Tuesday, July 31, 2007

Nectarine oralgasm

When he called, he thought I was having sex.

"I am I interrupting something?" he asked.

"No, no. I've just found the most orgasmic nectarine."

"Pardon me?"

"I'm at the fruit stand and I found this perfectly ripe orgasmic-smelling nectarine."

"An orgasmic nectarine, hunh?" He sounded dubious.

"You've never bitten into a nectarine and had an oralgasm?"

"A what?"

"Nevermind. I'll save this one for when I see you tomorrow."

Sunday afternoon I produced The Nectarine. I cradled the smooth-skinned fruit in my hand. It was room temperature and the flesh had just enough give to it. I held it to my nose and inhaled, letting out a low moan. "Mmmmmm," I sighed.

He quirked an eyebrow.

"I'll share, but I'm going to teach you how to eat it my way."

"Your way?"

"Yes. I promise this nectarine will be oralgasmic if you eat it my way."

He nodded and I held the nectarine up to his nose. "Smell it."

He inhaled deeply.

"Does it smell good?"

"Yes, very good."

"Now, rub your lips against it."


"Just close your eyes, and rub your lips against it."

He did as he was told.

"Smooth, isn't it?"


"Smooth like a baby's bottom? Smooth like my pussy?"

"Yes," he grunted that a bit.

"Touch it with your tongue. Slide your tongue over it, like you would if you were tasting me."

"Oooo-kay...." he said, but he did it.

"Now take a bite of it. Sink your teeth into it and suck the juices as you bite it."

He took a bite. It was a smallish bite.

"How does it taste?"

"Mmmm... very good."

"Now, run your tongue along the bite you made.... Feel that? Smooth and juicy?"

He nodded.

"Suck it."

He did. He made an appreciative noise.

"Not bad," I said, and smiled at him. "My turn."

I rubbed the nectarine against my lips. I smelled it. I opened my mouth and sank my teeth in and moaned as the juices filled my mouth. I sucked as I bit away the flesh and had a noisy oralgasm, moaning and sighing over how good it was. The best nectarine so far this season.

"Again," I told him, and held the fruit to his mouth.

I watched as his white teeth bit into the rosy skin, watched his lips purse as he sucked up some of the juices.

"Mmmmm..." I made the pleasure noises for him, my mouth watering, knowing what he was experiencing.

I watched as he flattened his tongue against the wound he had made, sliding it over the golden flesh. I pulled the nectarine away and kissed him, sucking at his tongue, licking at his lips, enjoying the combined flavor of man and fruit.

My turn again. I closed my eyes and slowly sank my teeth into it, savouring the feel of it on my tongue, loving the way my teeth sank into the flesh. I sucked at the juices that welled up around the holes my teeth were making. I bit away the piece and pressed my tongue to the wound, sliding it over the slippery smoothness, savoring the taste and texture. I moaned and sucked and sighed and chewed, and when I had finished my bite of the fruit he spoke.

"God, you're amazing," he said, his voice all throaty.

"What do you mean?"

"I'll never eat a nectarine the same way again."

"Good!" I said, and put the nectarine aside. I had something else for him to taste.

He must have been very appreciative of the lesson, because he sent me roses today. The photo above is one of them.

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Monday, July 30, 2007

Conquered and conquering

One of the people I see is a natural alpha male. He is dominant--and he wants to possess me. He thinks he prefers a quiet, respectful woman. He thinks he wants the woman to be womanly and yielding and submissive, but really, he wants an equal, someone to challenge him, to make him work for it.

I am contrary and defiant, I tease him, deny him, push him, until his patience and endurance are exhausted and then he takes from me what I will not give him. He takes what he wants--what we both want--and gives me what I want. His passion. All that emotion normally so controlled. I push at him until he drops the veneer of the civilized man and gives me the primal man underneath. I have challenged him, beyond the veneers of civilized man, making him reach for the primal, carnal, pre-historic man who is non-verbal and devoid of restraint... engaged his mind, his conscious self, with rational things, while pushing the buttons of the wild man inside. I make him submit, not to me, but to himself, to that man deep within himself. I call him forth by frustrating his civilized self beyond reason. And then, in that moment, I possess him as surely as he thinks he is possessing me. Every mark he makes on me marks his soul, every mark I leave on him marks my soul, makes him mine, makes me his. We conquer each other, vying for dominance. And it is deeply, intensely satisfying...

