Kink for All 2

I wasn't sure if I was going to be going to Kink for All 2, but I'm so glad I did. The variety of topics and the diversity of participants is so refreshing. The opportunity for anyone to share anything is so important. Giving people who normally are not invited to speak at the bigger, paid conferences or don't have a two hour long class to teach, but just an idea they want to share that opportunity is such an important part of the ever changing and expanding kink community. Plus, it makes me feel smart.

I hadn't prepared anything to talk about since I wasn't sure I'd even be able to go, but once there I was encourage to give a presentation. I figured I would revisit my last subject of Kink and Popular Culture (someday soon I'll post my notes for that, I promise), but specifically about the film Secretary. I hate doing these things without a slide show, it's a lot easier talking about visual things when there's a picture of that thing to look at, but here's just a few notes from what I can remember I rambled on about:

By the way, if you never saw the movie this is your spoiler alert.



Normality: most of the time depictions of BDSM are portrayed by for a laugh (East of Eden, High Anxiety, Family Guy) or as a sign of pathology or desperation (Blue Velvet, The Piano Teacher, Night Porter). Refreshingly, Secretary is primarily a love story between two fully formed, complex human beings who have issues just like anyone else. It was really the first time I saw a BDSM relationship that looked like something I could identify with.

Aesthetics: one of the things I truly appreciate about this film is that is finally breaks away from the well established tropes of black leather, corsets and high heeled boots that have come to be equated with kink. The depiction of BDSM as something dark and dangerous only to be practiced after midnight in stone walled "dungeons" with red drapery is getting a little old. Not that it's not sexy, but sexy doesn't always look the same to everyone. Those signifiers used to have a real purpose and meaning when BDSM was truly a subversive, underground activity. But now when those same images are used to sell shower gel, cars and soft-drinks, the edge goes a little soft.

In the film, all of the action takes place in the offices of E. Edward Grey during working hours. Before she gets the job as Mr. Grey's secretary, Lee Holloway's environment, her parents house, the "normal" world is all bright colors and plastic. The interiors of his world is all warm wood and earth tones. There are plants everywhere. Rather than the dichotomy being light -vs- dark / normal-vs-deviant / safe-vs-dangerous it is closer to artificial -vs- real. And no one is in leather.

Hardcore: In her essay "Mainstreaming Kink: The Politics of BDSM Representation in U.S. Popular Media", Dr. Margot D. Weiss, PhD discusses the difference in perceptions of BDSM to a non-kinky audience. What did this movie mean to the uninitiated?

... even interviewees who enjoyed the love story in Secretary expressed disappointment that these images of the other were too mainstream, too conventional, too mundane, or too consumerist. Ty thought that if real SM is “violent, dark, and more depressing,” the representation in Secretary, “tone[s] it down a little bit” and “cast[s] a nice humorous light” on BDSM. Suzy thought Secretary made it “a little bit safe,” while Jenny thought the film was a little “too Hollywood.” Abby said that, in Secretary, “SM was portrayed as like not as harsh [but as] something that could bring two people together, and you know, make them fall in love with each other. It was just like more subtle SM, softer.”

These interviewees are pointing to a basic disappointment: Nothing truly shocking and out-there can appear in the in-here consumer culture. Once mainstreamed, these images of BDSM are a little too safe, a little too nice, and a little too easy to swallow. (124)

I never understood this. She waits for him (for days) at his command, sitting at his desk, never moving, not eating, and urinating on herself in determination to not disobey. It's so much more hardcore than anything you'd see in a dungeon, but it's not "obvious". No one's being whipped bloody by a single tail, no one is screaming in pain. No one's in black leather.

Don't get me wrong, the outfits can be sexy and sometimes you want an atmosphere fitting for dark, dangerous and generally naughty behavior. But limiting the images of BDSM to such a narrow range of costumes, colors and decorating choices ignores the complexity and diversity of the people who call themselves kinky.

Review: The Opening of Misty Beethoven

"What's your name?"

"Misty Beethoven."

"Is that your real name?"

"No, it's not. I picked it to sound more important."

"What was it before?"

"Delores Beethoven."

I always thought My Fair Lady was one of the kinkiest movies ever made, the story of a pitiful girl being molded into something else by a powerful, distant cold master. Pygmalion. The person as a blank canvas to twist and turn into whatever you desire.

The Opening of Misty Beethoven  is the story of an overly made-up prudish prostitute who will do nothing but perform hand-jobs. She's picked up in a sleazy porno theater by the sexologist Dr. Seymour Love (the Henry Higgins to her Eliza Doolittle) who takes on the challenge of turning her into an expert in the art of sex. They jet-set between New York, Rome and Geneva on a airline complete with coffee, tea or me flight attendants and through his training and tutelage becomes the glamorous, talk of the town, elite slut of high society. 

"Can you make a man come when he wants?"

"I think so."

"Well, you'll make three men come simultaneously!"

"Why?"

"It will give you confidence."

After many "training" montages of her dressed in pig-tails and a track suit sucking cock to a swinging jazzy soundtrack, she is introduced to the creme de la creme of sluts seducing everyone along the way. She makes her grand debut at the orgy of infamous hedonist Lawrence Layman and proves herself a first class pervert and with some unexpected gender bending along the way. Then, of course, Dr. Love makes the realization that after casting her aside and taking credit for her grand success, he'd grown accustomed to her face (or at least her mouth) and the student becomes the teacher.

