full moon trance

I am back from paradise and last night I had sex.

It had been several months since we had seen each other. An entire summer. And yet his voice purring out “I missed you so much” was enough. Like velvet.

It took me 85 years to finish. Some moments felt like shooting out into space and leaving my body. Then I would slingshot back and worry that I had left that body too inert while skyrocketing through pleasure.

Every time he exhaled, his moan vibrated all over me.

The sweaty sheen that appears over you. Even if you don’t think you’re doing anything. But in reality my entire body was pulsing, thrashing with periodic electric shocks. Feeling everything so deeply for hours.

Toy after toy. He had one that vibrated and one that mimicked a sucking sensation. I think they made things a little too sensitive. Eventually my own hand was enough.

There’s a strange trance to sex. And he seemed intent on building it. With the music in his apartment, and the various rhythms of his mouth and fingers and body. I guess it was my role to melt into that trance and become the instrument he played and pulled pleasure out of. But sometimes I snapped back into the moment. Felt guilt. Selfishness. Anxiety. Until his mouth did something new and I melted back into the trance.

When it was over we stared into each other’s eyes and he ran a hand through my hair, softly, over and over.

“I want to pull out everything any shitty boyfriend ever did to you.” he made a motion like he was pulling it out of my hair. “Any moment that ever made you feel small. I want you to know that you are beautiful.”

His voice melted on the last word and I felt tears in my eyes. I just nodded and said thank you.

And then I learned he is monogamous. Who knows what will happen here. But the moment was beautiful.

yet another sexual misadventure

God I don’t even know where to begin. In the past 2 weeks, I have had more sex, with more people, than I had previously had in the past six years.

Wow it sounds dramatic when phrased that way.

I’m just going to write about one of the sexual partners for now. Wow, this is a multi-chapter story.

Chapter E.

E met me at a bar in a white line suit and immediately gave my a look like he wanted to fuck me. He is in an open relationship so I felt like the stakes were low. All this made me feel at ease. I’d told myself I didn’t even want to sleep with him.

Cut to me naked in my apartment, and him holding me by the hair and telling me how fucking pretty I am.

E invited me to a sex party that was happening a couple days later. I giddily said yes. Oh my gosh yes.

The next morning I woke up hungover, beating the hell out of myself. Oh so you’re just a straight-up slut now huh? But nothing bad had happened, no one got hurt, and I was doing what I wanted.

I was so nervous in the lead-up to the party. But curious too.

On Saturday night he showed up in another linen suit and a straw hat. It was a 20’s-themed sex party. He was nervous too. But he had taken a beta blocker and brought joints.

The ride over to Brooklyn was surprisingly sweet. The sun was setting over the city and it looked beautiful from the bridge we drove across.

He looked at my knee, bare under my dress, and asked if I’d had surgery. I said yes and he gently traced circles over my knee. I sighed.

The party was a lot. I was anxious and almost bailed before we even got there. There was food and booze and gorgeous people. E wanted to fuck me in front of all of them, and it was freaking me out.

In the basement, several beds were pushed together like a stage, full of people fucking while other people (me) watched.

One woman looked like a blonde, strong, tan porn star. She looked gorgeous even while getting her face pounded into a mattress. While she was getting railed, the strand of pearls she was wearing broke and scattered all over the bed. It was just beautiful.

Oh my god I can’t do this.

E kept pawing at me, kissing me, trying to get me to have sex with him right there, and I kept saying no. We found a semi-private corner (that still had tons of people walking by). His member was out and I stared at it for a long time, then with a sigh I knelt down and… well, you know.

We moved again, to a red room with restraints and a bed and another couple fucking fight next to us. E pushed me onto the bed. I was starting to feel better, possibly even comfortable. He got on top of me and we kissed for a while.

“Were you scared that you were about to fuck me out the window?” said the woman next to us, to the man who was inside her.

And that’s when E admitted that he couldn’t do this either.

We left the party and went to my apartment, where I went down on him for much longer. He growled things at me in a much deeper, primal voice than how he usual sounds. That growl called me a cocksucker, and I was surprised by how deeply I enjoyed being called that.

Who would’ve known. The night you go to a second party, the hottest stuff happens in your own apartment.

secret world

Election night week 2020 was a deeply stressful time. And I got through it with an incredible amount of sexting.

This makes it sound like the sexting was standard: photos of body parts, in and out and you’re done. It was much more intense than that.

Hours and hours of D/s fantasies. Revelations of our kinks. Deep, vivid descriptions of scenes. Sounds, thoughts, textures, emotions. Pain and pleasure and edging and denial. Tell me exactly what you want, exactly what you’re feeling. And if you don’t want something, tell me immediately.

The whole thing started so simply. We started talking about my neck. That ever-so-sensitive center of sexual energy for me, that is constantly hiding in plain sight. He’d started to wonder what would happen if he touched that neck. Or let his fingers, or hand linger around it for a while. Or maybe if he put his mouth on it. Or tongue. Or teeth.

I don’t remember all the exact words. I mostly just remember my pussy instantly developing its own heartbeat, and feeling that way for weeks after.

