Earth Shaking

Nothing is sweeter than fucking in the great outdoors.  The gentle breezes caressing your bare skin, the sun kissing your curves, the smells of nature filling your senses, musty earth and coconut-scented sunscreen mingling with sweat and whispered words of love.

I was in high school the first time I had sex in the woods.  We snuck off to have a walk in a nearby meadow, which turned into an adventurous shag on the ground between urban trees.  The best part about it wasn’t the sex, but telling my friends at school about it on Monday.  I felt so rebellious, and it sparked a need in me to have sex in all of the places.

On car bonnets, against trees, in sunny meadows, in shells of abandoned buildings (with barely a wall to speak of), in the beds of pickup trucks, in the ocean, on rooftops, swings, balconies, picnic tables  – there’s nothing better than fucking out in the open.

Especially in nature.  Feeling the grass with my toes and getting dirt under my fingernails makes me feel in commune with everything that has come before me and everything that will come after me.

Nothing is sweeter than fucking in the great outdoors, unless those outdoors are next to a mosquito-infested lake.

Or scratchy sand grating at your knees.

Or next to dogs you’re supposed to be walking who have now stopped running around, parked next to your face, and have started intently staring at you.

It’s not always perfect, but when it is, it’s perfect.  Most of the time.

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Invocation

The first time it happened, she thought it was a fluke.  A trick of the mind.  A grief-induced hallucination.

A year after his death, still mourning, she suddenly remembered a game she used to play as a child.  She would sit in front of her mother’s tall mirror in the dark, one dim flashlight bulb illuminating the reflection in front of her.  Sometimes she played with a friend – but often, she was alone.  She would repeat the name of someone she knew who had passed over and over again until she swore that their face had replaced hers in the mirror.  She stared at the hard shine and watched them watching her, alone together.  She should have been afraid; instead, she was just fascinated that she could reach beyond.  That they came to her when she called.

She was soused when she saw her husband in the mirror.  She’d brought home a stranger from the bar, needing to fuck the pain away.  She lit candles, put on soft music, and asked him to bend her over in front of her boudoir mirror, yank her panties down, and fuck her.  As he railed her, the physical pain overtaking the mental anguish, she looked up at his face, and wondered.  She whispered her husband’s name.  Jayden.  Again.  Jayden.  Inaudible replications, building on themselves, tumbling out of her mouth.

And then she saw him.  Her mouth opened into a silent O that trapped her; she blinked, looked down.  She was drunk.  The room was swaying.  But when she looked back, his face was still there, staring back at her with a familiar combination of love and longing.  Her walls shuddered against the stranger’s cock; his voice gave guttural groans as her husband squeezed his eyes shut, then smiled.

“Oh, god – did I hurt you?”  The pick-up asked.  “Wh-what?” she stammered, jerked back into the moment.  “You’re crying,” he said.  “I guess I just needed some release,” she said and smiled, wiping the tears away.  She thanked him for coming, said she needed time alone,  and rushed him out the door.

The next night, she dressed up in a way she hadn’t done in years.  Put on makeup, straightened her hair, dug her one pair of heels out of the back of the closet.  Not that it took a ton of convincing to get someone to come home with her, but she wasn’t taking any chances.

He was, after all, the love of her life.

 

Mending

The first words ever uttered to me in session were, “Get undressed, bitch.”

I am a fantasy, I thought.  This isn’t real.  I’m not me.  He can’t get to me.  “Yes, master,” I replied calmly.  He saw what he wanted to see: a pretty little girl doing his bidding.  His kink was to be powerful.  To be obeyed with no hesitation.

I existed as a mirage for years, a lucid fantasy concocted in the deep psyches of men.  Half-real and half-dream, floating in and out of the consciousness of my clients.  I’m probably still tucked away in some corner of their minds as a blurred image, a whisper, a tug.  Well – not me, I mean.  Her.

When I tell people I worked in a dungeon, half of them reply, “Oh – you mean that whips and chains stuff?”  I don’t.  I personally never used a whip; they take a remarkable amount of practice and skill to use without incurring unintentional injury.  I have used chains in session, though mostly to hook handles to the ceiling so I could pick myself up and swing my heeled boots deep into someone’s testicles.

