naked people

I've been on Spencer Tunick's mailing list for volunteers for a while now. I missed the last shoot because I was out of town. It looks like I'm going to miss the next one, too, because I'll be out of town! I'm so disappointed. A friend of mine was in the Grand Central Station photo and she said it was an amazing experience.

Looks like I'm going to miss out again on being surrounded by naked people. Oh wait, I'll be at Winter Fire!

stripping and irony

Part two of my friends going away celebration was last night. It started off at the usual after-work watering hole, but since it's been over two years since I worked at this company, the people have changed and I found myself once again around a bunch of people I don't know. But B. was there and while the beginning of the evening might have been a bit dull, the second part turned out much better with a trip to The Pussycat Lounge.

B and I made ourselves comfortable at the bar and found ourselves in front of the coolest girl in the place: a cute little thing, with short cropped black hair and an awesome scarification of a spider web between her tiny tits. She had a slim, tight little body, an entirely edible ass and a wicked smile. The rest of the gang did their best not to look at the gyrating, half-naked bodies and clustered together chatting. I just think that's rude, honestly. I mean, these girls are up there showing there stuff trying to make some money here. The very least you can do is watch for a while, smile and hand them some bills! Stop being such fucking tourists!

It reminds me of a conversation I had with my cousin. She's a pilot and I asked her if the flight attendants care that no one pays any attention to them while they're doing the safety presentation. "Yes!" she said passionately. "It really bothers them!" So now, I make a point to put down my magazine and watch the demo, even though I've seen the routine a million times and know it by heart.

The girls in our group clutched their drinks and tried not to look as desperately uncomfortable as they were, the guys looked guilty. Meanwhile, B. and I were slowly draining our wallets, dollar bill by dollar bill. She came over to us and hung out for a while during her break. Mission accomplished! We chatted for a while about this and that, about the club, the other girls there and living in NYC. She was sweet and smart and charming and had us both wrapped firmly around her finger.

After a while, I said "I don't want to keep you from work." I noticed an older business man flirting with her.

"That's okay." she said, scooting closer to us. "I'd rather hang out with you cool guys." Of course, I bought her a drink. I'm a sucker, I know. I can't help it.

B. and I were the last of the group to leave. He hopped in a cab and I wandered around Wall Street trying to find an open subway entrance. The sidewalks were deserted and wet with rain. I thought of the fuck buddy I used to have who lived down there and the nights when I would get lost in the twisting streets trying to find his apartment in the brick and granite forest, my underwear wet with anticipation, my clit aching, my heart beating fast with excitement. I remembered the early mornings when I would stumble out into the street with the first batch of business people just starting their day. I would shuffle to the subway blissfully exhausted, my hair a wreck, mascara smeared, my body aching and come on my breath.

I stumbled into bed insanely horny. I haven't seen Ben in over a week and I'm having the weirdest period ever. I grabbed my handy dandy utility vibe for a quickie to help me sleep, but it took me forever to come. Maybe because my dinner consisted of mostly whiskey and a few stale Tostitos. In my drunken stupor my mind wandered: it started with me fisting the stripper on the stage in front of an audience of lecherous businessmen. This blended into Ben fucking me on his sofa while he spit on my face calling me a slut. It concluded with Jefferson grinding a Hitachi on my pussy and commanding me not to come, which I find kind of funny.

sensual seduction

you never know

There are only two bits of advice I remember my parents giving me. From my mother: "Never marry an architect." From my father: "Never judge someone without knowing them, because you never know what you could learn from them."

This post is mostly about the second one.

I've been slowly revealing my kinkiness to my vanilla friends little by little. Concealing truth is pointless and exhausting and I've realized, being kinky is interesting! I always have good cocktail party stories. But there's still a little lingering hesitation sometimes. I never know when I'm going to go too far. I still wait for the gaping stare, the raised eyebrow. But I've been giving my friends the benefit of the doubt and I haven't lost one yet.

I was at a going away party for a former co-worker and his wife tonight. T., B. and I pretty much kept to ourselves since we hadn't seen each other in a while and to be frank, our former co-worker's friends are kind of boring. I was tired of talking about work and re-hashing old company stories. We'd exhausted "Project Runway". T and I were out on the deck smoking and I asked, "Can we just talk about sex for a while?"

