Who's your Daddy?

Uh, sorry, our credit runner's out of order. 

Damn it all to hell. I love my little, independent, locally-roasted coffee shop, but these are issues to be expected: constant technical disfunction and general inconsistency. I can relate on a personal level, but I don't carry any cash on me as a general rule because it winds up slipping away like sand between a drooling child's open fingers. And so, frustration.

I got this one, Babe.  

Igor to the rescue! I smile and twirl one of my pigtails -- he likes when I put on a show. I lean over and give him an exaggerated peck on the cheek, look up at him with baby-doll eyes and squeak in a "little" voice:

Thanks, Daddy...

His eyes roll and then land in a stare that clearly communicates that he's over the theatrics. He puts his wallet away and as he turns, he throws his next words over his left shoulder like spilt salt:

Don't call me "Daddy". 

Hurt and a little stunned, it takes me a moment before I realize that I'm standing at the counter alone. I absentmindedly pull the elastic out of one pigtail as I wander to the table where he's sitting in his usual Dominant stance. He's cooler than the iced coffee.

Why don't you call Bacon your "Daddy?" He's old enough to be. 

I hate to jump to conclusions, but it seems that someone's feeling a little insecure.

He's only 32. That would make him a very virile 7 year old. 

Whatever, Sweets. It's just not my bag.  

Fair enough, I guess. The other pigtail comes out.

__________________ 

I'm at the beginning of my cycle, and Fangs has been taking really sweet care of me. Belly rubs, back rubs, neck rubs, every kind of rub, basically. He took me to all my favorite places in the city and then he took me to dinner and a movie. He selflessly guided me to orgasm to relieve my cramps and he fed me chocolate. When I was moody, he held me and told me I was beautiful until I felt better.

As much as he treats me like a princess, Fangs really does look like a Nordic prince. His long, fine hair rests in soft curls on his broad, strong shoulders. He looks at me with his disarmingly golden eyes, smiles, and offers me a giant hand clad in every opportunity with silver metal to help me into the vehicle.

You take such good care of me... 

Well, you're my baby, you know that?

The following debate takes place in my head in following .5 seconds: I'm going to say it. I'm not going to say it. *Breathe* Don't say it -- Remember last time? Oh, for fuck's sake, just get over yourself and say it. If it doesn't go over well, just have a little grace and laugh it off...

Does that make you my Daddy? 

I'm afraid to make eye contact, but when I look up at him from the car, I see a wide grin and four fangs.

I guess it does...

He chuckles to himself as he goes around to the driver's side, and I bubble inside.

Blood Hungry

The wiry black hairs of his tarantula hands tickled my skin as his thick fingers crawled slowly across it. The sensation made me shiver and giggle. He grinned mischievously, revealing four perfectly pointed fangs that framed two rows of dull pearls. He drooled as a wet bit of lengua meat moistened his lips and his eyes rolled back into his skull. This possessed expression descended over him like a shroud and he sunk his fangs deep into my flesh. I writhed, moaned, arched, and grunted. He purred in a low growl as he decorated my neck, back, shoulders, and hips in blood blisters, encouraged by my guttural approval.
He stopped, and I fell limp.

Tired? 

No... it's just... it's relaxing.  

I could barely speak and so he continued the delicious torture, raking his sharpened teeth over the landscape of my body. His hand slowly creeped its way up my leg and its probing mandible cautiously fingered the torn hem of my shorts at the inside of my thigh.

May I?

I'm a sucker for a gentleman.

He entered me, and I thought I might die. If I had, I'm not sure if it would have deterred him.

________________

So, what? You're writing spider porn now? 

It's a metaphor.

Whatever. But I mean, is it a spider? Or a vampire? Or what?

Like I said, the tarantula thing was an image. But it's non-fiction. 

What are you talking about.

It happened. (pause) The guy has fangs.

You fucked someone who had their teeth sharpened? Jesus Christ, of course you did...

No, they were natural. He has real fangs. 

What the fuck are you talking about? Nobody has real fangs. 

I don't know what to tell you. This guy does.

Whatever. I bet you'll tell me he used magnums too.

Well, yeah.

Jesus Christ... 

For the record, fiction's not really my thing.