I don't watch a lot of porn and if I do I'm watching about 4 minutes of one scene over and over. But I love these old school 70's full-feature movies with real tits, hairy twats, slapstick and bad puns. Like Deep Throat or Behind the Green Door, it's that odd cross between a movie with a lot of actual sex and a porno with an actual plot and it's surprisingly entertaining in all it's hairy, juicy, barebacking, twitchy and silly absurdity.

Immersion Porn

Book Review: Opening Up

I will admit, reading Tristan Taormino's Opening Up is a lot like watching the Food Network when the only thing in my refrigerator is a half a bottle of fat-free blue cheese dressing and an unopened bottle of Maraschino cherries.

There is a lot of very helpful information and good advice for issues that I, unfortunately do not have. I wish I needed advice on negotiating the sex lives of my husband, his boyfriend, my girlfriend, our long distance lover and our local fuck buddy. I wish I needed a guide book to help me cope with too many people being in love with me.

Oh, luxury problems.

But in all seriousness, it did help me clarify, to a degree, what I do have and put into some clear terminology what I know I want. I tend to approach my relationships with a casual, "let's just see where this goes" laissez-faire attitude. Normally I don't like to pigeon-hole relationships into one category or another and I tend to avoid labels at all costs. It took me a year to finally admit that the guy I had been dating and sleeping with exclusively was my "boyfriend".

But, I'm starting to think not only is okay to label relationships, it might be kind of helpful.

According to Taormino, I would currently be "solo polyamorous" (or, you know, single) and what I want is to be is in a "partnered nonmonogamous" relationship. I tend to just go with the flow and let things just happen (or not) in relationships, more out of laziness than anything else, I think. Maybe out of fear, too. I've had enough unrequited love, I've learned to not push it. There's helpful stuff in there about jealousy and envy. I get jealous, it's true, I admit it and it sucks. I hate it, but it happens. Sometimes going with the flow is easier said than done.

I think it's good to take a look at what I have, what I want and what I need. What I do have is pretty rad. The stuff I want is relatively easy to get. It's the stuff I need that has proven much, much more difficult.

I read The Ethical Slut and thought the same thing I did reading this. Yes, all this is very helpful and practical and makes perfect sense, and maybe someday I'll actually need it.

Sequential hermaphrodites!

I'll do anything for a man with a bullhorn

I don't really have a problem getting naked in front of people, at least when everyone else is getting naked too, so the whole public nudity thing wasn't an issue for me. I was concerned about the cold and I was kind of hoping to be somewhere in the middle of the pack (I didn't want my sandy tits front and center, but it would be cool to be able to pick myself out of the great texture of human skin), but other than that, I was more excited than anything else. I always wanted to be in a Spencer Tunick photo. Friends of mine did the shoot in Grand Central Station and it seemed like a hoot and one of those things that one should just do at some point in their life if given the opportunity.

So, after a 3 hour trip on the Long Island Rail Road (arriving at midnight), a desperate attempt to grab a couple of hours of sleep (unsuccessfully), and a 30 minute cab ride from Amaganset, Lynsey and I and 298 other people gathered in the pre-dawn darkness, next to the Montauk Point Lighthouse getting ready to get naked for art.

People were wandering around or sitting in their cars waiting for instructions when finally we heard a voice from a bullhorn. A small cheer rose up from the crowd and we gathered closer, ready to do pretty much whatever this guy wanted us to do. We would have about an hour to wait until 5:15 when the sun came up and while we waited in line to get release forms, I turned to Lynsey and said, "It's getting chilly isn't it?" When we first got there, the temperature was surprisingly mild and thankfully it was not raining. But as the sun was coming up, the temperature seemed to be dropping and the wind was picking up. I pulled the hoodie over my head and wished for gloves. This might kind of suck, I thought.

Finally as the light crept up, Spencer climbed a ladder and bullhorn in hand, thanked us all for doing this, thanked his team and led us down to the beach. He warned that if he yells at us, it's not because he's mad, he's just trying to get as much done in the least amount of time. He ran through the poses he wanted to do: standing looking at the ocean, standing looking at the lighthouse, curled up in a ball… the "crab walk."

He walked off into the distance to set up and when he gave the signal, suddenly the big crowd of just people transformed into a big crowd of naked people.

My first thought was that the temperature was quite comfortable. It wasn't as windy as it was on the hill. I didn't even have goose bumps. The second thought was, holy god this is a very rocky beach. Oh yeah, this is Montauk. Tentatively, I maneuvered my way around the rocks and shards and twigs and landed on a relatively clear sandy bit.

Pose 1: stare into the ocean. It was really quite lovely. The cool air on my skin, the only sound was the roar of the waves and the occasional screams from those folks brave enough to actually get in or near the water. The guy in front of me was shivering. We were then told to lie down facing up. Then we curled up like ball, our faces to the sand. Every once in a while he would shout for somone to get down or to stop looking into the camera.

When the signal was given to stand, a cheer rang out. We'd done it! We're awesome! We're naked and we're awesome!