People are really surprised when I tell them that most of my sessions in the dungeon were more like therapy.  If a serious masochist came in and wanted to be tortured, we weren’t a good fit – my heart was never in hurting people, and there are a million instruments and toys I just never learned how to use.  I didn’t wear a lot of black leather or bark orders at anyone; there are a LOT of women who do this exquisitely, and I am not one of them.

Likewise, while I thoroughly enjoy pain, I can only handle so much.  And I have no desire to be verbally humiliated – even if I’m being paid for it.  There were clients who came to see me who pushed my limits in ways I explicitly told them I didn’t want them to, and I never saw them again.  She never saw them again.

The clients who came to see her again and again were ships lost at sea who were looking for a safe harbor.  They were mostly people stuck in marriages with spouses who either didn’t approve of their kinks or worse, didn’t care anymore.  Even though the services I provided were ostensibly kinky in nature, they never felt like a media portrayal or performance of what mainstream culture thinks of when it thinks of kink.

I wore slinky dresses, kimonos, or lingerie, made a lot of eye contact, asked questions, spoke in a soothing voice, listened.  I never feigned interest in a client who was sincere.  What I did felt more like somatic therapy – a gentle caress, a loving beating, an acceptance and normalization of wants and needs.  This is what I excel at: empathy.

Don’t get me wrong – there were beatings and bondage and worship (oh my!), role play and anal play (I also excel at finding a prostate), but the vast majority of my sessions were with people who were looking to connect with another human on an intimate level who wasn’t going to shame them.  Many of them just wanted to be seen and heard and cared for earnestly.

Sex workers are therapists and care takers.  We meet clients where they’re at and walk alongside them… or inside of them.  It’s hard work.  Emotional labor is labor, and I was shaken badly by a couple of sessions.  But mostly, my clients brought joy and relief through surrender into my life.  They also taught me everything I know and made me a better kinkster.  I learned on the job from my clients, and that’s why I can now teach The Engineer how to use a cane properly.  Their impact (see what I did there?) on my life reaches far beyond our sessions, and I hope my impact on them does as well.

 

P.S.  For every hour session I did, I worked another hour of prep and clean up.  Tip your sex workers, people.  Sex work is work.  Especially those of you who write out entire dialogues and insist on going back and forth via several emails going over every single detail of the session before going into it – that takes time and effort.

Overflow with Pearl

Many of you have probably, at some point, played this adolescent psychoanalysis game with your friends wherein you describe your favorite (animal / color / place / season / what have you) and it’s supposed to belie a deeper meaning about how you see yourself, how others see you, your worldview, etc.  The last question in the version I learned asks participants to describe the ocean – and it’s meant to be interpreted as the way in which the participant views sex.

Wild.

Calming.

Uncontrollable.

Life-sustaining.

Mysterious.

Dangerous.

Fluid.

Relaxing.

Wet (hardy har).

Nurturing.

Powerful.

Overwhelming.

 

Erotic.

Tempting.

Seductive.

 

One of my favorite films opens on two lovers entwined in the ocean underneath a full moon; they writhe and twist as they kiss, splash, and grind against each other with the assistance of salt water to keep them buoyant.  From the first time I saw this movie, it’s been a fantasy of mine to act this scene out – which mainly involves finding water that’s warm enough and isolated enough to fuck in.

While I don’t eroticize the sea itself, I have a lot of wonderful memories interweaving it with sex and romance.  From making out in a secret water cave during a travel affair in the Philippines to sitting next to a bonfire on Ocean Beach and telling my girlfriend I loved her for the first time to running naked into the sea to wash the cum off of me while beach camping with the Texan, the ocean has always held a special place in my… heart.

I made plans with a partner once to have sex in the ocean while beach camping; we left our tent behind and walked to the shore to shed our clothes.  I dove headfirst into the water so the shock of the cold would wear off; he was not so eager to freeze.  He didn’t even get in up to his knees before backing out, saying maaaaybe we should fuck in the tent instead.  To say I was disappointed would be a major understatement.

