The rules of my relationship with the boy are nominally very simple:
You can be friends with whoever you want. You can sleep with whoever you want. You can submit to or dominate anyone you want.
You just can’t fall in love with them.
It is not as simple as I want it to be…
In general, I am good at tracking my feelings. There are a few people I’ve crushed on; I have a few friends with benefits who I would count as good friends, and whose welfare I care about and am invested in. But love is something different, and it’s something that I haven’t come close to finding with anyone else.
I find it hard to define what “being in love” means to me. I know I am in love with the boy. It’s something special about him and about us, but I often find it hard to vocalise the difference between The Relationship and all my other relationships. I guess…it’s feeling calmer just by being in the same room as him; it’s being comfortable and open around him all the time, with no exceptions (this is rare in my angsty brain); it’s sending him silly texts and bringing him little gifts from my adventures; it’s dropping everything when he needs me; it’s him being my first port of call whenever something that makes me sad or happy or that I think is funny happens. I get that with friends as well…but not as much. Not in the same way.
Sometimes I want to be that person for other people too, especially when I see my friends drooping and miserable. I want to be their first port of call and I want to drop everything for them; I want to buy them silly gifts and snuggle them and hug them and kiss them better and tell them I love them…
I wrote this about a year ago. Still relevant. I’m posting it because it’s useful context for the next text post.
———-
I have a slightly awkward habit of blurting out “I love you” during sex. It’s a habit imported from sex with my most consistent and frequent sexual partner, my best friend and lover who I’ve been seeing in one way or another for about three years now. It doesn’t mean anything; I’m just as likely to forget myself and tell a one night stand that I love them (but only if they’re good enough to make me forget myself) as I am to tell the aforementioned best friend/lover/sexual partner in crime (who wouldn’t have been around so long if he weren’t good enough to make me forget myself). It doesn’t mean I’m going to be upset if they move away tomorrow, that I’ll hang around and make demands on their time, or that I feel much more than “fuck that’s good”.
It’s still true though.
It upsets me that I only feel comfortable telling my primary partner that I love him. My relationship with him is not the only loving relationship in my life, and it bothers me that in modern parlance “in a relationship with [xyz]” appears to mean “I am in a full time romantic and sexual relationship with [xyz]”. That’s just nonsense.
A short list of the people I am currently in relationships with:
My mother
My oldest friend Caroline
The ex-friend who I avoid seeing
My driving instructor
My infant cousin
The priest at the church I used to attend
The Singaporean penpal that I have never met, but have been conversing with for four years now
I could go on….
Any person that I frequently interact with, I have formed an interpersonal bond with; I am in a relationship with them. It may not be a positive relationship, or a committed relationship, or a particularly intense relationship, but it’s still a relationship. A great many of these relationships involve some form of love, but outside very close friends and family I don’t feel comfortable vocalising it because of the risk of being misunderstood. I’ve been seeing my driving instructor once or twice a week for two years now (driving does not come naturally to me); we talk to each other, share jokes and anecdotes, and I’ve occasionally confided in him when things have gone wrong. I feel affection for him; I trust him and respect him; I’ll be sad when I eventually pass my test and have to say goodbye. Isn’t that a type of love?
This post concerns, quite closely, some stuff that is fairly personal to a couple I know. I’m going to attempt to be vague about their personal details, and am going to refer to the two halves of the couple as “him” and “her” respectively.
Onwards!
I’ve been threesoming with this couple pretty much since I met them and really enjoying it; it makes me feel close to them, appreciated, and loved. Also, they are both really fucking hot. That helps. However, recently they’ve been having a few relationship troubles and closed up their relationship in response to that.
On Saturday I went to visit them both and drank and talked and ate pizza with them, and it was fun, but it felt a little strange, partially because I could see the tension between them (I’m not sure if someone who didn’t know them would have been able to see it,but maybe), and also because I’m not used to hanging out with them and not flirting with them. Felt strange.