We're not done?

He wanted some shots further down among the rocks. The rocks, those horrible, horrible rocks. I inched along, each step a little more painful than the next. Then we sat facing the water on the rocks, then we laid on our backs (on the rocks) and arched ourselves up into the crab pose and the distant groans of muscle strain matched the squeals from the folks down by the water. Then we laid down on our backs, then on our sides with our arms draped over the person to our left. I carefully rested my arm on the sandy buttock of the woman next to me and closed my eyes while rocks jabbed into my side. Then face down and I closed my eyes to the scurrying bugs just underneath my face and thought about my friends who only had to contend with the clean, cool flat marble surface of the floor of Grand Central Station.

It is amazing the amount of power someone with a megaphone and a camera can yield.

When we were indeed done, I sighed with relief and cursed my soft, modern feet as we made our way past the two confused (and I hoped pleased) looking fishermen back to where we dropped our clothes. I have never been so grateful to put on shoes in my entire life.

I'd do it again in a heartbeat.

Ease on down the road.

You can't win - Michael Jackson - The wiz
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I always had an irrational crush on the "sleeveless" crow.

Woman on Wire

We were fucking like we normally do, which is to say kind of frantically, a little painfully, a bit desperate and highly improvisational. I never know what to expect with him. The last time we were together he managed somehow to have a multiple orgasms, which I didn't even think was possible for a man.

We've sometimes planned thing out, had goals for a particular evening, but for the most part we tend to fuck like neither of us has had sex in years and may never have sex again. The calm, civilized conversation ends, the beast comes out along with his cock, my eyes glaze over and all I can think is, "That should go somewhere inside of me." And the more urgent and aching for it he is, the more I am. I like it when someone is desperate for me, when someone can't wait a second longer to touch me. I like that glaze over the eyes. It's probably why I like rape fantasies.

So we're fucking, when rather abruptly he pulls his cock out of me and climbs over my body to reach the open top drawer of my bedside table, the one with the condoms and lube and my trusty pocket vibe. He grabbed the vibe, twisted it on and half lying on top of me, pressed the vibe to my clit as he pressed his body on top of mine. I was close already and with the sudden over stimulation it didn't take me long to come. I thrust my hips up to meet the vibe and he held me tight, his back to me, his arms wrapped tight around my body. I groaned and shuddered and felt my heartbeat start to slow down. I shifted my hips away from the vibe, or tried to rather as I came down from the orgasm, but he tightened his grip like a boa constrictor and kept the vibe fixed on my clit. I wriggled my legs, trying to get away when they next orgasm came... and the next, and the next…

I was crying at this point, the pleasure was shifting into, not pain exactly, but just... too much. I fought him, pounded on his back and tried to shove him off me, but he was too strong and way too determined. Then just I gave up. I whimpered and moaned and brought the back of my hand to my forehead like a damsel in distress, which I kind of was. There was a constant flow of fluid from my cunt and I just went limp thinking how long could this go on? Would my clit eventually just go numb like a leg that had fallen asleep? Would I pass out? Could you die from this?

I saw Man on Wire a while ago and there's an incredible shot of Philippe Petit taking that first step on the wire between the towers, that very first step between solid ground and nothingness.

I feel like I always have one foot on the wire and one foot on roof. I want to take my other foot off of the roof.

I've taken the nose dive a couple of times. Once was with someone I care very much for, who cares very much for me. The other time was a one-night stand who's last name I never caught.

I don't play as much as I'd like to. It's not because I haven't wanted to, I'm just a lot more selective of who I play with these days. I don't have much interest in the occasional pick-up scene or demo-bottoming. I only want people who like me to hurt me. But more than that I want someone who loves me to push me off the roof.

When he finally let go of me and turned off the vibe, I shuddered and gasped for breath and wiped my eyes. He pulled me up close to his chest and wrapped his arms around me, not quite as tight this time. We cuddled like that for a while, catching our breath and soon we were talking about politics and the economy. My cunt kept making those gasping spasms and my clit kept pulsing like it was reaching out for more, still not completely satisfied.

Beyond the main course

I recently bought a copy of the original 1972 Joy of Sex from one of those guys selling used books and porn magazines along Sixth Avenue. Walking towards the table, I recognized the cover immediately and nabbed it for $4.00, hardly breaking my stride. My favorite thing about it, besides those great line illustrations of hairy hippie chicks in knee high boots, is the terminology. So if we have sex at some point and I shout out "You like buttered buns* don't you, baby!" you should know what it means. There's also…

feuille de rose: tongue stimulation of the anus
mouth music: extended pussy-kissing (also known as gamahuche)
goldfish: two naked people tied and put on a mattress together to make love fish-fashion, i.e. no hands
postillionage: putting a finger in or on your partner's anus just before orgasm
Serbian intercourse: mock rape (kind of sounds like a bad joke)
motorcycle: considered a "venue" for sex. It "combines the symbolism of the horse (which also has an entry) with leather gear, danger and acceleration."
viennese oyster: woman lies on her back and crosses her feet behind her head
cassolette: the natural perfume of a clean woman

There's also this very complicated garment developed by the Scandinavians called a grope suit. I don't know where I can get one, but I want it.



* a woman who has recently had relations with another man.