___________

Fangs could be a vampire, I suppose. From his long hair and massively broad stature to his sweetly romantic nature and comic Boston accent, there is something mythic about him. The way he smells drives me insane; it must be something in his blood. I could kiss him for hours, if only to keep my face in his and become intoxicated on his scent. It reminds me of what Dr. Christopher Ryan (co-author of Sex at Dawn) said about lovers' scent attraction and genetic compatibility. What a sexy thought... Evolution itself wants us to fuck.

I told my buddy about you.

Oh yeah? What'd he think?

Well, (blushes) he wasn't surprised to hear you're an artist... 

Ah, you have a history with creative types, huh?

I don't want you to feel reduced to a type, but yeah, it's who I tend to go for. The ying to my yang, you know... I hope that doesn't offend you.

Oh no, not at all. I've noticed a recent pattern myself, and you're just my type. 

Oh yeah? What's your type?

Tall goth metal heads with motorcycles and huge cocks. 

Wicked.  

Do you feel reduced?

Yeah... but I like it.  

If he is a vampire, he may just be the goofiest undead on this earth. I find myself incredibly endeared to him; his intimidating stature and harsh aesthetic are balanced by his undeniably human tenderness. I feel safe when I'm around him, protected, and sane.

Non-Verbal Communication for Alt-Sex

The presentation I led at Open SF Conference 2012, of Open, Poly, or Ethically Non-Monogamous in the Bay Area, had a mouthful of a name:

Honing Non-Judgmental Communication through Touch and Movement

It's the kind of name where one would have to chew on each and every word to really hear it as a whole. The kind of name where, when I said it, people would stare back blankly and nod: "Uh huh." I wasn't sure what turn out was going to be like.  I wasn't sure if I could reach the sexy and political people at this sexy and political conference with my content: movement exercises introducing the basics of contact improvisational dance in a non-sexual touch-therapy context. The alt-sex community tends to be defined by sex, and so naturally it crossed my mind that asking for non-sexual and highly tactile participation might result in mutiny. 

My mother asked me what some of the other workshops being presented were:

"Debunking the Myths of Anal Fisting, Negotiating Successful Threesomes, Pansexual Poly-Sluts in Leather, Writing Group Sex, and Fat Sluts, Hungry Virgins."

All of these real (and very cool!) workshops came to mind immediately.
While my mom is awesome, some things just don't need to be shared between us. What I actually said was:

"Uh, I think... there's a writing workshop... some guided meditation or something... a thing where we take pictures of each other and talk about how we are perceived... and like, I don't know, some other communication-y stuff." 

Yeah, I'm not so great with that thing they call "tact."

But what did a dance workshop have to do among all this?

This workshop is less a dance class and more an exercise in bravery and openness. Improvisation is essential practice in releasing oneself to say "yes" and to play. Intimacy, while it includes sex, is not confined or defined by sex. It is defined by communication, and communication is not restricted to spoken language. As you can see in the video, these two people are communicating perfectly in their own language, though one is a pre-verbal infant. Through loving touch they speak to each in a language of movement, one that can't be translated into post-Babel meaning. It is pure communication, a language that only exists in the moment it is shared and it is without technique, symbols, or the possibility of real documentation. 

Any relationship relies on communication skills, but the unconventional relationship structures enjoyed by the alt-sex, poly, and BDSM community require a particularly enormous amount of emotional bravery. While our specific lifestyle labels may often be defined by the sex we enjoy, the intimacy of our relationships and our identities are not. As much as sexual pro/recreation is natural and necessary, so too is the healing power of loving non-sexual touch, which is why we humans need and crave it. The goal is to gain awareness of how we interact physically with our loved ones, our community, and the world around us, to hone our connection to our non-sexual and non-violent physicality, and to learn to communicate with each other in new ways. 

In terms of communication skills, we sometimes get caught up in the didactic. I'd like to share with you a visceral way of learning in the realm of loving communication. The majority of this workshop will be movement exercises in groups, but at the end we will discuss what we experienced. The aim of the ending discussion is to begin to mentally "pack it up" so that we may hopefully take something of it away with us and into our lives.