Before that, I had wanted to avoid and ignore my submissive side. The result of one too many people taking advantage of it or hurting it, perhaps. He later said he had no idea I was so submissive. But suddenly it all came flying out, just by talking about my neck like that. In a huge rush, I had built this beautiful secret world of pleasure with someone who had thoughts like I did, and who could write beautiful (and fucking hot) in-depth paragraphs about them.

We both had external worlds to tend to as this was all going on. I was staying with a friend at the time (otherwise I probably would have just been masturbating myself into oblivion for weeks) and he would end up going on a trip to visit a friend’s family. But we thought about each other constantly. It was like being physically present, but mentally out in space. Like, trippy psychedelic here-is-every-dark-and-beautiful-sexy-time-you-could-think-of space. Fuck, it was so heady.

It was with a good friend. Someone who is still a friend. Who, yes, I am still attracted to.

And then that friend started Prozac.

Our dark secret world didn’t immediately disappear. It was more like, it felt weirder and then faded away. The last scene we wrote was more about pain and punishment than I’d like. More extreme. Like he was trying hard to make himself feel something so he wanted to incorporate electroshock and humiliation. I felt like I wasn’t doing a good job. The intensity was there but there was a disconnect. That last scene was just before Christmas.

We still talk every day. Texts and audio notes. He is going through *a lot* of personal work and therapy (hence the Prozac) and is not what one would call available. But at the same time, in other ways he is available for me. And those ways are meaningful.

All of this is to say, the other night I realized (not like it’s a big shock) that I have really deep feelings for him. It doesn’t change anything. I’m not going to do anything, probably won’t even tell him about them. But still. It’s nice to know.

So I’m just going to write about it here. There you have it.

sexual frustration magic energy

It has been 13 days since I last saw the person I am dating.

During that time, he has texted me every day. He has sent photos of himself. Of his arms and their tattoos. Of his face. Of his body.

He has written me notes. Of things he wants to do to me. He mentioned a dream he’d had, an idea for a fantasy, and it happened to be one of my deepest: the two of us in a room full of women. Then we had a 2.5-hour sext session, easily the most intense I’d ever experienced.

And then I had to wait a week.

I was far away, in the state I grew up in, and my body was constantly burning for him. Self pleasure eased things slightly. But there were always more photos, more promises, more fire.

So then I decided I wouldn’t touch myself until the next time I saw him. It was supposed to be yesterday. And then he got strep throat. So here I am, trying to do something productive with the energy pulsing through me.

He, of course, loves this.

Ugh even the word pulse does it.

kink and sex and feelings

You don’t need me to tell you that kink is having a moment.

The media once wanted us to believe that the kink moment was sparked by the online explosion of a grammatically dubious Twilight fan fiction. But as long as there has been sex, there has been kink.

We are human beings after all, and we are creative and curious by nature. The universe gave us a rote task (i.e., sex) that felt good and helped our species expand. But after enough time spent doing the same exact thing, over and over, we got a little bored. It happens.

Enter the dominant-submissive power dynamics. Enter the pain play. Enter the escape into wild characters and costumes. We want to congratulate ourselves for how evolved and mysterious we are. But really, we all just want to play and be free and feel good. And perhaps get a little sweaty while doing so.

That 50 Shades kink “moment” also shed light on how scared we are about our own sexuality. And that fear is nothing new either. It’s what motivates someone to hide the smut they’re reading on the bus. Or to clear their search history. Or to beg for forgiveness at church. It’s the bitter aftertaste of shame after a swallow of something fun.

Why do humans so love to chase their pleasure with fear? As if the body that naturally produced that pleasure is no longer worthy of the love it also produces (and receives) just as naturally?

When that fear bubbles up after a carnal moment, it could be helpful to look it in the face and listen to what it’s saying to us. What it’s telling us about how we see ourselves. About how we see our bodies. About how we express or silence or compare ourselves when our clothes are on.

As organic creatures, we are naturally creative and curious. And we also seem to be one of the few, maybe the only, creatures who then knock our own kind down for doing what comes naturally (pun intended).

That natural instinct is going to keep on coming whether we fear it or not. It’s not an abnormality, it’s who we are. So we might as well embrace it, or at least sit with that shame if and when it surfaces. Maybe then we can start to make sense of why the aftermath of sex makes some of us feel so bad. And maybe then we could all start to have a little fun, unapologetically. ❤

and sometimes you switch

I took a test that said I am a total freak!

What a total non-revelation!

I actually took the same test at the end of 2016. Three days before the election. There have been fascinating differences:

  • I first scored a 27% in Mistress. As one might expect, they “receive complete control over the life of their slave(s) and all responsibilities that come with it.” Now, I’m 61%. What does that mean? Am I coming into my long-held passion for cracking whips and controlling sweet eager submissives?
  • From 49% Vanilla to 18%! Lock up your daughters!
  • Last time, I got 35% Primal (Prey). These characters “show their raw, emotional sexual feelings during play. All of the labels, roles, and protocols go out the window, and the prey (you) can become a snarling, growling, clawing animal hell-bent on getting away from its predator.” And now I’m 65%. This sounds fun.
  •  I am a 98% Brat. Or rather, a “naughty submissive” that “finds disobedience a form of playfulness.” This feels so right.