I left about eleven quite drunk and got home; and then I did the Bad Thing. I texted her and proposed a no-sex threesome in which he only had penetrative sex with her and not with me, which I know some couples do as a kind of halfway house between fully open and closed. But I got a no back; and not only a no, a “you asking this made me feel insecure and threatened”.
Of course it did. OF COURSE. I knew it would, or I would have known if I’d spent a few minutes thinking it through, thinking about why they were closed in the first place, thinking about how they were with each other that night, or even just thinking “I’m a bit drunk now this can wait until morning”. But I didn’t do any of that; I let my own libido – and let’s face it, my own deep, insecure, pressing need to feel wanted, my fear of change, and my tendency to use sex as a social crutch because I fail at people – control me at the expense of my friend’s wellbeing. That is not an okay thing to do, and I deeply ashamed of myself.
I think it’s going to be all right. I apologised as soon as I realised my mistake and she and I and have been exchanging casual texts about blogs and the news and such since. She is not the type of person to hold grudges for ages and I hope she realises that I didn’t mean any particular harm, I was just being really bloody stupid.
I finally managed to get up to Cambridge to visit RM and AM last weekend. It was lovely to see them again; they are both fascinating people who are lovely to talk to and I haven’t seen them for far too long.
Anyway, um, middle middle middle, leftover Chinese food, MAGIC WAND.
Do you know about magic wands? Not the type from Harrow Potter, the other type. All it really is is a vibrating bulb on the end of a stick. The thing that makes it special is that it vibrates really, really, really fast and really, really, really powerfully. Often it’s plugged into the mains to facilitate this.
I have a love/hate relationship with magic wands. On the one hand, they are incredibly intense. On the other, they are incredibly intense. I am very easily overstimulated, to the point that further stimulation feels overwhelming and almost painful, in an unusual way that feels like the pleasure peaked so much it started going the other way into pain. It’s one of the reasons that oral sex often doesn’t do much for me. Magic wands epitomise that.
So when AM & RM tied my legs open to the bedposts and held the wand against my clit, I instantly started to thrash and scream. They live in a detached house, so I feel free to make as much noise as possible…but even so, I worried about the neighbours hearing
I twisted to the side and ran into AM, wrapped my arms around him, bit into his shoulder and dug my nails into his back - then I swung to the other side and clung to RM - and then I reached behind me, arching my spine and grasping the headboard. I was in a spiral of torture and ecstasy, in the most intense pleasure of my life and yet longing for it to end. My legs were shaking, my voice rising, within me the pleasure building. I did not orgasm, because I never do unless I touch myself (I don’t know why), but I did reach a shuddering plateau that thundered through me and took my body completely from my control.
And then all of a sudden it was over and I was lying back on the bed, eyes shut, breath shallow, curled slightly while I waited to feel human again.
For me, at least. It might not be for you or for anyone you know - and for some people it’s definitely a symptom of mental illness - but it is for me.
I’m writing this in response to people who tell me I’m “crazy” or “must be ill” or “need a shrink” or are “certifiable” because I sleep around. It’s normally random twats on the internet, but it’s still pretty annoying, and it’s also quite hard to respond to because, well, I am mentally ill. Not as mentally ill as I was, but definitely still sick. I take meds and everything.
But doesn’t change that, for me, sleeping around is a symptom of mental health. That’s not the symptom of illness; it’s the random crying spells in Leicester Square that are the symptoms of illness.
Consider that a major part of my illness is anxiety, and specifically social anxiety. When I am ill I try to avoid contact with other people, lock myself in my room, and go to sleep. I refuse to make phonecalls, bottle out of social events, and try not to leave the house too much. I don’t talk to anyone but my family, my boyfriend, and the internet (see: this entire blog).
Now think about the process of having casual sex with someone I don’t know well. That - for me - typically goes something like this:
Getting dressed up and travelling to a club or other social occasion.
Meeting someone cool and playing or talking with them.
Getting their number and/or Facebook.
Communicating through these media and setting up a private meet.
Getting dressed up - again - and travelling - again - to the meet.