Igor was skeptical that I would pull off my presentation. I hadn't told him anything of it, any of the above, didn't mention my plans. I may have led him to believe I would just "wing it." He looked increasingly nervous before the class, probably in part for me but also because he is *not* a mover. Still, he had committed to participate and there he was, dutifully and bravely in front, on my right hand side. But there was a moment during the exercises as I went around the room checking on the groups where I caught a glimpse of him having a moment. His partner was a much older woman with very long silver hair and they had been strangers up until just a moment ago. Yet, here they were in beautiful physical harmony. The look of pure ecstatic joy on both of their faces was so moving, I had to look away to stay focused.

After the workshop ended, Igor and others staggered out of the room with illuminated expressions and I knew I had, as Sparky would put it, "done a good."

Lost and Found

The exhilaration of screaming my head off at 120 mph with only two wheels and a vibrating death machine underneath me sweeps it all clean. I am assured with a definite clarity that I am alive, if only because at any second I might no longer be. I scream until hoarse, not out of fear -- well, yes, fear -- but also because I'm so fucking happy to exist in these moments that it can't be contained. Igor chuckles evilly at my puny screams as we careen down the highway on his hot red CBR and, feeling generous, pops a wheelie.

_____________ 

"PREPARE TO DIE."

My proclamations are more ironic than anything as Igor and I lose to each other in chess. He grins at me from across the pathetic looking checkered battlefield and considers his equally futile counter-move, eventually choosing the rook.

"Thank you for coming with me today."

I finger one of my conquered pawns, a brave lost warrior, as I scan my options silently.

"You really mean a lot to me, you know."

I opt for the horse thing, which I move around his horse in a little waltz. Clearly, chess is my game. I sigh and bring up my eyes to meet his searching gaze.

"I'm glad I finally got to meet your mother."

We had paid her a visit, armed with a dozen pink roses for Mother's Day. He was uncharacteristically quiet, but I didn't wonder why. The weather was beautiful, clear, hot, I could smell the grass. After a long pause, Igor took from the bouquet a single rose, which he presented to me. I wiped at my tears and smiled. He is so brave, even in the face of grief.

"She would be so proud of the man you've become."

We held each other for a long time before we hopped on the bike and left the graveyard.

_______________

An impromptu hike led us to pad through the redwoods in search of cool water in which to bathe our overheating bodies. Neither of us were appropriately attired, he in his usual steampunk regalia and I in gothic biker leather, but the trees didn't seem to mind. They were too ancient to care and besides, their sentience knows nothing of fashion. It seemed like a good place to talk things through.

"I mean, he couldn't possibly be more compatible for you than me, so it's not that I'm threatened." 

Part of me accepts his compatibility assessment as truth without question, but the majority of me disbelieves the perceived lack of threat in his mind. I kicked a pine cone with a steel-toed boot.

We've known each other for so long, since before we were individuals, it's almost impossible for me to conceive of our relationship in it's entirety. We were kids when we first kissed, and now we have evolved into what Igor calls, "black-belt relationship territory." Sometimes we still act like kids, but I think the key is to be patient with each other, and to know when to say, "I'm sorry."

"I love you."

"Love you back." 

 _________________

"Whatever happens tonight, don't fuck me with this."

I said this with a stern look on my face as I held up my wooden cocktail muddler. Old Fashioned's are my specialty and for this drink, a muddler is key. It did have a nice rounded dildo-esque shape to the handle, so I assumed it would have crossed his mind. Judging from the smirk that grew across his face as he stared at the tool, I began to realize that I shouldn't have said anything at all. I reasoned in vain.

"I don't want... splinters."

Hours later I found myself bound in industrial saran wrap and lain prone over a large ottoman. My mouth was gagged and I was blindfolded. I was bound so thoroughly in the plastic I could only futilely writhe like a pathetic fuck-larvae as I was being beaten by several hands and fucked by one of our guests. My blindfold was removed as Igor kissed my face. He had something to show me.

"See? No splinters."

He replaced my blindfold and proceeded to fuck my cunt with my cocktail muddler, which he had protected with a condom.  I giggled as much as I could in said state, and was awash with love for the insolence that can also drive me crazy.

More Igor!
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Igor, Conquerer of my Heart

My birthday is coming up next month, as is my glorious return Stateside.

"I had an idea for your party, but I'm not sure you'll be into it."
"Lay it on me."
"Well, you know, it would just be a good party. Good music, some delish food, good company, obviously... but while all this is going on, I was thinking you would actually be bound in another room for the pleasure of the guests to use. Gang-rape style."