I told her about Ben and the strangulation. She asked the best question. "Dude, how did you know when to stop?"

We moved inside and the conversation turned to some truly horrid legal issues she's dealing with and how her husband wants so badly to kill the person responsible. "I do, too!" I said. "Well, I am getting my strangulation practice in." B. overheard us so I filled him in on the kinky sex bit.

T. and I continued our murder plot and began discussing proper body disposal.

"You can't use plastic bags..." I said. B. suddenly joined the conversation again, "Sure you can!"

I looked at him. "...because it slows the decomposition process down, so you're more likely to get caught."

He froze for a second. "Ohhh!" He immediately blushed.

I started laughing, "Gotcha!" we clicked beer bottle to plastic cup of wine together.

The conversation switched back from killing someone on purpose to not killing someone accidently and back to T.'s question: when do you stop?

B: When he starts slapping you.

Me: Well, not if he's handcuffed, right?

B: (laughing) You need a safe word.

Me: What, if he's gagged...

B. Oh, right. How about when he starts crying?

Me: Yes!

B. But that might be kind of good.

Me: True. How about this? One tear=keep choking. Two tears=stop.

humor

Pornography-Desensitized Populace Demands New Orifice To Look At

WASHINGTON— Jaded by the sight of what it deemed "run-of-the-mill" orifices, the nation's pornography-saturated populace released a statement...

Baby Steps

I walked into the bedroom wrapped in a towel, fresh the shower after a rigorous morning fuck. He lay on the bed half dressed. "I noticed the handcuffs on the dresser over there."

"Oh yeah. Let me show you. I love these." I pulled out my Darbies and showed them how they worked. They are suprisingly soft feeling for such hard metal. I put them on myself first and we joked at how long it seemed to take and how did British cops do this quickly. I put them on him next. Ben (formerly known as S.) has small wrists. They looked good on him. I set the key on the dresser and slapped his thigh.

"Have fun. I'm getting dressed."

When I came back to the bedroom, he was still lying there and asked what other things I had. I opened up the bottom drawer and pulled out the various toys in my meager collection: the spreader bars, the various vibes, the blindfolds and the floggers. I looked at the strap-on harness and smiled. Not yet, I thought. He looked a little surprised, but pleased.

"What about those corsettes you mentioned?" I pulled them out and he helped me put one on. He took his time, determined to do it right, pulling tightly on the laces.

"Yeah, nice results," he said. I smiled back, shaking my ass, at him. It's been a while since I've had a corset on. I rubbed my hands over the fabric, feeling the stiffness, the structure. I miss it.

I'm seeing the signs. Last night, as I sucked his cock he started biting my ass. He's sucking my tits a bit harder, mauling them not just caressing him. He grabs my head, forcing me on to his cock, pushing my head down. He jacks himself off while I suck him, my head trying to follow his hand, his fist hitting my mouth over and over while I struggle to keep his cock in me.

Last night, while he was fucking me, pounding against my cervix he slapped my face, "Yeah!" I whispered and he slapped me again. "You fucking bitch. Your pussy's so fucking wet," he whispered so low I could barely hear him. I felt his hand wrap around my neck. He tightened his grip while he swiveled his hips, his cock exploring my crevices. I put my hands on the side of his face, running my fingers over his lips. Then he took my hand and placed it on his neck. I gripped tighter. Suddenly, he flipped me over and I sat down on his cock, riding him. He brought my hands back to his neck and I squeezed.

The room was pitch black. I could barely see his face, I gripped his throat and suddenly I panicked. "Am I doing this right?" I kept wanting to slip off of him, run to my computer and read up on the proper way to strangle someone. I've been the recipient in breath play, I've been to workshops, but I never actually did it to another person. I moved my hands off of his neck and placed them over his mouth and nose. I was a lot more comfortable with this since I couldn't accidently damage his windpipe. He moved my hands back to his neck and I thought back to all of those classes. "Where's that carotid artery, again? I know I have a flyer on this somewhere!" The subject became moot when he flipped me over, my legs thrown over his shoulders and fucked me stupid yet again.

Girls best friend

Is it just me, or does this necklace look like a penis?
movado