’m wrapping up edits on  ”Playing Well With Others; Your Field Guide to Discovering, Exploring & Navigating The Kink, Leather & BDSM Communities the book on which Lee Harrington and I collaborated.

Holy crap you can pre-order it!

MOSTLY I am frying my brains in rehearsals for the last Crowded Fire show I’ll be doing as a resident artist.

But I can’t think about that too much because it makes me cry.

Please do go and buy tickets for Good Goods. There are student discounts, cheap “Pay-What-You-Can”  nights, and it runs for 4 weeks so I don’t wanna hash about why you couldn’t make it!

Upon re-reading this article, something that nagged at me nagged me further. The author opens with

“We were naked. He was hard. I’d always considered this moment the best time to disclose, because rejection seemed less likely when the possibility of a good lay was hot-breath close. Though maybe once we’re naked, it’s too late.”

Fucking uncool.

I KNOW… personally, how tough this conversation is. I wrote about it most recently here NO SHAME: Coming Out Positive.   I’ve seen Sex Educators / Communication Ninjas like Reid Mihalko and Midori model how to do this with grace, dignity and even humor.

I have a real problem with someone deliberately waiting until the “clear-eyed consent” window is passed to bring up this critical matter. I have a problem with it because she is doing so in order to minimize “rejection.” I feel like that edges on coercion. Maybe it is my kink upbringing, but consent while NOT “under the influence” is very important. And the anonymous author isn’t doing that.

Read Reid’s “Elevator Speech” for sharing about STDs and STIs. Seriously.

I feel like we need to not just talk about talking abou it, but present strategies for doing it well and honest;y and with complete, informed consent. not ambushing motherfuckers because we’ll feel bad if they say “No.”

To the author: when I ask people to play, or to fuck, and I get a “No, thanks.” I appreciate that they have given me the gift of honesty.  I straightforward response outshines a fear-based approach every damned time.

I’m curious at to your thoughts…when do you ask? When do you disclose? When do you have “The Talk About STD/STIs?”

How cute is the heart-shaped clasp?!?

I walked out of the Planned Parenthood office armed with a bag containing several dozen condoms, six months’ worth of Progestogen only birth control pills, a small bottle of lube and a package containing some pulls commonly known as “Plan B.” Those last I was provided “just in case’ and I was carefully instructed on how to use them.  In light of the horrific erosion of the reproductive rights of women in America I felt fierce, empowered and fabulous as I strolled into the foggy late-morning sun in El Cerrito, CA.

Of course, when ‘m feeling fierce and empowered and am looking forward to an intriguing play date, I do what any superawesome submissive does.

I strolled into PetCo to collar shop.

What?

OK so anyone who knows me knows I don’t usually play in scene with collars. I’ve got a “thing” about it. I have a lot of fetishization around collars as symbols.

I’ve recently realized that I want to have the ability to have my play incorporate that symbol without it eviscerating me. SO when my date for Friday expressed in interest in dipping his feet into the power exchange pool, I thought about the collar less as a MASSIVE EPIC SYMBOL OF SLAVERY and more as a very succinct and tangible way to demarcate the beginning, duration and withdrawal from a dominant / submissive dynamic.

I wanna play, too.

A cheap pet store collar would be the way to go. I found a silver lamé number that matches my current manicure. Idly, I thought about some sort of leash, to follow the pampered pet theme, but nothing in the PetCo appealed to me.  I don’t usually see myself as a fancy pet kind of slave, so I felt adding a bit of distance would help me keep the evening in perspective.

Across from the PetCo, a JoAnne’s Fabrics beckoned me in for no particular reason I could ascertain until I wandered up the jewelry craft aisle and saw three perfect pieces that would, with a very little bit of effort, make an adorable leash. After grabbing the silvery chain, cheap little leather bracelet and heart-shaped clasps, I was now wiggly with delight. Deep inside me is a hidden crafty cobbler together of shit, and I was glad to be able to indulge it.