The following are 5 points on why I love my boyfriend.

Pets

“Do you think this is cat meat?”

Sweetie leaned over my ambiguous meatballs in indeterminable sauce and sniffed.

“No, but mine is definitely rabbit,” he concluded as he shoveled another greasy spoonful into his mouth.

I’ve been learning a lot lately. I’ve learned that under a certain price point, the kebab is likely dog or cat meat. I prefer cat, as it turns out. I don’t know if I’ll be able to look my adorable pet feline in the eyes when I get home. Ironically, Sweetie is never phased by eating rabbit or dog, even though he has recused a cat companion, but he won't eat fish. 
"Fish aren't food, they are for aquarium."
Apparently tuna doesn't count, because it comes from a can. 

I also learned from my Turkish lady friend that Sweetie is seen as an Apaçi (as in "Apache", the Native American group). I asked Sweetie what an Apaçi is, he said that it's an insulting term that light skinned Turks call dark skinned (read: Kurdish) Turks. According to him, Apaçi hang out on street corners, get wasted, and rob people because they have nothing better to do than dance to techno music, gel their hair, and admire their white shoes. He was insulted, and silently went back to his food.
"I am the furthest from Apaçi."
I eyed his hoop ear piercing as we ate and watched the game on the overhead TV – it was Russia versus Real Madrid. The Spaniards had a new Turk on their team, the whole lokanta watched with abated breath.

Sweetie’s been keeping me fed 2-3 times a day, more than I was used to on my own. He likes to take care of me. I’m his pet, his princess. There’s no water or heat in the apartment, so I’m cold and filthy. Still, we find ways to keep warm. He's kept me placated with pleasure. Maybe he’s not taking care of me out of love, maybe he’s feeding me simply so I’ll stay alive. I’m beginning to feel like an addict, like all other activities besides fucking him are simply frustrating intermissions to the real act of living.

Sweetie loves to rape his little princess. Both of us report feeling the buzzing high and the injury, our respective parts throbbing from desire and sore from its frantic fulfillment. He promised not to fuck me for two days so we could both heal, but almost immediately that dark, hungry expression fell over his face. I squirmed in fear and discomfort, but he held me down and took me exactly as he wanted to. Having surrendered to pleasure, we collapsed on the couch as double-decker skin bags covered in cold sweat and other fluids. Exhausted, we managed to fall asleep this way, melting and sticking together.

I’m his pet and his slave. He doesn’t like when I go out on my own or with friends, he doesn’t like when I have a drink. He's told me that he doesn’t like my long hair, that I wear makeup, the sound of my voice, or my name. He doesn’t like the music I listen to or my jokes. He hates that I have other boyfriends and he hates my perverted friends, saying:

“At least murderers I can understand culturally.”

I took a pregnancy test and he was upset that it came out negative. Every fiber of my body and mind screams, “HE IS TRYING TO IMPREGNATE YOU: RUN!”

Sometimes he shakes me awake in the middle of the night to tell me that he loves me so much, he can't stand it and that I have to hear it again, to know it. In my head I scoff and think that he couldn't love me because he doesn't even like me. He's manic. 


He told me I looked fat in a picture. I slapped him across the face. I’m starting to think that perhaps we aren’t very compatible, after all. If the sex weren't there, maybe nothing would be left. 


Meet Sweetie HERE and drool at our hot moments described in The Golden Cage and Snapshots. 
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The Golden Cage

There was a sweaty pause punctuated by asthmatic wheezings. Sweetie leaned over  me, dripping and struggling for breath, grasping wildly for his inhaler.

"I don't want to die before you love me."

He had just been screaming. It was about halftime of one of our marathons. I don't understand how a man who is not on medication can go so long and stay so hard and hungry... but it's perfect. My delayed orgasms allow me to enjoy filth for hours before finally collapsing into a twitching mass.  He was forcing himself on me hard, interweaving nasty commentary and loving orders, screaming with pleasure when he finally came close. Our activities had become so aerobic, he had to stop, or else his heart would have stopped first. The wailing call to prayer sounded to score inappropriate melancholy under the moment.

I had been screaming too: he is so large that at his fullness, he is often either ripping me apart or punching me in the cervix. It's painful, but also wonderful. I love how he shoves himself into my narrower passageway, pushing in deep and fast... I struggle and cry out and he hushes me, saying:

"I know, I know... don't worry my love, it's ok...it's ok."