Toy Review: Hello Kitty Vibrator

Hello Kitty is an icon that doesn't stand for anything at all. Hello Kitty never has been, and never will be, anything. She's pure license; you can even get a Hello Kitty car! The branding thing is completely out of control, but it started as nothing and maintains its nothingness. It's not about the ego, and in that way it's very Japanese. — Tom Sachs


Bronze Collection / Lever House, New York City / 2008
Artist Tom Sachs often references contemporary icons of popular culture and consumerism in his work: McDonald's, Prada, Hello Kitty. I saw him speak at a conference years ago with Ikuko Shimizu, the original creator of Hello Kitty (let me tell you, when she took the stage the whole audience stood up and roared with applause. She's a rock star). She had never seen any of his work and was genuinely surprised that her creation had such a huge cultural impact. She said humbly, "Well, I knew it was a very popular character."

I was a fan of Hello Kitty back when I was a 3rd grader collecting stickers and miniature colored pencil sets and I love her to this day. "Teen Angst Hello Kitty" (I'm not making that up, that's what it's called) hangs above my computer:




On my wall is a piece from artist Michael Paulus who draws skeletal systems of cartoon characters:



I love Hello Kitty for her minimalist lines, her over-sized head, her expressionless, speechless gaze (She has no mouth, but there's no deep meaning behind this. When asked, Shimizu said she could never get the drawings right so she said, forget it!). Her adorable blank stare is like a template inviting you apply anything you want to her surface. And Hello Kitty is most definitely a she. You don't need DD sized boobs or long blond hair and a dream house. She's got that sweet, little bow placed at a cocky angle just below her left ear. And, or course, the name. How can you resist? The awkward, broken English name that is both generic and completely unique. You can not help but love her.

So we want her little face on anything and everything that can be bought instantly transforming the most mundane, utilitarian, "grown-up" object into something kitschy, fun and cute taking us back to a more innocent time in our lives when we carried Lego pieces, secret notes, and glitter glue in our little purses instead of iPhones, credit cards and tampons.

So along with the obligatory and age appropriate tiny purses and diaries, you can buy Hello Kitty kitchen timers, license plate frames, toasters, stainless steel sauce pans, golf bags, digital cameras, coffee makers, diamond jewelry, a Fender guitar and makeup . Then you can fly to Japan on a Hello Kitty jet.



















So why not a vibrator? It's marketed as a "shoulder massager" (so is the Hitachi and all those hand vibes you get at Brookstone) maintaining the illusion of respectability. Sanrio has always maintained that it is a "health-care product". It was their best selling novelty item before it was discontinued when it ended up being sold in sex shops next to much more obviously adult toys. But since it's back, perhaps the company has loosened up, re-evaluated it's consumer and decided to innocently look the other way.

After all, anything that vibrates is a vibrator: an electric toothbrush, the dryer, Tickle Me Elmo. I remember, while vacuuming the living room rug as a youngster, curiously pressing the buzzing handle to my crotch. Part of the fun is the pervertability of the object, the sacrilege of taking a beloved childhood character and using it to get off.

But long story short, it's basically a "Pocket Rocket" with a Hello Kitty head on top. So I started with her little face respectfully turned away from my clitoris. The back of her head is round and smooth, with just the slightest, embossement: © '76/97 SANRIO MADE IN CHINA. But I was curious about all those bumps of her cocky pink bow, her yellow button nose, and that little teddy bear nestled safely between her legs. So, with a little hesitation, I turned her over rubbing her face over my clit until I came. Then I lifted her up from between my damp thighs and looked into those tiny, little black eyes that seemed to be looking into mine saying, Why Tilda? Why?

And it takes one AA battery.

The birds and the bees

First published in France in 1973, Good Sex Illustrated gleefully deciphers the subtext of a popular sex education manual for children produced during that period. In so doing, Duvert mounts a scabrous and scathing critique of how deftly the "sex-positive" ethos was harnessed to promote the ideal of the nuclear family.






I've been reading this book and it's been it's been interesting to see what was considered "sex-positive" in 1973 versus what we consider the term to mean now (whatever that term means now). But the book is an angry exploration of how even when trying to be forward thinking, open and honest with children about sex, they still end up teaching that masturbating too much is bad, female orgasms aren't worth mentioning, homosexuals aren't normal, you aren't really a woman until you have had a baby and no one needs to know what a vulva looks like.

It's also interesting how the same discussions happening now about gender stereotypes, patriarchal privilege and heteronormativity were happening 36 years ago.

Two of my best friends have recently had kids and I've been thinking a lot about pregnancy (like a lot) and I remembered how I first learned about the birds and the bees. I technically never had the "talk" with my mom. She handed me a copy of Our Bodies, Ourselves and said "Let me know if you have any questions." I also recall a hippie book on natural childbirth that included a recipe for Placenta Stew. Between that and sneaking peeks at my mom's Joy of Sex, my dad's copies of Juggs, and lying next to Zac during nap-time (Zac liked to spontaneously stand up and take off all his clothes. Zac was awesome.) I pretty much figured it out on my own. I also recall a book called Them (or maybe it was Us?) by Anonymous that was always by my mother's bedside table, in which I learned dicks can be put in ladies' butts.