Breaking the “first kiss barrier”; that bit where even though you both know you’re going to have sex, neither of you are willing to go all the way and initiate the first kiss. (I have met up with people multiple times and not broken the first kiss barrier even though we were both obviously totally into each other.)
Think how much harder all that house leaving, travelling, texting, and propositioning is if you’re spending every waking moment in a state of high anxiety. It is a lot more effort for me to arrange hook ups, even club hook ups that stop at the second step, when I’m ill, so I hook up less. But when I’m going through a period of good mental health, I tend to sleep around a lot, because sex is fun, and when I’m well I try and do fun things, So for all those people assuming that promiscuous women are crazy and have “daddy issues”: no, some of us just like sex. It’s the woman alone in her room, in bed at 6pm while all her friends go out and get off with each other, that you need to worry about.
I remember, intensely, being at Kink Bar and being asked my age, which at the time was 19. A regular partner – at the time, not anymore – was standing nearby and commented “I did well”.
You did well? Why? What did you do? Did you perform some kind of devious magic trick to get me to sleep with you? Will you value me less as I get older?
The basic problem with all this is that you aren’t valuing someone for who they are, you are valuing them for their age or their job or because they are one third of a threesome. You aren’t valuing the experience itself – the experience of sleeping with someone who is unique and wonderful and beautiful – you are valuing the ability to tell people that you slept with a stripper/teenager/contortionist. You’re turning people from independent, autonomous beings into a point-scoring exercise for your own ego.
Don’t sleep with people so you can boast about it later. Sleep with them because you will both enjoy it.
I mentioned to JDM that I was free on that particular Sunday and thinking about setting up a playdate with our mutual acquaintance RA and/or a different, mutual mutual acquaintance M. Then, somehow, it became clear from talking to RA that a bit of a threesome/foursome/moresome – what? - had been organised, without any input from me, on that Sunday. I got a bit excited and sent out invites to a few friends/play partners who I thought would enjoy an afternoon sex party.
For a variety of reasons that I won’t go into here – none of them are that interesting and mainly revolve around people having lives – it ended up being just RA and I; and oh my god am I glad that none of my friends could make it.
I am a fairly neat person. I compulsively organise and sort my room, and approximately once a year go through my possessions and throw out half of them. I don’t mind visiting messy friends, but if I have to be in an untidy or disorganised space for more than about a day I start to twitch a little. The boy has to cope with me rearranging his things on a regular basis. However, there is a big difference between being untidy and being actually dirty. RA’s place was the latter.
Never before have I got to someone’s place and reconsidered sleeping with them because of the state it was in. Every surface was covered in STUFF, not only the expected detritus of pens and CDs and I’ll-get-to-it-later letters, but actual rubbish like old pizza boxes and used tea bags. The duvet wasn’t in a cover. The computer’s keyboard was caked in muck. It smelt like there was mould festering behind the desk.
I had sex with him anyway: I’d travelled up a ways to see and I didn’t want to waste a journey. But now I am almost ashamed to admit that I did. In himself he was clean and well-presented and smelt nice, just as he has always been when I’ve seen him at Kink Bar; he looked good naked and the sex was pretty hot; but on the way I noticed that my jacket smelt of his house – not a sexy, lingering way, in a stale mouldering way - and one wash later I can still smell it just a little. I am almost ashamed to admit, not that I slept with him, but that I was willing to take my clothes off in such a hole of a dwelling. I would not be surprised if I’d picked up fleas. I am glad none of my friends could make it because I would have been ashamed to invite them into that hovel.
RA is nice. I like RA. He is hot and smart and good in bed. But I won’t be going back there.
Following on from my previous post about Barney Stinson and his unethical sluttery, I’m now going to talk about how to be a slut (here, defining “slut” as “someone who enjoys and seeks out casual sex”) and yet still follow the cardinal rule of life: “don’t be a dick”.
This post starts from the assumption that both partners understand that it is meaningless recreational sex without any expectation of starting or furthering a relationship. If both partners don’t know this, you should really make sure you’re on the same page before continuing.