I take comfort and fly with pleasure, even in the pain. I think of sex and death, impermanence and it's counterpart.

"If you try to leave me, I just kill you and make [jumpsuit] out of your skin."
Şaka, şaka... jokes, jokes. 

I can see the shining bars falling into place... we are becoming slave to one another, to the insanity, wistfulness, and impracticality of our affections. He wants me to "belong to him" -- he in essence wants to collar me, without knowing that specific terminology or the BDSM culture aspect. If I told him about that, he probably wouldn't care. Despite the violence, love, and power play we do engage in, the emotional significance of "belonging" is enough for him, regardless of leather.

As a non-monogamist already involved in other relationships, this sort of talk is disconcerting. As per usual, I have no idea what I am doing. I enjoy being a slave to him, but I wonder if I should escape the country before the bars of gilded insanity and ownership become welded around me. I don't know at this point if I will stay or if I will go -- I have relationships to honor back in the U.S. and people I love. What keeps me from returning is a certain terror of my own disillusionment: I scoff at the idea that America is the land of opportunity (if anybody actually still believes that anymore). I don't know if I can swallow returning to my pseudo posh service industry job and all the bullshit that it entails knowing that I haven't yet achieved what I came to Istanbul for. Maybe the problem is that I don't know what that is, so I might never find it. Haunting questions come to mind: am I numbing this doubt with compulsive behavior bordering on addiction with Sweetie? Have I been doing this my whole adult life? (But is it such a terrible thing, anyway, to do so?)

If someone I trusted called me a fool, I would be inclined to agree. Scales of optimism are tilting: I hope I'm learning the hard way, otherwise my life will just be "the hard way" without learning. We'll see. All I want is to be free, and to learn to love the people in my life without destroying them. Maybe for their sake I should be kept in a cage after all. (That sounds awfully narcissistic -- what to do?)

Meet Sweetie for the first time HERE and enjoy more sexy anecdotes HERE. 
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Snapshots

Istanbul: My whole body is sore. I move slowly down snow-packed cobble stone streets, walking with the caution of an old lady. This is partly because I hurt, I'm dizzy from endorphin overload and lack of sleep, and partly because I've already fallen twice on slippery hard ice. Still, those slips can't account for all the bruises decorating my knees, thighs, and ass. People on the street look at me like I'm insane for walking around in an area like this by myself -- I'm living in Istanbul's equivalent of the Tenderloin.

I get to my place and thankfully the keys work smoothly this time, before the gypsy teenagers who are always hanging out on the corner can saunter over to my doorstep to intimidate.  Even the starving street cats keep their distance. I melt into the heat of my foyer and catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror -- limping, battered, wild mane of piled knotted hair, a dull stare, and a stupid grin from ear to ear: "ohhh..." it sets in. I look totally fucking insane.

I spent the night with Sweetie again. We've made love eight times in two consecutive days, sometimes for hours each time, and yet it doesn't seem to be enough. I'm not surprised I look like a nut case. After several attempts of getting up, getting dressed, and greeting the daylight (all of which ended in ever fervent fucking turned loud consensual rape on various furniture pieces in various rooms) we finally made it outdoors. By the time we finished breakfast, it was 7:30PM and he was late to work by several hours. But he didn't seem too concerned. I was more than happy to gaze at him over our Turkish style scrambled eggs (menemen) as he spoke passionately about social activism for disabled children in the tea-growing region near the Black Sea. Dreamy.

I make it up the stairs to my bathroom and spend the next half hour liberating my hair from it's dreadlocked state. I'm thinking of Sweetie, our conversations...
"You look so unsuspecting but you're so kinky..."
"What is 'kinky? What is it meaning?"
"Well, it's just... everything that you do in bed."
----
"Tell me what you want -- teach me!"
His pleas were met only with whimpering moans of pleasure. I was enjoying myself thoroughly, he wasn't in need of instruction. Besides this, I had decided that I didn't like to speak to him in bed. Next to his accent, thick and sweet like grape molasses, my own voice sounded clumsy and boorish, inseparable from it's Americanness, and it turned me off to hear it.