I love looking back and seeing how things change. And how things don’t. And why you should check in and maybe surprise yourself.

 

Read My Sex

I’ve started selling sex stories on Amazon. 

They’re mostly about lesbians and bdsm. Come take a look.

A couple of them are completely new- I haven’t even put them on this blog. If you like the tone of my Elevatrix pieces, you’ll probably like these.

They’re also super cheap. I plan to keep them generally between $0.99 and $1.29. 

I feel really jazzed about this. Let’s express ourselves and put weird stuff on the Internet and see what happens!

There’s more to come… if you like it.

Going to a Sex Party and Not Having Sex

Note: This is very NSFW, which probably goes without saying.

  ***

I didn’t expect an invitation to a sex party when I started my first temp job, but somehow I received one. It was a gig in a call center. In between calls one afternoon, my supervisor (C) sent me an instant message. I guess it was based on a conversation I was having.

“I know a place where you can get booze for free. Top shelf.”

I was vaguely aware that C had an alternative mindset. The week I met him, he blithely mentioned coming from a nude beach vacation with his girlfriend. Such was not the typical water cooler conversation.

That said, I didn’t know the full extent of his lifestyle until that afternoon. Then it all came out at once- that he was the head bouncer at a monthly kink party that moved from mansion to mansion and would we be interested in going to one? Stunned, we both nodded. It was all done quietly but in front of everyone.

There were a few weeks to wonder what would happen and how weird it would be. I’d read some BDSM erotica as a teen, so I decided I knew plenty on the subject (I did not). I thought it boiled down to a frowning brooding man and a slight frightened woman in a corset, doing whatever he said and who even knew what that was.

In reality, there is pain. Sometimes intense, sometimes blood, and sometimes just sensation. It should always be what the recipient has requested. Sometimes it’s not.

On party day, we were given an address and arrival time. We were expected to greet people at the door and check their names off a list, and that would be how we’d earn free drinks all night.

C had described the venue as a lavish mansion. It was actually just a really big, sparsely furnished house. I was placed by the front door at a podium with a list of names. I was incredibly nervous thinking about who I’d have to talk to, and felt like I hopelessly stood out.

For the most part, everyone who came through the door was in street clothes- hoodies and jeans and jackets. At first.

A lot of them were shy when they saw me. Regular humans. Couples. Groups. Piercings and creative hairstyles. I slowly started feeling more at ease. Then the party started. I could wander, I soon saw a lot of things.

Men and women were being flogged on giant wooden crosses. A woman rode on a Sybian (basically a saddle/vibrator hybrid) until she had a huge orgasm. I learned what a vac bed was, and that I did not want to get in it. And I stood by a snack table and ate finger sandwiches and talked to people in elaborate latex outfits.

I met and instantly became infatuated with a beautiful dominatrix. She looked older than me and was wearing incredible black lingerie under a long black trench. Her mouth turned up and she gave me a long once-over, biting her lip.

A man approached her, clad completely in leather except for his dick hanging out, a metal clasp and chain hanging from his testicles. She grabbed the chain (per his request) and pulled. Hard and long. His face twisted into bliss. Not even the slightest sign of pain.

I saw an older man walking around naked and telling young women he was a diplomat. As far as I can tell, that was the extent of his fetish.

At one point, I sat on a couch and had dinner on a plastic plate. A man sat next to me, wearing a pretty, long, and wavy brown wig, a revealing black dress, and heels. We chitchatted and he told me he loved being tied up and left in a closet for hours. I found this fascinating (which is not the same as consent) and he asked if I’d like to do that for him. I politely said no and he was very nice about it.

I also met someone whose fetish was to be turned into a dog by a witch. This, as you’d imagine, is pretty tricky to make happen in reality. So he instead has designed and bought an array of animal outfits made of latex (including cows, dogs, pigs, etc.) and worn them to these parties. When dressing as animals lost its novelty, he ventured into cross dressing, then a sort of adult baby fetish. And so on.

I also met a man who claimed to be a sadist, and who instantly fixed me with a laser-point attention. We kissed a bunch and fell asleep together. It was surprisingly innocent. And yet I later learned that dozens of women at this party were enamored with him, and thus instantly hated me. The way they decided to express this hatred was to gossip like a pack of chickens.

When we woke up, it was morning. Sadist person smiled and said he couldn’t remember the last time he’d fallen asleep just kissing someone. Downstairs, breakfast was being served. The party’s remaining attendees stumbled blearily out into the main area. We all ate pancakes, bacon, and orange juice and looked at each other with mild awkwardness. Some people were still very naked. One guy still had half of an erection. He also had a metal dog collar and what I thought was a tattoo but was actually a permanent mark from getting branded by his master.

So yes. I went to a sex party and didn’t actually have sex.