Until last summer, I had always loathed the beach; I refused to go with my friends despite living in a city full of beaches.  It wasn’t until I experienced topless / nude beaches for the first time that I finally felt comfortable lying in the sun, sweat dripping down the sides of my breasts, listening to music and inhaling the delightfully coconutty scent of sunscreen.  The first time I got in the sea to swim naked I remember feeling distinctly animated and fluid – and completely unsexualized.  It seems a bit ironic to me that people are more sexualized on beaches that require clothing than beaches that don’t.

Someday I’ll advance my sex-in-the-ocean mission.  The Engineer and I are planning a fun trip next year to a region with lots of tropical beaches, and I think he might be amenable to the idea of wrapping my legs around his hips and plunging himself into me while our soaked bodies smack tightly together, his long fingers entwined in my brine-tangled hair.  Might be.

Kiss Me through the Phone

I’m on a public bus

in a hostel common room

in a café

when my phone rings; he’s video calling me.  My heart rate increases, the beat staccato in my chest.  I hastily slide my thumb up the screen, eager to see his massive hand wrapped around his cock, stroking it for my viewing pleasure.  Sometimes I get wet at the thought of someone else catching a glimpse.

He puts a finger to his lips to demand silence before placing his phone against a wall and resuming his wank.  He’s

at a friend’s house

in a locker room

in a department store changing room

and he’s achingly close.  His long eyelashes flutter and his lips part.  His body rumbles and quakes as semen charges, then oozes out of him.  I ache to lick it off him.

I know this isn’t phone sex in the traditional sense, but technically we’re using our phones?  Then how about this:

Two weeks ago, his mates were staying over at his for a night; they’d all gotten blasted, and he was walking home from the chippy when he gave me a ring.  I started telling him all the things I couldn’t wait to do to him when I arrived in the UK.  He kicked a friend out of his bed when he got home so he could have the room to himself.  Lying in the dark, he whispered all the things I wanted to hear: He’d turn my cheeks to apples, pin my arms with his knees so he could stuff my mouth with his cock, continue licking me no matter how many times I urged him to stop so he could fuck me.  It was a hot summer evening on my end; I, too, isolated myself in the cave of my room, hoping I was quiet enough when my body shuddered and I came all over my hands, the phone pressed tight between my shoulder and my ear, listening to his heavy breathing and whimpers.

We need this.

I’ve been with The Engineer for fifteen months – all of them long-distance.  Phone sex, along with other lusty activities like sharing blog posts and sending dirty pictures, keeps us erotically charged and connected over the 4,000 miles that separate us.  We keep our hearts linked as well – but as we’re both people whose hearts are tethered to our genitals, a transfer of sexual energy is a must.

When I hear his deep voice telling me that he’s touching himself, I often have to excuse myself so that I can do the same… or at least to whisper threats and promises.

Paper Moon

I understand the benefits of pretending to be someone else; being able to act out your fantasies in a safe space is a powerful thing.  The reason I loved reading as a child is because I got to imagine myself as a character in a world wildly different than my own.  I got to go on adventures, be courageous, and do things I could never do in real life.  This is one appealing factor of Dungeons and Dragons, LARPing, cosplay, the Ren Faire, and Halloween parties.

Knights Yield Renaissance Fair Horse Lance
White people are so weird.

I will gladly don a costume and get into character for one of those activities, but when it comes to sex and kink, role play is a big “meh” for me.  I chalk this up to the fact that I’ve done professional sessions as both a domme and a sub, and the roles that my clients prefer me to play (student, nurse, cheerleader, maid, secretary, interrogator…) always feel so cliché to me – like I’m in a bad 1970s porn.  Don’t get me wrong: I have SO much fun playing these roles (oh my god, so much fun!!!) in the same way that I have a great time at costume parties – but the dialogue, characters, cues, and tropes make me laugh rather than turn me on.  I get into my character’s head space and make an effort to be as believable as possible in session because to do otherwise would be a disservice to my clients, but for me, it’s make believe.  A game of pretense that doesn’t feel sexual to me even in an overtly sexual space.  Even when my clients allow me to be myself in session, I’m not me.  I’m the character they see on the website, a woman of a different name, a flawless minx. Add role playing, and it becomes a dream within a dream.