He responded desperately and energetically.
"I want to learn, I want to know how to please you! Don't you understand? I want to be with you... Can't you understand that?! I want to be with you."
He stopped making love to me and put his head between his hands. He breathed hard, reached for a glass of water, spilled it, and jumped up to protect my notes and papers from the liquid. He forfeited to the mess that he had become and sunk to the ground, placing his hands back on his head again, a position that seemed to quiet the voices of doubt and anxiety.

He is naked, hard, muscular, and thin, with coffee-and-cream colored skin and wild black hair that stands straight up from his scalp. Even while prostrated, reaching out only with a shaking velvet voice, he is powerful and masculine. I'm a little terrified of this man, notably because he is insane, and that is exactly why in this moment I felt love for him although I still do not pretend to understand him. I reflected on my thoughts: that he does not know me, and that of what he does know, I could not possibly be impressive to him. And yet I don't judge him loving what he have, regardless of our not understanding each other. In fact, I admire him for it, though I'm aware that I probably shouldn't.
----
"Why you were so cold to me last year?"
A year ago we met at the alternative workshop and performance space he runs in an underground cave in the city. I didn't even know if he liked women, but I just thought he was the cutest and I had a big fat crush on him. Naturally, as my selective anxiety would dictate, I didn't give him the time of day.
"Why you didn't hug and kiss me to say hello?"
He recounted to me in detail everything about our few interactions, even down to what I had been wearing. He told me that we had exchanged some long eye contact -- I remembered it too, but had dismissed it as a mirage in the hot desolation of my loneliness at the time. He had been waiting for me for talk to him, but when I did, I had said:
"Hey man, where's the bathroom?"
I wasn't quite the seductress then. I had fled to Turkey for the months following an escape from the burning broken shambles of a serious monogamous relationship I had left behind in a small country in Eastern Europe. First thing I had done in Turkey was rebound with the exact wrong person and I fell on my own sword again. I didn't feel good. Even though I liked and was fascinated by him at the time, my heart, trying to heal itself, wasn't open. And I didn't know how to reach him in that state, or how to want to.
I explained to him that I was shy. His only response was to kiss my face, hug me, and we fell asleep like that.
"I like holding you this way... it make me feel you belong to me. That you're my women."

Meet Sweetie HERE, and read more about my experience in Turkey HERE. 
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Face Soup

The first inquiry is usually: "Who's face was it?"
"I don't... sometimes I don't ask questions."
Followed by: "Well... was it good?"
"It was better than the stomach stew."

Istanbul: I'm in the modest living room of my handsome musician friend who happens to be Kurdish-Turkish-Armenian -- a politically volatile pedigree in Turkey. Turks and Balkaners say Kurds are "voodoo people," liable to be liars, gangsters, and thieves.
"Yes, but being Armenian is even worse..." he chuckles, deciding between his Persian tar and his Greek lute.
I don't have the experience or the blood memory to fully understand these kinds of aggressive racial-cultural accusations or to have their meaning resonate in my bones. I do know, however, that my friend is a sweetie -- he's good natured, good humored, talented, and clean of heart. As he plucked out haunting micro-tuned melodies on his lute in 11, 15 and 7 time signatures ("the ladies must love this guy," I thought), I tried catching on to the beat as best I could.
"Us Westerners are used to 4 or 3," I said.
"Ok, so we play something in 9."
3 times 3 is close enough, I suppose.
[As a passionate side note, I love beats divisible by three -- I've always been naturally drawn to waltzes and vals. There's a symmetry in trinity that I'm attracted to, though I didn't even notice it until I started drumming.]

After we played our fill of exotic odd meter, the subject of food came up.
"So... it is soup, made of face (tongue, cheeks, eyes, you know), and you put much vinegar in, and much boiled garlic, chili flakes... and all this helps the smells."
"What smell?"
"The smells of... face."
SOLD.  Garlic and offal? Perfectly monstrous date-food. I couldn't possibly imagine something further from my hungry imagination, so of course I had to try it.
"This is normally food Turks only drink when very drunk, so if you are to have to soup you must have some of this first," a swig of ouzo.
This guy is into Greece. Charming.