Have safer sex
Rule one. This is really important. It protects you, any fluid bonded partners you may have, and - if you’re finding partners at raves, fetish clubs, or swingers’ clubs - other members of the community you move in. Have barrier protection on you and use it, or don’t have sex. If you’re a guy, have condoms on you that properly fit your penis. If you’re a girl who sleeps with guys, also have condoms on you, and it’s probably worth having both large and regular condoms on you because lots of males can’t get their act together and have condoms that fit on them. Pay attention to any open wounds you might have and avoid them. If you know you have cuts inside your mouth, either use a dental dam/condom or don’t have oral sex. If you have cuts on your fingers, don’t finger people without a glove (and keep gloves and dental dams on you for this purpose - dental dams are hard to find in shops but can be bought fairly easily online at sites like britishcondoms.co.uk and condomchoice.co.uk, or you can cut a condom open and use it as a dam). Eating spiky food such as crisps can leave small cuts on your gums, as can flossing or vigorously brushing your teeth, so avoid this in the immediate run up to oral sex unless you’re intending to use barrier protection. This advice is particularly prescient if you’re anticipating any form of oral/anal play. Sounds excessive? Not really. It mainly amounts to being aware of the potential risks and either using barrier protection to reduce them or modifying your sexual behaviour to avoid them.
It is important to note that any exchange of bodily fluids with an infected person carries with it a risk of infection no matter how careful you are. Most STDs have symptomless or barely noticeable forms, anyone can carry an infection, and all forms of barrier protection can fail. Most people aren’t infected with anything, and even if you do have unprotected sex with an infected person you won’t automatically become infected, and even if you do then most STDs can be treated with antibiotics - HIV is the most dangerous by a long way - but none of that means that you shouldn’t be careful. You only need to be unlucky once, and then you’re taking antiretrovirals for the rest of your life.
Oh and get tested regularly if you have lots of casual sex. Every three to six months is ideal. At the very very least once a year.
Don’t sleep with people who might regret it
In a perfect world every adult would be completely capable of managing their own emotions and only consenting to acts which won’t compromise their emotional wellbeing. But we live in an imperfect world and people are often drunk, upset, emotionally unstable, or generally unhappy. This is hard to judge particularly if you don’t know your partner well, but if they were telling you earlier in the night how they often sleep with people when they’re drunk and regret it the morning after, and now they’re wasted and slobbering all over you, it might be advisable to give them your number and leave it for another time. In general, I would trust people to make their own decisions, but if you have reason to believe that someone’s decision making abilities are being impaired (particularly if any form of alcohol is involved), then don’t get naked with them, because being considerate and respectful of others’ emotional wellbeing is a fantastic way of not being a dick.
Don’t push the boundaries of others’ relationships
Don’t sleep with people in closed relationships or cross the boundaries of those in semi-open relationships (e.g. “we can play but no penetrative sex”). Even if you don’t think their partner will find out. You wouldn’t like it if your partner did that to you, so don’t enable someone else in their own poor behaviour, even if other people are doing the same. “Everyone’s doing it” is not a good justification. There are plenty of other people to play with.
Don’t push the boundaries of your relationships
This covers both any romantic relationships you may be involved in, and professional/platonic/familial relationships. Don’t sleep with someone that your friend/partner/mum will be upset if you sleep with. Don’t sleep with your colleagues unless you’re sure that it won’t upset your performance at work. Don’t put your own shallow, lustful, sweaty physical desires above the people you care about’s happiness.
I’ve met JMD a few times at the Kink Bar, and then again at Kinky Xxxmas (urgh that name makes me cringe), and liked him enough to stop in at his on my way back from work, just quickly for an hour because I had to get home to sleep.
Perhaps “liked” isn’t the right word. Not that I don’t like him, but I’m still figuring him out. He’s intriguing. It’s obvious that reality and dreams blur very heavily in his experience of the world and I haven’t worked out if I like that or not. When I’ve spoken to him before he’s rambled, very fast, primarily about his own life experiences; I can’t work out if this is a symptom of myopic self-obsession or simple nerves.