Perhaps because I’ve had to perform roles for work, it doesn’t work for me in real life.  I’d much rather be myself and play with my partners as themselves, because they are the people I choose to be with.  The Engineer doesn’t have to be anyone else other than exactly who he is, because he’s the person I love.  And I don’t want to be someone other than who I am, because who I am is pretty great, and because, well – it feels like work.  I want to be spanked and flogged and caned not because I misbehaved or got bad grades or made a typo, but because I like it.  It feels good.  I want him to tie me up and use me for his pleasure because it makes me happy.  Because it makes him happy. Because it turns us on.  Because it’s him doing it.

Hooked

The very first thing out of every mouth of every friend of mine here in the States to whom I tell I’m dating an Englishman is, “Ooh – does he have a sexy accent?”*  I often tell friends from Ireland and the UK that the whole bit in Love, Actually about a young Brit coming to the US to get laid is realistic.  They think I’m joking, but there are soooooo many Statesiders who become instantly aroused upon hearing a British accent – even when the word snog is used (that word crawls under my skin like the word “moist” does for some people).

I was never one of these people.  I’ve slept with people from many states and countries with many accents and was never particularly drawn to any specific one… until Banger.  It’s funny how a pattern of arousal can develop because of a strong emotional attachment.  Sometimes, you see someone who looks like an ex, and you immediately want to fuck them.  Or you hear a song that brings you back to a hot encounter, and the first person you see becomes much more attractive.  Or you develop a kink with a partner and every time you meet someone associated with that kink, you feel yourself swell a bit.

Globe, Map, Country, Borders, Old

Until this guy, I thought English accents were lovely, but not particularly arousing.  But after he left, his voice stayed with me.  I could hear it drifting around my head for months, an echoing will-o-the-wisp.  Being in London last summer was jarring at times; I’d hear someone say something exactly in the manner in which he would say it, and I’d swear it was him, only to turn my head and find out that his way of saying that word or phrase was just common in London.

The sex we had was so exquisite that British accents became an element of my schema of lust – a piece of unexpected kindling.

While I didn’t have an attraction to accents for the longest time, I’ve always had an attraction to languages.  When someone speaks to me in another language, especially if they’re fluent in two or more languages (and especially if I have no idea what they’re saying), I feel weak in the knees.  This has everything to do with being a sapiosexual and not much to do with any particular language.  I know this because it doesn’t have to be a foreign language; it can just be a jargon specific to a vocation or field of knowledge with which I am unfamiliar.  When someone starts talking about string theory or calculus or speaks in legalese or medical jargon, it has the exact same effect on me.  I just love a person who loves to learn and knows their shit!  That’s sexy.

 

 

 

*Yes.  Yes, he does.

 

Foundation

Although I don’t remember the first time someone put my toes in their mouth (it might have been the boss I had a brief affair with when I was nineteen…?), I do know that I’m forever grateful – it’s something I’ve wanted from every partner since.  There are people who are really freaked out by feet because of their smell or their aesthetic, but I find them to be absolutely beautiful.  Some people who are into feet like their own touched or licked; others like to fondle or worship other people’s feet.  As for me – it’s all the feet all the time.

I wouldn’t consider myself to have a foot fetish per se since I don’t need to touch, see, or think about feet to get off; I just love looking at and touching feet and having mine caressed, licked, and beaten.  I once even had the soles of my feet pierced just for the craic!  I couldn’t dance for a few days afterward, but it was an interesting sensation.  It’s always such a delight telling a new play partner that I like having the bottoms of my feet lightly caned and flogged.  If I’m really into someone and generally like their smell, I love smelling their feet, too, and have never been grossed out by sock lint between toes or football-induced blood blisters*.  I stare a bit too long at high arches and relish the feeling of big, strong hands wrapped around my feet.

There was a time long ago when I was hosting someone from out of state for a dance exchange; he was giving me a massage and started rubbing my feet.  “Oh, no you don’t,” I said – “If you touch my feet, you’re going to have to fuck me.”  I must have taken him by surprise, because he gently let my foot down and told me that he guessed he would have to concentrate on my back.  I was thrilled when I went to visit him months later and, walking upstairs from a wine bar, he pinned me against the wall and whispered into my ear, “I think I’m ready to massage your feet now.”  See?  Intoxicating.