Now I'm not saying it was the face soup, nor am I positing that the rambling Benigni film that followed was the most erotic thing ever, and for the record, though strong, a single swig of ouzo isn't obliterating. Perhaps it was some gypsy voodoo from this guy's bloodline, but some kind of aphrodisiac ("padişa macunu" in Turkish) magic happened that resulted in the two of us making love like it was our call to prayer - roughly four times in 12 hours. And roughly. This guy is so sweet, with an extreme gentleness towards cats and a kind of soft fairy voice that at first had me question his orientation, that the impressive cock that hung below his skinny-man six pack and the perverse energy with which he wielded it took me by surprise, which was more intoxicating than the ouzo. I wasn't expecting anything from our date except for some music, but Sweetie gave it to me like man for hours and hours, somehow tapping into fetishes I wouldn't speak aloud and executing them with an unforgiving panache. All of this perverted exuberance was punctuated by peacefully entwined hugging naps, endless marathons of tender kisses, and quiet exclamations such as "My beauty! My beauty... you make me so happy."

What the fuck? What kind of sorcery is this? Where the fuck did this guy come from? He doesn't wear leather gear or bondage raver pants, or for that matter have anything about his demeanor, outward appearance, or media taste that would suggest that he is anything other than a sensitive, sweet, well-traveled musician. In fact, his Nepalese sweaters would make me think otherwise, but the fact is that not only is he one filthy-sick lover, he is also the king of aftercare! This guy should teach workshops, god damn it, and he doesn't even know what the subject's called.

It occurred to me at some point in the seduction process that perhaps this guy's voodoo power was from sheer slutty experience. The persistent thought arose, that sex as an end-game shouldn't be rewarded -- that's how girls are taught to protect themselves, that their sex should only be doled out to those worthy by seemingly arbitrary factors. But who am I to guess what Sweetie's end game is? Even after his second orgasm, even after MY second orgasm, even into the present, he's made me feel cherished and loved, and I love sharing pleasure with him. Whether his endgame is the love or the sex, and the other is simply a part of his emotional/sexual "slut-style," I'm into it!

What's the punch line here: Don't judge a Kurd by his soup? Offal the name of love? Hey baby, I want your face-soup? Now accepting entry related pun submissions in the comments...

Secret Slave

The sound of the fierce slap I had planted on his face silenced the pub. It was the kind of triple exclamation mark that makes stomachs sink, like the sound of glass breaking in an expensive restaurant.

Infuriated, I grabbed my things: a purse, a jacket, and a bag of nasty food and booze splattered work clothes. I delivered my next line from between gritted teeth, just before storming out into the cold:

"You're welcome, asshole."

It felt good. 

After a second or two, the stun wore off. He forgot to keep playing it cool and chased after me. "I'm sorry I'm such an jerk... I don't know any other way to be. I'm trying to stop... I'm sorry," pleaded the thickheaded man as he kissed my furrowed brow. I blinked my tearful eyes hard as I loathed myself for my feelings. A criminal record including two restraining orders for violent destruction of property as well as a DUI, the emotional maturity and communication skills of a child with Asperger's without the elevated IQ, dead beat tendencies, a sty of a room in his parents' house as a grown man, and lastly, painfully, an innocent unwitting monogamously programmed girlfriend? How much more evidence did I need that this guy was nothing but trouble and stupid to boot? And yet... maybe it was an energetic thing resulting from a past life of being torrid lovers... or maybe it was his freakishly mammoth dick... but in any case, the only way I could identify my feelings for this stupid piece of shit was, foolishly, love. 

Ever since I started working there, we'd been aware of each other, though we didn't share a word for months. I started out as front of house and came into the kitchen rarely. When I did, I could count on him gazing at me. Gazing turned into staring, then staring turned into meditative intent. Maybe on occasion I stared back.
We broke the ice awkwardly. A comment or two here and there, and innocuous question. I left for a month to travel - It was during this time he collected a girlfriend.

I came back and was promoted, finding myself flitting between the front and back of house - the difference being that the front of house required a certain finesse of politesse, and the kitchen required a sharp tongue.  In no time, I found myself barking acerbic teasings in a battle of wits. 

All the other guys saw something was there between us, and teased endlessly. Banter was silly, something like:

     me: "I just wanna do good"

     him: "uh, don't you mean do well? I thought you went to an ivy league school"

     me: "I thought you went to beer camp instead of school." 

OR

     me: "He showed me a picture of his girlfriend last night that he really shouldn't show to other people..."