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Saturday, July 21, 2007

The bully and the bitch

Given the subject matter that I write about, I am continually reminded of how many men out there have submissive sexual tendencies and are looking for a dominant woman. Which is natural, I know. There are various statistics out there, supported by studies of everything from schoolyards and fraternities to dance clubs and tribal societies, which basically state that a very small percentage of humans are leaders, and the rest follow them. I suppose it would be fair to say that humans are pack animals. But what does this have to do with submissive sexuality?

People confuse power and sex all the time, probably because, from an evolutionary standpoint, those who are powerful are the ones who get sex. But in contemporary terms, powerful leaders are inspiring, charismatic. They have an energy that is infectious, that excites people to sign on with whatever the leader is turned on by, regardless of whether or not they understand, and this excitement is often experienced as sexual arousal. Such people are dominants, alphas, whatever word you like -- they are natural leaders and people follow them without coercion, and with out the leader needing to be a bully or a bitch.

However, our social hierarchy implies that for male to be a 'real man' he must take charge, take control-- in the workplace and the home-- regardless of whether or not it comes naturally to him. And women have a lot of power. We are the sex-objects, the child-bearers. We are mysterious, enigmatic, encompassing, nurturing. And so, I think, it is inevitable that when a man is in the privacy of his own sexual space, one of three things happens. Most commonly, I think, is that men indulge in masturbatory fantasies that have power-exchange contexts. Some, perhaps those more self-aware, want to give up control and seek to do what comes more naturally to him--they seek to submit, to worship, and to be nurtured by Woman. And then there are those who, knowing themselves outclassed as a dominant 'out there', seek to prove to themselves that they can dominate others, usually the wife and children.

I've accumulated enough knowledge and experience to comfortably state that most men who think they are Doms are really just men who have issues with women or their own masculinity, and who think being abusive or demeaning others is an expression of their dominance. But in fact, its just a pathetic display of denial. Men who bully or abuse women aren't dominant, they are submissives in denial. And they think I am a bitch. Which turns them on. And then they suddenly change their tunes, and roll over on their backs and show their bellies and beg me to take control of their pleasure. And in that moment, I am also reminded that so many women out there are incapable of playing a dominant role without being a bitch. Or rather, so many people out there, male and female, think that being bitchy equates to being dominant. And it just isn't so. A woman who resorts to being a bitch in order to get her way is about as dominant as a man who as to be an asshole to get his way. Anyone who stands in that place does so quite precariously, fearful of losing that foothold, and thus their 'dominance' is illusory, existing only so long as those in their lives are in collusion with that bullying behavior, and tolerant of it.

What most people do not understand about dominance and submission is that the submissive is not in any way diminished by submitting, that submission is not a demeaning experience, in general, and that the submissive is really the one who has the power, not the Dom. The Dom gives structure and controls the flow of the power, but without the submissive's energy and submission, the Dom is merely a man (or woman) with an itch to dominate/be in control. A real Dom doesn't feel more of a 'man' when he is controlling a submissive. A real dominant feels more alive, fulfilled, more sensitized to the eroticism of power exchange, filled with a profound sense of the rightness of the moment. But a true dominant feels no more or less him or herself as a consequence of such encounters, because they are confident in and at peace with themselves, with their status and their sexuality, and D/s encounters are simply another example of the natural order of things, not a power-trip.

Submissive males approach me. Am I looking for an obedient boy, they ask? They would love to be humiliated and teased and used by me, they say. Females, too, begging to be controlled, objectified, made abject. There are those, male and female, who want to please and be pleased. They want to feel treasured and cared for and more than anything, they want to make a contribution to their dominant. And while I occasionally dabble in D/s, I'm not in the lifestyle at this time and I don't seek out submissives. But they find me. Oh they find me. And while some of them tempt me and I do engage them, most of them annoy me with their persistence, with their begging and pouting, but I do try to be kind in my firmness, rather than a bitch. Which, a friend of mine assures me, makes me all the more compelling.