This is why, on the second evening I ever spent with The Engineer, I laughed when he drunkenly suggested sticking a toe in me while we were taking a bath together.  “Go for it!” I said.  “It’s just a toe.”  He did, and it was quite a bonding experience.  Also why I will laugh for ages and ages every time I hear Rachel Lark’s song “Fuck My Toe” (that whole album is fabulous; I highly recommend giving it a listen).  Saying yes to something so small let him know that if he could ask for silly sexy things, then it might be okay to ask for other secret desires to be met down the road.  Kind of like a podiatric litmus test.

All of this is to say that feet are my jam.  My toe jam, as it were.  They are our very foundation.  They ground us, they move us, they carry us up mountains and down canyons and into forests and rivers, and they give us the ability to dance and play and run free.  They connect us to the earth and to each other.  What’s not to worship?

 

 

 

 

*I’m looking at you, honey.

Brought To My Senses

I close my eyes and think of scratching.  I see the pale skin and broad shoulders of my first love, the one who faced his back to me whenever we fell asleep together (his parents let me sleep in his bed with him when we were high school students, which I still find shockingly progressive) and asked me in a plaintive voice to scratch his back, followed by a relieved and happy sigh.

I feel my nails – always bare and cut short, but no less sharp – dig into the haunches of a dozen lovers, carried away with scraped-out longing for my legs to spread wider so they can be deeper inside of me.

I smell pine needles as bark scratches against my hip bones and hands while The Texan fucks me hard against a tree just off a hiking trail.  We can see a hiker walking by 150 meters away; we don’t stop.

I taste a lover’s cunt in my mouth as she begs me to scratch her, to bite her, to just fucking mark her in any way I can and god make it hard.  Make it hurt good.

I hear the sharp intake of my sub’s breath as he feels the tips of my steel claws, not knowing what they are or what I’m going to do with them.  I scratch them lightly up the inside of his thigh and punctuate his scrotum, walking up his balls with the tips.  I press them harder into him until he cries out – and then I press a bit harder.  I tell him to turn around and drag them slowly down his back, his ass, and hope that the marks vanish before he goes home.  Claws leave beautiful, precise marks – and you don’t need to press very hard to leave evidence.

I love having any kind of marks on my body, and scratch marks are no exception; when someone accidentally scratches me during sex and apologizes, I press their nails harder into my body and whisper, “I’m your canvas.  Paint me red.”

 

Grown

My freshman year in high school, my closest friend (on whom I had an immense crush) and I walked through the halls, clicking away on the tiles with our brand-new, matching, shiny white gogo boots.  We wore miniskirts and lip gloss; we linked arms and sashayed into rooms like we owned the joint.  It wasn’t just that the heels on the boots made our legs more shapely; it was the way we had to bend down to zip and unzip them*, the way the line of the boot draws the eye upward, the way poise is affected by confidence is affected by poise.  A feedback loop.  I felt untouchable – an intoxicating emotion for a fifteen year-old who criticizes and doubts everything about herself.

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My father was in the military for thirty years, so I’ve always associated boots with power.  When he would head off for weekend or summer trainings, he shined his boots beforehand ‘til they glowed like fresh ink on a typewriter page.  He laced them lightning quick, ready to go in an instant in case of emergency.  When I smell shoe polish, I think of his nimble fingers pulling the strings just so and whipping them around hooks before tying bunny ears.  There are pictures of me as a toddler stomping around the house in his big black boots – laces undone, dragging on the floor.  I was in Nepal on a hike when I realized that I lace and unlace my boots just like he used to, and it made me cry in the middle of the mountains.

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I’ve worn boots as both a domme and sub in session; I’m a bottom by nature, and it can be difficult for me to inhabit a dominant headspace.  Attire makes a huge difference!  I know that a true dominant can do all their domly domming no matter what they’re wearing, but… I’m just not a top.  Wearing boots is the number one thing – at least from a physical standpoint – that helps me get into a dominant role.  Be it cowboy boots used to step on someone’s dick (love that guy), heavy, thigh-high black vinyl boots being worshipped by a man on his hands and knees, or – any boots, really – used to boost my height and assertiveness, boots make me feel in command.  Self-possessed.  A force to be reckoned with*.  I feel like my fifteen year-old self: swaying my hips, begging to be looked at, and acting grown up – not even really knowing what that means.

*…or a snow bunny.

*