But before all the visual aids and stories about affairs with tanned pool boys, my first understanding of sex started with a man and a woman getting married and in my head it went a little something like this:

A man and a woman lie side by side on a bed. The woman is wearing a wedding dress and the man is wearing a tuxedo with a top hat. Then the man puts his penis in the woman's vagina. Somehow.

I hadn't yet figured out the logistics of how this would work. The whole, lying on top of each other concept didn't occur to me, so I didn't have a clear idea of how he got his penis all the way over there. Did it grow really, really long and kind of bend over to it? How did it get through all the clothes? Did it go up underneath the dress? I think my concept was that a penis was a lot like a plumber's snake.

If only...

I found this old book my folks must have given me when I was little. Or maybe it was the lamer book my older sister got stuck with. This was from 1953. They spend more time talking about how the small-mouthed black bass gets knocked-up than how people do. There's lots of information about what happens once the baby's in there, but before? The actual mechanics of intercourse (Chapter 3: The sperm and how it finds the egg) takes up about a page and describes how horses and dogs and lions get it on. What, you want to talk about humans? Well, it's kind of like how horses do it, only "more lovingly" and you can lie face to face.

I haven't seen the 2009 equivalent of these books. I'm guessing there are additional chapters on deep throating, female ejaculation and how to supplement your allowance with a webcam.

I like you so much better when you're naked

Ida Maria - New Music - More Music Videos

Despite a threat from Islamists, two Pakistani brothers stealthily manufacture fetish and bondage wear, earning more than $1 million a year from their Western customers.

Room Serviced

I have been waiting for this building for the past 4 years. I stayed at The Standard in L.A. years ago and wondered why wasn't there one in New York City? I cheered when I heard that there was finally going to be one built. I delighted when I learned it was going to be built over the High Line. When I first saw the renderings, I may have gotten a little wet.

My first thought was, "I have to have sex in that building."

I've realized that place has become something of a fetish for me. Some people like feet, some people like food, some people like corsets and stockings. I like having sex in architecturally significant buildings.

If you want to talk about architecture as a dialogue with it's natural environment, this is New York City's Falling Water. While part of one of the oldest commercial districts in the city, The Standard is a mere whisper. At street level, it's nearly invisible and completely unobtrusive to the pedestrian. But at a distance, it adds to the shinning beacon that is the New York skyline with such refreshing drama. It straddles the High Line with a polite bravado as if to say, "I'm so sorry, excuse me. Would you mind terribly if I built a luxury hotel here?" It seems like an engineering impossibility, but there it is. It has the slightest bend to it, like parted legs.

We checked in around 4:00 or so leaving just a couple of hours before the first guests were scheduled to arrive. When I opened the door I gasped at the wall to wall window with a view overlooking the High Line under construction, the Department of Sanitation, the rooftops of meat packing companies and ever flowing traffic of the West Side Highway. It was perfect. It never occurred to either of us to ever draw the curtains.

I hadn't packed a single item of clothing (except for a robe that would go unused) so there wasn't much unpacking to do. But first thing first I needed a long, hot lingering shower. I re-shaved my legs and bits and pieces, but still felt a little stubbly. I called to J. "Can you do me a favor?"

I bent over and spread my ass cheeks. He smoothed a thick layer of shaving cream over my asshole and shaved me smooth. "There's a first." I thought. I rinsed, dried and put on some lipstick. I wouldn't be needing any other makeup.

The first guest arrived right on time. I knelt on the bed, faced the wall and closed my eyes, eagerly shifting my weight from side to side. I felt him put the blindfold on first, then secured it tight with Vetrap. I couldn't see a thing but I could hear the familiar sound of zippers being unzipped, the shuffle of pants coming off and then the feel of cool hands on my tits, a mouth near mine, fingers on cunt, a cock pressed against my lips.

Some sucked my nipples tenderly, some mauled my breasts like they were trying to rip them off. Some ignored my clit preferring to get right to it, some went down on me for a while, licking and fingering my cunt while my hand searched for their hair to grip.

There was little speaking. I'm always surprised at how quiet men can be during sex. Through out the evening his phone would ring with a guest requesting the room number. I'd hear someone new walk through the door to find me on my knees, one man fucking my cunt from behind pushing the cock in front of me further into my throat.

The man in my mouth asked politely if he could come on my face. "Of course," J. said and just like that he did. I felt it dripping over my cheek, down my face and on to my chest. I sighed with gratitude as the next man took him place in front of me. He led his cock to my mouth and I paused a moment. I reached up with one hand. "My god," I thought, "This is huge." I wrapped my lips around the thickness and went down as far as I could. I don't usually use my hands when sucking cock (I'm a skull fucking kind of girl), but in this case there was no choice. He took over and with a little encouragement went a smidge too deep a tad too quickly and almost instantaneously a sample of that mornings scrambled eggs, grits and corned beef hash made a come back.

"Oops. Sorry about that."

Apologies were made between the two of us. Quickly and efficiently, sheets were stripped below me, a towel was handed to me and a glass of water. The man who's cock was responsible for all this confessed to the other guests that he actually had a couple of videos of just this very thing. There was some light hearted chatter to ease the tension and I knelt there, my lips parted wondering when everyone was going to stop talking so he could resume fucking my face.