The rest of the day was a blur, and the planned phone date to initiate negotiations didn’t materialize. A few text messages and we made plans to chat the next day.

I was yanked from sleep by the melodious tones of my phone and one eye on my cell alerted me that my friend was calling. It was by no means early for normal folks, but I’m NOT the early riser.  Small talk and pleasantries and a little while later, I was sprawled in the sun on the front steps of the huge old Oakland home where I’m staying for a while. I squinted into the sun and gathered my sleep fuzzed mind around explaining to my friend why I’d offered to expand our play to include d/s for the night. I was more than a bit taken aback to learn he hadn’t engaged in this type of play before. Mind, he is…quite, quite well versed in the Sex-positive community. Quite. But the BDSM just isn’t his bag. However, curiosity and trust in my motives, my capacity to communicate and a lust for knowledge inspired him to say “Yes!” when previously he had chosen to not “go there.”

I explained my own degree of apprehension, my delight that he trusted me enough to go there, and that it was my trust in his transparency, motives and his blackbelt in relationship communication that motivated me to say “Fuck it. You wanna?”

Mutual trustgasm had by all. Negotiations pulled open. Now, know also I am not a fan of negotiations. But this was the first time I‘d negotiated explicitly with someone very well versed on negotiating for sexual encounters but not specifically BDSM. And this was a new paradigm for him, in that we were figuring out how to make it safe for him to do something new, and NOT gain explicit permission in advance for every step of the encounter. We were figuring out how to have time-restricted blanket permission within reasonable parameters, and within those parameters, he was free to romp at will.

It is such a wonderful dynamic to be able to leach while learning, and learn while teaching and engaging with someone so skilled in both teaching and learning is brilliant. And the more I elaborated on what it takes to negotiate, and the more he got it, and the more questions I was able to ask that opened up broad, inviting avenues of possibility the more aroused I became.  I love feeling smart. And regardless of my awkwardness about my self-perception? I know I’m awesome when I am communicating well, being heard, being understood. Fuck, its hot.

You know what else is hot? Someone sharing that they’re apprehensive about doing this new thing, and that they trust you enough to do it. This is a revelation I believe more “experienced” dominants can take to heart. I was reminded what it takes to be the boss of someone, even for a few hours, and that it can be intimidating. Imagine now your first time doing it is with someone who has dedicated a whole lotta time in this particular arena…and imagine the  kinkgnoscenti  and sexerati  all peering over their spanking benches at you, wondering what the heck you think you’re doing.

Healthy dose of happy nervousness all around.  I am loving the low-grade butterflies and anticipation. I was aggrieved to realize my period, irregular and wonky for the past few months, was gonna be in play for the playdate. Happily, this fact didn’t phase my date. Bonus. Because some of the hottest sex I’ve had has been in the midst of bleeding and I’d have been loath to have it interfere with the reward I’m promised if I’m a very, very good girl.

It is nice to be asked out, and it is even nicer to have someone who is interested in me actually follow through and make play happen.  And it seems just extra special when it’s a shiny new frontier or a new spin on a long-traveled path.

…to be continued…

“You will be my date at a private party, and sleeping over that night.”

While I had been previously asked about my availability for Friday evening, his follow-up text message caught me a bit by surprise. Usually, when making plans,  people ask me what I’d like to do, or offer suggestions for what we might find mutually enjoyable. His announcement of our plans for the evening, including a dungeon party, was a siren song for a recently dormant part of myself that has been dreaming with Cthulhu for the past few months.

A surprising reflex kicked in and I watched, bemused, as my fingers texted

“Think about if you would like to negotiate my being in service to you for the date. I haven’t done that in many years and i think you’d be an excellent choice.”

He is intrigued, and a bit nervous at the prospect, and we make plans to talk about what that would look like.

I am on a low-level simmer.

I am freaking out because I left all but 2 waist-cinchers and my IMsL vest back in New York.

And I wonder if I can do this…make this gesture…take back my submission and offer it to someone else.

…to be continued.

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