     <moment of uncomfortable silence in the kitchen>

     me: "It was of her face."

     <moment of schadenfreude jubilation in the kitchen>

OR 

     chef: "Hear that, man? She broke up with her boyfriend!"

     him: "You mean there's a slot in her stable? No thank you..."

     me: "That metaphor's relevant because you look like a horse." 

...and so on. 

I started to get high on cutting him down. This guy took cuts like a champ, but eventually I started to see pain in his sad little face - it was then when I finally realized he had feelings that I resolved to be nice. I asked him if he wanted a beer after work, he accepted, and you know, he wasn't that bad. He even paid for my beer. Pretty soon it got to be a post-shift tradition, and it was alright. I even looked forward to it. 

Things got out of hand when we started talking about kink.

At first it was a casual discussion of sexual preferences and various city kink club scenes worth frequenting and our experiences there, as well as the ones we hoped to have. Soon after I found myself driving 45 minutes out of my way to a shit hole ghetto thinking: "fuck fuck fuck, what am I doing, fuck..."

Next thing I knew he was silently, solemnly, and even gently leading me up the stairs.

Next thing I knew he was carefully peeling my clothes off, with the tenderness and respect one would disrobe an expensive porcelain doll, a collector's item. 

Next thing I knew he was asking me, "What do you want?" My hunger to own him was so great, I allowed a clichéd response to slip from between my lips: "You."

Next thing I knew he was piercing my being. He held that familiar yet disarming gaze with me, a look of such unprecedented sincerity that I feared my heart my stop beating at any moment like a bunny that dies in the arms of the child who squeezes it too tightly.

After our little deaths we lay limp among the twisted sheets with the embarrassment of our sincerity, nakedness, and pressing guilt for our lack of regret seeping in, along with our sweat.
When we were finally able to move and enjoy critical thought again, the issue at hand presented itself: being tender with each other was kind of beside the point.

We went to a bar. He pissed me off. I dragged him back to his room. I tied him up and beat the crap out of him in a manner from which I am sure he still retains scars. Physical or emotional, it doesn't matter to me which. All that mattered was that he was, in that moment, my slave to abuse.

I finally unshackled him and ordered that he fuck me like a man this time. Such an erotic rage was unleashed, I thought he would split me, rip me apart. He violated me with delicious conviction and in doing so exacted retribution for his humiliation. "Is this what you wanted?" he hissed beyond his tensely veined neck, gritted teeth, and focused glare. Between my cries, I could only nod yes as he continued to forcefully ravage. (Heaven.)

Nothing about that experience could change the fact of "the girlfriend" matter. She was as good as he was going to get in terms of serious life partners and I applaud her for swallowing his hot load of royal fuck up with a relatively impressive amount of grace and acceptance. I owned my slave for a hot afternoon, but I knew that in the end I would have to let him go.

The thing that strikes me again and again is that monogamous people (that is: those seeking fidelity in singular partners) don't realize that to satisfy their curiosity with more open "non-monogamous" people (those who seek fidelity whilst enjoying the freedom of multiple partners) is to crucify them. I was hurt that I was good enough for that one misstep, but not enough for more - a waltz of affairs that might have lasted in a lifetime the analogous length of a song in a movie. However transcendent the event felt to me at the time, feelings were trumped by security, something I can never be able to offer as long as security equals static. I have endured a handful of lovers walking out of my life tearfully on this account, and that is something I have come to expect. People say I'm a heartbreaker, but the reality is that openness makes me raw and vulnerable to the core. Because I have multiple lovers, it's hard for people to appreciate the sutures sewn in my own heart, and yet I don't expect them to. It's just the way of the world. 

Also, his dad came home early and saw me fully nude. (That was fun!)

In the end, despite the face-slapping at the bar, the half-assed apologies and platitudes, and finally the lingering question marks, things are still jovial between us. Our secret is now the greatest thing we share. In a moment of confessional disclosure, I did tell the foul-mouthed bartender. His reaction was: "I can actually see you retards being good together."

I'm glad I had that experience, satisfying a number of burning curiosities in doing so. I'm happy to have realized that in discovering my adulthood, I have become a person who is willing to be vulnerable, to risk by saying "yes".

For anecdotes of *functional* and sexy debauchery, go HERE.  
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