Like the last time, I never really had a clear idea of how many there were. Sometimes I was on my knees, sometimes I was on my back. I moved where they moved me, I opened up what ever they needed opened up. My body took over and did what it's made to do. I wrapped my legs around what I assumed to be the man with the monster cock. I gripped the sides of the bed, my eyes clenched behind the blindfold as he slammed into my cervix. I could have asked for more lube, it was right there by the bedside table, but I didn't. I gritted my teeth and let him pound away as hard as he wanted. I didn't want it to be nice, I didn't want it to be easy, I was there for him to fuck, my comfort wasn't the point.

As they finished up one by one, there were Happy Birthday wishes and the sound of zippers being re-zipped. I didn't know how many were left but I always knew when it was him. I laid back and felt the first two fingers, then three, then four. I arched my back and screamed into the comforter as he slid in up to the wrist. He gave my insides a few minuscule knocks now and then making me press the blanket to my mouth and groan. I didn't know if this was just between us or if there was an audience and I didn't care. He pulled out and pulled me up cradling me in his arms. We kissed and cuddled and I thought we must be alone at this point, but I would hear the sound of someone shifting across the room.

When the last person left, I stood up and he took off the blindfold. I gasped once more at the view. Now it was dark and the night was lit up with the sparking lights of the traffic and the Jersey skyline. We kissed and hugged and I squealed with satisfied glee. He volunteered to run out and get some wine before we ordered dinner and just as I was about to wash up, there was a knock on the door. There was one more guest and an extremely cute one at that.

The same thing happened last year. First the anonymous group and then the lone handsome late comer. I had rung up housekeeping to have them replace the linens on the bed and the two of us waited patiently and made awkward small talk while the maid replaced the sheets. When J. returned, wine was poured and the party resumed. They both stripped down. I was obviously still naked. J. sat in the chair watching while the young man had his way with me. It was nice seeing his smile. There was an attempt at a DP, but the lad needed a little help so down I went. I knelt as he stood. I gripped his waist for support as we switched back and forth from me sucking him to him fucking my face. By my request, he came on my face and I rubbed it over my face and my chest, my eyes drowsy, my body sated. But he was still hard. I bent down and gave the head a little lick expecting that little twinge, but he was steady as a rock.

J. put a pillow next to the chair for me as our guest took a seat to relax. I was slowing down. My jaw was aching at this point. I hadn't slept the night before and it was starting to catch up with me. I would go down, come back up and rest my head on his thigh for a moment. Slower and slower I sucked like a battery wearing down until I couldn't go on anymore. I rested my hand on his leg, gasping for air, laughing softly.

The three of us sat around, drinking wine and chatting about sex and fetishes and bdsm. I was a little chilly, so I propped up some pillows and got under the covers while the come dried on my face. Finally our guest had to be on his way, he thanked me and wished me a happy birthday and the door was closed on The Standard gang bang. It was time for hi-fives, room service and SNL. By the time it was over I was officially a year older.

We woke to a hazy grey morning and I gave myself a couple of long Hitachi induced orgasms, gripping his arm and biting his shoulder. He reached down to feel the wetness between my legs. His eyes rolled, "Oh my God" and he slid into me. He did all those scary, nasty things I love that weren't meant for an audience. If I had any complaint about the night before, it would be that everyone was so damn polite! He fucked me and spit in my face and wrapped his hands around my throat until the need for coffee and Nutella became too great for both of us.

Room service would bring us a big bottle of Mr. Bubble and we spent the rest of the morning soaking lazily in the tub until we were properly wrinkled and there was less than 5 minutes until check out. Before I dressed he gave me a few good wallops with his belt and we were done. It was time to say goodbye to my glass, concrete, steel and wood paneled lover.

We took a walk around the block to get a full view of the building and paused at a good point around the corner. He pointed up. "Look, there's our room! See the towel on the chair in front of the window?" I followed his finger to the sixth floor until I spotted it. My god, that was a good view. Oh, the spectacle we must have made.

"Hey, naked lady!" I pointed to the room below our room and there was a very sexy woman getting dressed in front of the window. Like us, she probably never thought of closing the curtains. You can't see the sidewalk below from the view above and even if you could, if there is any hotel that encourages exhibitionism it would be this one. It takes moxie to stand naked in front of floor to ceiling windows and not care. It takes some gumption to build a building like that. It takes trust to allow yourself to be helpless, to know that you're going to be cared for and know when you don't want to be in control there's someone who will take control for you.

We watched the windows for a while looking for more indiscretions until we both started feeling a little perverted, even for us, and headed for the subway.

Toy Review: Ballsy Supercock

I have four dildos. Why do I need another one? Because I do, alright. I just do. Like the real, warm blooded one all fake dicks are a little bit different and have their own personality and one just isn't enough. The Ballsy Supercock is the newest addition to the family. It's shiny, black and long ( 7" x 1-3/4") and a lot vein-ier than my other ones, which was a nice touch.

It's also stinky! I've gotten used to the pricier silicone and Vixskin dildos so when I opened the package that blast of chemical smell hit me like a ton of bricks. I washed it a few times and left it out to air for a few days and the smell eventually died down somewhat.