I was definitely interested to play with him. Playing with boys is normally a very phallic-centred experience: yes, giving pleasure through touches to the back, kisses to the neck, nibbling on the nipples, is all very possible and I spend plenty of time on this. But ultimately it’s a lead up and a side show to the main event of sucking and fucking the penis, because almost every guy I’ve ever played with experiences the majority of their sexual pleasure through the penis.
JMD is different. He does not experience pleasure through having his genitals touched. I viewed playing with him as a challenge and an experiment, changing the way I think about playing with boys as being focused on every part of the body EXCEPT the penis; and that interested me.
Also he’s really cute. He’s a skinny boy with mocha skin and animé character hair and I just want to fold him into my arms, rest his head against my breast, and bite him really fecking hard.
I got to his student accommodation and spent an obscene amount of time parallel parking (second time I’ve done it since I passed my driving test and had to be helped out by a random passer by, hurrah for incompetence). He was talking fast, hyped up, not flirting with me. Showed me some weird porn - I have an immense interest in weird porn - and directed me to the FetLife profiles of some mutual acquaintances I took the time to touch him slightly more than necessary, brushing my fingers against his arm and his leg. He didn’t touch back but didn’t pull away; I couldn’t tell if he was unwilling to initiate or unwilling to play. From his prior behaviour towards me and his obvious libido, I suspected the former.
I left the room to go to the toilet and when I returned plucked up the courage to ask him if he wanted to play.
“Yeah, okay,” he said, and continued to not touch me.
Clearly I would have to take matters into my own hands and pulled him onto the bed with me, running my hands through his hair and kissing him. He responded enthusiastically, and very shortly both of us were naked from the wait up.
I had to encourage him to receive pleasure from me. He insisted he gets pleasure from giving others pleasure; I told him that I get pleasure from giving people pleasure, so in order to give me pleasure he would have to let me give him pleasure. That particular argument could have quickly turned into an infinite loop, so we skipped the rhetoric and began to run our lips and hands over every inch of exposed flesh, pulling each other’s bodies towards each other.
It reminded me, very strongly, of being fifteen, of lying with my first boyfriend and nervously inching towards second base. This particular playdate had a similar vibe, of desire frustrated by factors outside our control (youthful terror when I was 15 and physical difficulty now). I felt him grow hard against my hand, to his and my surprise; apparently erections are a rarity in his life.
I couldn’t stay long and had to cut it off just as he unzipped my jeans and started to slip a hand into them while I lay shiveringly still. Shame, because I know from prior experience that he’s excellent at oral sex.
I want to see him again. His personality interests me, though I haven’t worked out yet how much of that interest is “liking” and how much “confusion”. I think he’s got a gorgeous body and an adorable face, and his particular sexual needs are fascinating. He’s left London for his university holidays, but hopefully I’ll see him when he comes back.
No, I don’t like the name of that club either. Anything which has had three xs shoehorned into it just to signal “sex”. Not my thing.
Good night. Long night. Got to sleep about 7am. That’s not going to sleep time, that’s getting up time! I wore a dress with a cut out back the wrong way round, so the cut out was over my breasts. No underwear. No nipples visible; but everything else was. And the way to get attention in a fetish club is to flash your breasticles, so that went well for me.
I shall do this as a selection of impressions. Recurring characters will have single initials, and if they become regulars in this blog I’ll go back and give them proper designations.
—-
Very shortly after I entered the club I ran into C, who I’ve played with before and wanted to do so with again.
C has bullwhips. This is his thing. He is a skilled and consummate whipper. So after a bit of warm up with flogger and bare hand, I stood with my hands on my head and he whipped me, breasts and buttocks and especially my neck. I love having a whip wrapped round my neck, straining at it while it steals my breath.
Bullwhips are loud and big. They are attention grabbing, as is a naked woman (I’d lost the dress so was only in stockings and heels), and the neck whipping thing was especially interesting-looking. So we had an audience.