I rarely consciously use my innate dominance, because I've noticed that if one steps up to shepherd, one is burdened with the sheep. I don't like the tendency of people to unconsciously develop a dependency on alpha males and females to do their thinking for them. I know that our species is a pack/herd animal and I know that some of us are genetically predisposed to be leaders of the herd. But I also, as a woman, am highly conscious of the social responsibility and personal cost. Outside of the bedroom, I prefer not to use other's submissive tendencies and energy, because am VERY aware that I then have a responsibility toward them in exchange. I think a lot of people playing at being Dominant miss this very important part--the ethics of power exchange. Which is why I don't consider bullies and bitches dominants...and why I'm always sad to see a submissive mistaking them for such.

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Thursday, July 12, 2007

Pleasure-centric (another story start)

"You are so pleasure-centric," he said.

It was a complaint. One I have heard from others over the years.

"What is wrong with being pleasure-centric?" I asked, genuinely puzzled. I ran my hand lightly down his forearm and threaded my fingers through his. He is intelligent and articulate, this one. Perhaps he can help me to understand.

"Nothing, so long as I don't have to be, too."

Ah, I thought, finally, someone who is accepting of my hedonistic nature.

But my joy faded when he added, "The whole concept of being pleasure-oriented... it upsets me."

"Why?" I asked.

"That is a very complex question to answer," he replied.

"That is not an answer, Gabriel, its a cop-out. Please explain?" I asked again. Surely he, of all people, must be self-aware enough about his discomfort to explain it to me.

I released his hand and ran my fingers through my hair before massaging the back of my neck. It felt good, making me tingle. I pressed two fingers into a small knot and sighed deliriously as I leaned my head back to deepen the pressure. After about thirty seconds, I straightened my neck and tucked my thumbs in my belt loops, assuming a patient stance.


I waited some more.

He did not answer.

He struggled, but he could not put into words the reasons for his discomfort with my shameless enjoyment of the sensuous immediacy of every waking moment. I think it has to do with the Mennonite values his mother passed on to him, even though she married and raised her children outside her 'faith.' Puritanism prevails in North America, and with it, the concept that life must be wrung dry of all that is pleasurable in it in order to be worthy of the rewards of the after-life. I was reminded of what Nietzsche had said: "The Christian resolution to find the world ugly and bad has made the world ugly and bad." And I remembered my conviction that if there is a God, there could be no greater insult to a deity than to shun and revile Creation. I was born into this world, I was given this life, this body, these senses, and it is only fitting that I live it to the fullest of my meager abilities.

Into the silence I said, "We all act out of our own self-interest, Gabe. The fundamental drive of the unconscious is the Pleasure Principle. Read up on your Freud. I'm just more aware of it than the masses, and certainly at lot less hung-up on doing what makes me feel good. It is a hedonistic, pleasure-centric approach to life, and I'm unapologetic about it--and probably happier than most people as a result."

"It just doesn't seem ethical, or moral, or something like that," he complained, oddly inarticulate. He held out his hand and started ticking things off on his fingers. "You masturbate more than anyone I know, Kay, male or female. You eat a pear like you are having an orgasm, and when you give me a taste, its just a pear. You use real whipping cream in your coffee--its just too decadent--and besides, aren't you worried about your cholesterol? And then, there is the fact that you act like a child. You stop in the middle of the sidewalk to watch leaves fall or a caterpillar cross. You spend hours down by the river doing nothing when you could be furthering your career." He threw his hands up in the air and gave me a frustrated look. "And what the hell is meditation anyway?"

I took Gabriel's hand, held it between both of mine. I could feel the coolness of his skin, the smoothness of his palm, the long, tapered fingers with their blunt nails. A lovely, well-cared for, expressive hand. It and its pair wreak such divine havoc on my senses sometimes.

"Close your eyes," I told him, and he did.

I held his hand for a moment, took a centering breath, then lifted it to my mouth. I kept my eyes on his face as I breathed on his hand, a warm, moist breath just millimeters from his skin. He sighed, started to open his eyes. I made an irritated noise in my throat and he closed them again, tightly. I rotated his hand and touched the prominent wrist bone lightly with my tongue, then pursed my lips and inhaled. Cool air washed over his skin and his unique scent flooded my senses. He gasped at the temperature contrast and shivered. I watched the hairs rise, and gooseflesh pebble his skin. I moved again, and this time I kissed that fleshy spot between thumb and forefinger, a nice, moist kiss with full lips, slightly parted. He moaned. I lowered his hand. My eyes picked out the bulge that had sprung up in his pants, and I smiled inwardly.

"Open your eyes," I said softly. "How did that feel?"

"Great," he answered with a smile, his eyes glowing.