I tend to be rather rough with my dildos. I'm not very gentle with myself and maybe because I didn't invest $100+ on it I was a little rougher than usual. I like a dildo with balls. I like feeling that extra slap against my asshole and it gives me something to hold on to. I turn it around inside me so it's facing the other way so the balls are hit my clit over and over. It does what it's supposed to do.

The smell reminded me of the first dildo I ever bought and I think that's the idea here. It's a good firmness, but still soft and a pretty good size for the price. If you can't afford a silicone dildo, the Ballsy Supercock will work just fine.

Let me entertain you

So, there I am in line at Target with a basket full of white washcloths, two boxes of Durex Extra Sensitive condoms, bags of Valentine's Day themed pink and red M&Ms, two cases of mini-bottles of water and two sets of the cheapest sheets they had in the least offensive color I could find. I grinned with a knowing smirk at the woman ringing up my purchases, hoping she would put two and two together. I wanted to say, "Yep, just picking up some stuff for the orgy. You know how it is." She didn't seem to care.

I gathered up all of my throw pillows and made a little nest of cushions next to the bed. I rearranged the furniture in the bedroom, blew-up the Aero bed and Swifter-ed like I've never Swifter-ed before. I rolled up the towels and put them in a little wire basket next to the lube and the dish of condoms. I was feeling very Martha Stewart about the whole thing. I casually tossed some rope in a corner and hung out the floggers and paddles for easy access. Back in the kitchen we finished up the food: strawberries, carrots, cucumbers, cheese and crackers, slicing lemons and limes for drinks. I put on a Fifties-ish black shirt dress (it had a nice hostess look and lifts up easily) and gave the servant boy my co-host and cruise director recruited for the evening instructions on working the door and serving drinks and waited for the guests to arrive. 

I don't really throw a lot of parties and when I do, they're usually revolved around watching something historically relevant on t.v. and the most work I do is ordering the pizza. But this time, I wanted it to be special. It was my first after all and I wanted to make a good impression.

It started off pretty much like any other cocktail party. Folks arrived alone or in pairs, with offerings of dip and wine. There was much catching up and conversation but I was eager to get things going or to at least remind people that this was indeed "that kind" of a party. Nate and I retreated into the bedroom for the inaugural fuck and I moaned a little louder than I usually do, hoping to inspire others to follow suit. I did catch a few people out of the corner of my eye wander in and out and by the time we returned to the living room there was a question of when things would get going.

"Well, now, I suppose."

Lights were dimmed, clothes came off and the party games began (which makes me think we should have had a piñata). One minute people are eating hummus and chips the next thing you know people are being fingered on the couch, making out in the kitchen, fucking on my floor and flogging people in front of my full-length mirror.

At one point I looked around at all of the bodies around me, shook my head and giggled to myself, "Oh my God, there are like... naked people... having sex... all over my apartment!"

Boys were giving blowjobs on my desk. My bed somehow withstood the weight of about 5 people fucking on it. Back in the foyer, a woman was bent over, an ice cube resting on her back while a young man flogged her. In the living room, people were still chatting, couples cuddling and a tall drink of water all in white serenaded me on a ukulele.

I don't think I could have asked for a better evening.

Eventually, came the inevitable echoes of "Where are my clothes?" and debates about subways and car services. I said goodbye to these lovely people who had graced my home with orgasms and turned off the music and the lights, satisfied that I had provided a much needed service in the world. My co-host and I laid in bed at the end of the evening, leaving the empty cups and condoms for the morning and compared notes on who did what to whom and congratulated ourselves on a job well done. Truth be told, I did not fuck as much as I probably would have as a guest, but I did have to work the door near the end and it was nice floating from room to room, seeing what mischief was afoot and making sure everyone was properly taken care of. 

The next day I would find a bra, two pairs of boxer briefs, a little velvet bag containing a bottle of lube, a pair of latex gloves and a condom, and a handsome lad sleeping on my couch.

Kink For All

I gave my first pervert related talk Sunday at the first ever Kink For All, held at the LGBT Community Center. Let me first say, it was fantastic and I left energized, excited, with pages of notes, some business cards and a whole lot of encouragement.

It was a rather spontaneous decision on my part to speak and I signed up without really knowing what I would talk about. I'm not particularly skilled in anything. I'm usually at the receiving end of other people's expertise. I thought about doing something related to my Kink + Culture site, but I didn't want to just do a show and tell. Then it came to me.

Half of my life is firmly planted in the vanilla world and half is pretty solid in the kink world and I like going back and forth across the border. I have a tendency to look at the vanilla world through a kinky filter and the kinky world through a vanilla filter and nothing pleases me more than when those two worlds collide.

I was dating a guy who was pretty vanilla. He wasn't completely green about kinky stuff, but it became really clear that he just wasn't into it. Or at least into anything I was into. So, I said to him, "This stuff isn't really your thing, is it?" And he said:

"Not really. I just like the way it looks."

At the time, I knew exactly what he was talking about. I got it immediately. But it wasn't until later that I stopped and thought, what does that mean? What does kink "look like"?