Bullwhips often look worse than they are - the sound takes away most of the energy that would otherwise go into the strike - but C made it painful for me, striking my flesh with a force that made me cry out and buckle. But the thing about this particular type of play is that I must find the strength to straighten up, to stand still, to anticipate the next strike with trembling limbs. That’s the point: if I don’t accept it it won’t come. The waiting is the worst. It’s worth living through it though, for the endorphin rush and the pride in what my body can take.
And in this particular instance, the applause at the end.
—-
I met a lovely couple, VA and S, while I was sitting at the bar. The dominant partner, VA, challenged S to undo the zip at the front of my dress (because it was backwards, remember?) with her teeth. She didn’t too well at that though, so V gave it a try.
He cheated and used his hands. Did get the zip down though, in the process discovering that I wasn’t wearing any underwear. He kissed me and his hand trailed down my body, and then he slipped a finger inside me, and then two, and then he was properly finger fucking me while VA kissed me and I moaned and twitched a little and made an effort not to fall off my bar stool. A gorgeous skinny boy I’d had half an eye on - JMD - showed up and attached himself to one of my nipples, and it was all fairly wonderful.
I had to cut it short when the urge to fuck all three of them was verging on the unbearable. The club didn’t have a couples room; it wasn’t going to happen.
The evil ex and I were wandering around on the South Bank and had made our way to the back of the National Theatre, where it turns into a forest of fire escapes. We walked up a staircase and found ourselves in an open space, a sort of balcony with a roof over it in between two of the theatre’s levels. No one else was around. The London Eye was in the background. It was perfect.
I didn’t know it at the time, but this was genuinely a once in a lifetime opportunity. At the time the National Theatre was developing a garden on their roof that would later become open to the public. Normally the staircase we’d entered by had a gate across it, but the gate was open to allow a gardener to come in and tend to the plants, one roof along. At no point in the future would there be this magic combination of the roof being shut to the public, and someone leaving the gate unlocked.
Think how brilliant that would have been. Twilight sex, with the person I was at that moment in love with. London at night in the background. The thrill of the illicit. It would have gone down in the annals of my sexual experiences.
And he said no. No, he was scared of the people two stories down looking up and seeing us. No, he was scared of missing the last train (this is what night buses were designed for). No, he thought it might be uncomfortable. No.
So instead we just walked around for a bit longer, and awkwardly said hi to the gardener as we passed him. He ignored us even though we obviously weren’t meant to be there.
A few months later, after I’d dumped him, when we met up “as friends” in the most uncomfortable cinema trip ever (we were not going to be friends), he told me he really regretted not doing it.
Of course you do. It was perfect and you turned it down.
When people ask I tend to identify my sexuality as bi/poly/switch: I fancy with and sleep with both genders; I am happiest with multiple partners; I enjoy being both the submissive and the dominant partner.
This is, of course, shorthand. There’s dozens of caveats and exceptions. The “switch” part in particular is very complicated. I play submissively, dominantly, masochistically, and sadistically, sometimes in two roles at the same time, sometimes in just one, switching a lot with some partners and having a very consistent dynamic with others. Things are also complicated by petplay, which is an entirely different mindset and - though I place it under the broad label “sexuality” because normally sexual contact is part of the dynamic with people I petplay with - it isn’t a sexual experience in and off itself for me.
And you can go even more in-depth if you wish. With a regular partner, I’d rather play in their bedroom, with a new partner I’d rather fuck at a social occasion. I would rather threesome with an established couple than with two randomers. I love fetish clubs but am turned off by the idea of sex clubs. And so on. I really could talk forever about the various things which do or don’t get me off, and how intense that particular turn-on or turn-off is in whichever cirumstances. I’m sure everyone could: sexuality is very complex.