"And this?" I asked, repeating my earlier actions, but without the attentiveness and languid timing. "How did that feel?"

His brows drew together and he gave a little shrug. "Ok. Nice, I guess."

"What made the difference between 'great' and 'nice', Gabe?"

"Great was... slower," he said thoughtfully.

"And what else?"

"It was..." he closed his eyes, trying to remember. "It was... more..."

"More what, Gabriel?"

"More intense."

"I eat my pears the first way, sweetie," I gave his fingers a squeeze. "You eat yours the second way."

He pulled his hand away from mine and frowned. "I don't get it."

I sighed in frustration and raised a hand to rub the back of my neck. The world needs more sensualists, I thought to myself, instead of self-absorbed moralists.

Questions poured out of me in a torrential, impassioned speech. "What is so wrong with being aware of the world, with savoring it? What is wrong with being sensitive to shades of colour and texture, to the subtlety of sounds, to the brush of someone's hand on my skin? What is wrong with swooning over my first bite into a ripe pear? Why is it wrong that I enjoy the scents that others don't bother to smell?"

I looked at him, and I could feel my frustration and bafflement welling up. I took a deep breath, noticed my shoulders were raised and consciously dropped them. Took another deep, calming breath.

"Am I too indulgent in the sensual, at the expense of something more important, Gabe? I work, I pay my bills, I contribute to causes I believe in. I take time to contemplate the meaning of life. I rarely say unkind words, think unkind thoughts, do unkind things. Yes, with a little more ambition, I could further my career. Yes, if I played less, I would 'have' more. But what for? I don't want like most people do. I don't feel the need to go shopping in order to assuage that restlessness that so many people seem to feel. I rarely feel trapped, unhappy, unworthy. I like my life. I like who I am. I am, for the most part, comfortable in my own skin."

He pulled me close to him, his hands sliding down over my hips until they cupped my ass. He kissed the side of my neck, running his lips along my flesh.

"I'm comfortable in your skin, too," he murmured, making me shiver as his breath puffed near my ear.

Son of a bitch! I grumbled to myself. I tilted my head back, exposing more of my neck to his mouth. He complains about me being too pleasure-centric, but he's not above using it to distract me from an argument.

His lips traced the muscle extending from behind my ear down to the hollow of my throat. He pressed his tongue there, then nibbled along my collarbone as far as the neckline of my blouse would permit. The nip of his teeth made me suck in my breath, made my nipples hard. His hand came up, brushing the underside of my breast, and then he ran this thumbnail over the hardened point. The pleasure haze rose in my mind like mist from my flesh, clouding coherent thought. I leaned forward and sank my teeth into that place where the neck and shoulder meet, and he made a sibilant hissing noise that turned my arousal-level up another notch.

He twisted one of my arms behind me, making me arch against him. I could feel his sex pressing against my belly, hard and thick, and I wanted him then, I wanted him so much that my breath starting coming in those tell-tale shallow puffs, the precursors to panting and dizziness. I ground myself against him and whimpered, knowing he would make me suffer for my pleasure-seeking ways. And wanting it.

When it comes to pleasure, men get the short end of the stick, I think. I've queried most of my friends, and I've decided that, as a general rule, men are results-oriented pleasure-seekers and women are process-oriented pleasure seekers. Most men get aroused and orgasm, all very quickly. They want the big-bang, the ultimate superfeeling, and they want it now. Theirs is results-oriented pleasure. Whatever it takes to "get 'er done." Women get aroused, sometimes slowly, sometimes quickly, and orgasm usually takes time, but orgasm itself is not the ultimate goal. The pleasure is in the arousal itself, in the slow build of orgasmic tension and its slow decline. During sex a woman may not orgasm or she may, or she may do so many times, but the emphasis for her is actually on intimacy and the arousal process--on feeling good for as long as possible--not on achieving climax.

And then there is me.

I do so love to suffer pleasure, though most people do not seem to understand what I mean by that. In the Buddhist sense I am very attached to pleasure, and attachment is a source of suffering, but that is far too psychological a reasoning behind my use of that expression. No, I suffer because my senses are very acute. One side-effect of this acuity is that I am multi-orgasmic. I come readily and often. The other side-effect is that I am hyper-sensitive and thus easily over-stimulated, and there are times when I have gone from urgently aroused to rampantly irritable in a split second. It usually happens when I have not been allowed to come, when I have been kept on the edge of orgasm for too long. The frustration builds, the frisson of sexual tension stretching out like an elastic band until my nerves are quivering and something in me finally snaps. When that happens, I am done. So very done, and there is no reclaiming my arousal. And so it is that I seek and suffer pleasure, riding the tides of my sexual energy, enjoying the teasing and slow buildup to frequent and intense orgasms, savouring each one, knowing that at any moment my lover may commit the fatal error that sinks both our ships.