So, I did a presentation called Fishnets and Furry Handcuffs: The Perception of Kink in Popular Culture. It was an absolute blast putting it together, so much so that I can't stop working on it. It got a very good response and the discussion afterward could have gone on and on for the rest of the afternoon. Now I want to keep going. I think I have a nice little seed of an idea here. I'm gonna water it and see what happens.

On another note, I did my talk in the Keith Haring bathroom, which could not have been more perfect.






KFANYC

Thank You

Joseph Beuys, Matthew Barney, Kiki Smith, Kara Walker, Lorna Simpson, Fred Wilson, Stefan Sagmeister, Neville Brody, Peter Saville, Carrvaggio, Gerard Richter, Thomas Struth, Ray Johnson, The Smiths, The B-52s, Cole Porter, The Cure, Depeche Mode, Siouxsie and the Banshees, Edith Piaf, David Bowie, Derek Jarman, Catherine Breillat, Vikotor + Rolf, Commes Des Garçons, Helmut Lang, Max Huber, Legos, Demitri Martin, Isabella Blow, Aubrey Beardsley, Kiki Smith, They Might Be Giants, Alfred Hitchcock, Stanley Kubric, Frederico Fellini, Criterion Collection, David Cronenberg, Ayrton Senna, Radio Lab, This American Life, New Order, Joy Division, Joan Jett, Tom of Finland, Toulouse Lautrec, Henri Cartier-Breson, Pageant Print and Book Shop, Subway Inn, Tramway Diner, Lever House, The Segrams Building, The Chrysler Building, The Ambassador Bridge, The Electric Company, Solid Gold, Dance Fever, Absolutely Fabulous, Donna Summer, The Dresden Dolls, Chuck Jones, Catherine Denuve, Anne Rice, Tibor Kalman, Emigre, Ray Gun, Christopher Isherwood, Anais Nin, index cards, the sound of slide projectors, David LaChapelle, Vivianne Westwood, John Gallianno, Mr. Pearl, Leigh Bowery, Matthew Bourne, Rufus Wainwright, Ella Fitzgerald, Billie Holiday, Miles Davis, John Coltrane, Stevie Wonder, i-D, Interview, The Face, Apple, the first 10 years of MTV, Jon Stewart, Stephen Cobert, Amy Sedaris, David Sedaris, Sarah Vowell, Le Tigre, LCD Soundsystem, Scissor Sisters, Eryhah Badu, Klaus Nomi, Dally in the Alley, Detroit Institute of Art, Sam's Jams, Moss, Michael Clark, Mondo New York, Paul Rand, Ellen Lupton, Paul Elliman, Edward Tufte, Cabinet, Antonin Artaud, Robert Frank, Edward Hopper, David Byrne, John Waters, Ellen von Unwerth, Sophie Calle, Wallpaper, Alain Robbe-Grillet, George Perec, Ayn Rand, Marquis de Sade, Jean Genet, William Burroughs, Luc Sante, Dennis Cooper, Thomas Mann, Will Shorts, Martha Stewart, John Hughes, Tilda Swinton, Michel Gondry, Spike Jonze, Chris Cunningham, Sister Corita Kent

to be continued…

art, design, music, film, fashion, other, places, architecture, television / radio, books / magazines, people

Justify My Love

I don't hate Valentine's Day

I'm pretty indifferent to Valentine's Day. With a boyfriend, I was pretty indifferent and without a boyfriend I'm pretty indifferent. I do like those packs of Valentine's Day cards grade school kids get to hand out in their class. Those are pretty rad. 

There seems to be just as much anti-V. Day sentiment out there as there is pro, but I really don't care that much about it either way. Giving flowers* and chocolates and talking teddy bears to the one you love because you want to show them how much you love and appreciate them is great! Doing it only because it's V. Day and you feel obliged to just means you're a little bit of a douche.

I love cranberry sauce. Not real cranberry sauce, but the fake jelly kind with the imprint of the can, you know? I love it, but for some reason I would only ever eat it on Thanksgiving. Then it occurred to me a while ago that I could eat it whenever I want. They sell it all year long! I could have fake cranberry sauce in the middle of the summer if I wanted!

It's the summer time jellied cranberry sauce that matters in a relationship.

So I don't really care if I don't get a dozen red roses on Saturday. I really, really hate baby's breath anyway. But, I have been thinking about one particular symbolic gesture that's been nagging at me.

My bed is situated in the corner of my room. The corner. That means one side of the bed is against the wall so only one side has a bedside table. One bedside table. I never really thought about it much until recently. I put that second glass of water, the other pair of glasses, the bottle of lube and so forth on that one table. I don't have someone in my bed every night, (and for the record, I don't know if I even want someone in my bed every single night) but when I do, they have no table of their very own.

I never really thought about it before and it's never really bothered me until now.

Is it a sign? Is it a signal that this bed belongs to one person and one person only? Am I not inviting the possibility that there may be someone who will need his own table for his water and his glasses on a regular basis? Am I saying to whoever is in my bed, "You are only a guest here." It suddenly seems so juvenile to only have one bedside table.

I do have someone else's toothbrush in my holder, but a toothbrush doesn't take up a lot of room. I have room for another table. Don't I? But, if I get that second bedside table, will it just be a reminder of the absence when there isn't a glass of water over there?

* Actually, I absolutely love getting flowers. Anytime.