Today I want to talk about the “bi” part of that description. The “bisexual” descriptor is problematic for me; I don’t really like it because of its implication of a gender binary, but then again the term “pansexual” doesn’t do it for me either. I’m not attracted toallgenders, I’m just attracted to attractive people; their gender doesn’t really register as a factor influencing how attracted I am to them. I like the term “gender blind” but I don’t think that’s a common descriptor for sexuality, and if I say it to people who haven’t spent much (if any) time thinking about sexuality as lying on a spectrum rather than being neatly divided into straight/gay/bi I’m probably just going to confuse them further. These days if people ask me I tend to say that I don’t care what someone keeps in their pants so long as they know how to use it.
Recently, however, I have been questioning this “gender blind” descriptor. An important part of the sexual experience for me is the sensation of being filled, of having something inside me and of feeling it move within me. This was less important to me a few years ago, but now it’s become a much more vital part of the sexual experience for me. And on this men of course have the edge, because they come with a thing to put in vaginas attached to them. Comparing my last few sexual experiences, I’ve enjoyed the ones involving penises more.
Last night I went round to DN and KN’s place, seeing as I was in the area for work anyway. As standard, I’d intended to go home and sleep in my own bed, but ended up in their bed instead. Metaphorically and literally. Which happens quite a lot when I go to their place.
When I got to their flat DN wasn’t in, so KN let me in, then swiftly disappeared to have a bath as apparently he smelt of arse. I thought he just smelled like tobacco, which made me happy, but I didn’t mind messing around on the internet while he cleaned up. And, you know, he was taking all his clothes off, and there was a strong probability that he wouldn’t put them back on when he emerged, and that’s a positive thing. To put that in context, I’d been at theirs on the Sunday morning and desperately wanted to play with them, but had to get home so couldn’t stick around. It was all immensely frustrated, and I’d asked if I could come round Wednesday with a strong view to sex. Not actually “for sex”, because pressure and expectations are bad, but definitely with sex on the cards.
Up until pretty much exactly this point in time, I’ve been awful at initiating sex. But I’ve decided to change that, because hanging around attractive people hoping they’ll kiss you and not doing anything about it is dispiriting.
So when KN walked into the living room with a towel clinging to his hips and nothing else on, I kissed him, slinking my fingers up and down his back. Kissing KN is fun. Our kissing styles are compatible. He kisses…intricately. Very focused. With circles. And I like his tongue piercing.
I pulled my shirt off and he reached behind me for the clasp of my bra, before reaching down and unzipping my jeans. Once I was as naked as him we disappeared into the bedroom, and had sex that started slow with plenty of tongues and feathering fingers before picking up pace and becoming fast and gasping.
DN was home by the time we were done, and we took a break to drink and talk and enjoy each other’s company. The initial social awkwardness has gone with them, and it’s been replaced by an easy sociability. I think it helps that all three of us are on the autistic spectrum, so our brains work in roughly the same ways - our social quirks are similar to each other and they don’t get offended when I’m blunt. We also have a common experience of feeling alienated and ostracised from society, of being weird, of not really fitting in, and we’re also just generally interested in the same things, with a complementary sense of humour and a common interest in psychology.
I really wanted to get DN naked. I hadn’t slept with her in a while and I was still aching for that threesome I’d had to turn down on Sunday morning. About 11:30pm I swallowed my awkward and outright asked her if she was interested in any sexytimes.
I can’t remember her response in detail - I think it was fairly ambiguous, but whatever it was we very shortly ended up all naked and on the floor, bodies pulled towards each other, skin under my hands, my face buried in DN’s vulva, KN fingering me from behind.
It escalated, until DN was on her back holding her labia open, giving me better access to her clitoris while my tongue flicked over it and KN fucked me doggy style, his hands on my hips, occasionally letting go in order to spank me. It was so intense - I was gasping too much to properly go down on DN and instead clung to her thigh, everything happening at once, the smell of her, the feel of KN slamming into me, the taste of sex in the air, the sound of my own moans/gasps/screams heightening the pleasure further until eventually, eventually everything paused…
In the interim we all did an empathy quotient test (KN and I are both awful at empathising, DN is much better but still below average) and I showed KN the maths he needs for the computer game he’s coding. KN was very complimentary and appreciative of my quite rudimentary maths skills, and I felt immensely flattered and valued and happy. I don’t often feel like my academic ability is useful for anything outside of an exam hall, and I respect KN’s intellect so being called clever by him meant something to me.