And Gabe knew this, he knew this because he was my friend as well as my lover, and we had talked for many an hour about sensuality and sexuality and the perversion of both in our culture. When we became lovers he delighted in making me come quickly and urgently until I plateaued, and then he would keep me on edge for forty-five minutes, an hour, sometimes longer, until he pushed the erotic button that sent me toppling over the side into a shockingly intense orgasm that robbed me of all sensibility and left me limp as a slumbering kitten.

Gabriel liked to push the pleasure-envelope with me. And on this particular evening, my demonstration of sensual attentiveness as the key to my hedonism goaded him to new heights...

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Wednesday, July 04, 2007

You don't get what you don't ask for

In an email, a friend said: "I already knew you'd ask for what you wanted when you wanted and expect to have it granted too."

My response to him was: "Do I seem the demanding type? Hmm. I'm not, really. It is just rare that I really want something that I cannot provide myself, and if I do find myself in such a situation, if after thinking about it, I really do want it, I will ask. And you are right, if I do ask, I do expect it granted, mainly because I rarely ask. And since I so rarely ask for anything, the people in my life usually go out of their way to give me what I ask for. Being aware of this, I am careful not to abuse them or make excessive demands, nor to have unrealistic expectations. I feel good when I can do what someone asks of me, and I like to think it is a pleasurable experience for those whom I ask, as well. Without reciprocity, without exchange, why bother?"

I typed it quickly and sent it off, and then re-read it. Something about the circular nature of the statement niggled at me. Something about this is familiar, an echo of something else I've recently read. He had written something circular a few weeks earlier, something that reminded me of...

Ah, yes. I reached my right hand out to the bookshelf near my desk and drew forth the slim volume of poems by RD Laing, "knots". And there, on page 32, I found part of it:
I never got what I wanted. I always got what I did not want. What I want I shall not get.
Therefore, to get it I must not want it, since I get only what I don't want.
What I want, I can't get, what I get, I don't want.
I can't get it because I want it, I get it because I don't want it.
I want what I can't get because what I can't get is what I want.
I don't want what I can get because what I can get is what I don't want.
I never get what I want, I never want what I get.

And then on page 50:
She does not get what she wants from him, so she feels that he is mean.
She cannot give him what he wants from her, so she feels that he is greedy.
He does not get what he wants from her, so he feels that she is mean, and, he cannot give her what she wants from him, so he feels that she is greedy.

Dr Laing did have a gift for describing complex interrelations.

As for me and my wants and asking for what I want... Hmm. Yes, if it is something I really want, I'll ask. I'll ask, and I'll expect, well, I'll expect a response, at the very least. But I'll hope, really hard, that I get it. Because if I didn't think that person couldn't give it, I wouldn't have asked him or her.

But that is a pretty safe approach to geting what I want, I realize, so I've been practicing something else recently, too. I've been practicing asking for something even when I am pretty sure I won't get it, when I am sure the answer will be NO. Like when I asked my Dutchman if he would give me any hints on what is inside the package he shipped me. He said "no" and I expected he would and I was not bothered by the "no." I risked very little in asking. And I'm sure he enjoyed my asking, and enjoyed saying "no", knowing that he was prolonging my anticipation. And besdies, if I hadn't asked, he might have thought I wasn't interested or curious, and that is so not true.

Lately, I've noticed that I've been surprised by how often I've heard "yes" when I've asked for something that I expected to hear a "no" on. And it reinforces for me that old adage: "You don't get what you don't ask for"--and more than that, it makes me wonder how many things I would have heard "yes" to but did not because I was afraid to ask. Because I was afraid of "no." Why am I afraid of such a little word? What power in the world is an imaginary no? I am no longer a child afraid to reach for something because I don't want the humiliation of getting my hand slapped with a loud "NO" for emphasis. No, I am an adult, and my reach often surpasses my expectation of what I can grasp. Surprise!

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