3am. Bedtime. DN hadn’t fucked KN the entire night, so when we clambered into bed she spent some time riding him. Live action porn for me; as I touched myself I watched and listened and occasionally leaned over to kiss KN or stroke DN’s breasts, finally coming explosively.
And then we all fell asleep curled up in each other’s arms.
Something interesting has happened over the last few months: I’ve had a relationship which has been fully documented through this blog, specifically a relationship with D3. I wrote about meeting D3, initially playing with him, and forming a commitment. And now I’m going to write about ending this commitment.
I have quite a few people that I play with every so often. Right now, there are maybe…five? people that I expect to sleep with again in the next couple of months. Maybe more depending on how you count it. But of these, only one (the boy) have I committed to. Commitment means different things to me depending on the relationship - my relationship with the boy in particular has an especially intense commitment on a completely different scale to all other commitments - but with D3 it meant committing as a dominant partner. This means engaging with D3 emotionally rather than just sexually and maintaining and developing a power exchange. (To me anyway.)
The latter of these is fine. I like having a sub. It’s nice being in control. I like making rules, monitoring and reinforcing them, I like beating people up in bed and having someone who is constantly subbed to me rather than only being subbed during playtime. But the former is where it all fell apart.
I told D3 I didn’t want to be his dom anymore because I didn’t feel like there was enough going on on a platonic level. I didn’t feel like we had enough in common or that I was enjoying talking to him enough. I also feel like he comes from a completely different ideological place than me, much more violent and angry, and I don’t like that, it makes me uncomfortable. Spending time with him - except explicitly sexual time - was beginning to feel like a chore. That’s not what I want out of a relationship.
So it had to end. I put it off for a while because I didn’t want to hurt him, but there’s only so long you can do that for.
I’m a bit embarrassed that the entire thing lasted such a short amount of time: 3 months from initial meet and we were only technically committed for one month. That speaks to my immaturity in rushing straight into a commitment without taking my time over getting to know him properly. We hadn’t even played privately when we agreed to the power exchange (although the play was never the problem; the play was the best bit).
But, you know, lesson learned and all that. Get to know people properly before committing. (Why am I still having to learn that lesson?) I hope we can still be on good terms and play every so often. I’d still like to threesome with him and GS every so often, if they’re both up for that. (I need to see & talk to GS soon; he was meant to come round the other day but had to cancel, boo.)
Here are four things that I really, really hate in bed:
Fingering my bum without checking if I’m okay with it. Seriously, what’s up with that?
Having to remind people to get a condom/clean a toy. Eww.
Leaving bits of clothing on! (Exception: if you’re a lady and you’re wearing stockings. That’s fine.)
Saying “thank you” after.
That last one makes absolutely no sense at all. If you’re in bed with someone enjoying yourself is a right. And your partner should be enjoying it too or something has gone seriously wrong. No one should feel like this is a chore. No one should feel like their pleasure is a privilege. Why would you say “thank you”? “Thank you for giving me something I am owed”? “Thank you for putting up with the incredibly unpleasant experience of getting naked with me”?
Neither of you are sacrificing anything or receiving anything other than your absolute right. Why would you say thank you for that?
Even as I write this I can think of exceptions, like if your partner did something that you know they get nothing out of but you really enjoy, or if saying “thank you” for pleasure is part of your kinky D/s set up. And if they’ve cooked you dinner or trekked all the way across town to see you then saying “thank you for feeding me” or “thank you for making the journey” is of course appropriate. And, oh I guess you could say “thank you” if your partner spent some time online looking up fun new positions (although if you ask me you don’t need anything other than doggy, missionary and cowgirl), or if you’re getting all Tantric “thank you for assisting me in my journey of sexual exploration”, but “thank you for having sex with me”? Please. They’re not doing you a favour.
This is a pretty brief post, but it’s a fairly brief message: you deserve sexual pleasure and do not need to be grateful for it.
