(Týr is showing me his new jeans.)
Me: I bet they look really good. (Týr sighs.) What’s the matter?
Týr: They’re okay. It’s just …
Me: …?
Týr: (Pouting.) Well, they don’t show off my ass as well as my other pants do.
Ladies and gentlemen, my boyfriend has finally taken pride in his bum. Let us all rejoice.
I promise I’m still here.
It’s just, TESfest was big and hard to process.
And then it was followed by PMSfest, which was also big and hard to process, but in a far less fun way.
And then I had to marinate a LOT of chicken, the results of which were quite delightful, but the process itself left my brain a little pretzel-twisted.
But I’m untwisting, and soon I’ll be writing again.
For now, a tidbit: At TESfest, I started carrying a knife in my boot. It feels perfect, but I can’t decide if it’s perfect for the kind of girl I am or the kind I want to be. To my great delight, I’m starting not to worry too much about the difference.
Apparently, B-movies are a wicked aphrodisiac.
We’d gathered at Týr’s for a night of drinking and MST3K-ing, but it gradually devolved into a play party. This was made all the more interesting by the presence of two friends who are curious about kink but don’t generally come out and play. Their bruises should have faded by now, and they still like us, but I’m making a mental note not to induct anyone into our twilight world while they’re drunk. Everyone feels a little silly the next day, and this stuff is too good to be embarrassed about.
The guests stumbled off to bed or toddled home, leaving Gael and Atlas on our couch. We’ve played with them before (see accounts on Týr’s blog, where they appear as The Scot and The Dancer respectively, but those names don’t ping in my head like they should), but it’s had an accidental quality to it. We’d drink a bit, Gael would flirt with Týr, I’d get huffy and make a bid for attention, the boys would demand that we make out, we would demand that the boys make out. And then, we started regularly watching TV together, and that dynamic softened, got a bit more naturally flirty. And all of our mostly-monogamous hearts went WTF?
It had gotten late, so we offered the two of them a place to crash, which of course was move #3 in our shameless little chess game. Move #7 was the two boys holding Gael down while I beat her. Move #8 was when I picked up the hairbrush. Move #9 was bringing it down between her thighs, and watching her jump a mile, and doing it again.
When I was done, I propped myself on Gael’s knees, said “well, gentlemen,” and grinned. And then dove down to kiss and hold Gael with a want and need that surprised the hell out of both of us.
The following morning, a scenelet with Týr evolved into a general renegotiation of our play with others. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t want to see you do” clearly wasn’t cutting it anymore, as I’d spend a fair amount of energy worrying about whether I was meeting that criteria, or whether he was.
So: we’re keeping penetration, orgasms, and genitals for ourselves. Kissing is in (yay!) as long as the other partner is present (and ideally, involved). Disclosure is key - I want to know if he’s absconded with a partner, and vice versa. Punching, slapping, scratching, biting, cuddling, choking, knifing -all that is fair game.
Story: a while ago, at a party at Topdrop’s, I had planned a knife scene with the host to distract myself from Týr’s planned scene with another friend. Before Týr arrived, however, Topdrop hustled me into his room, blindfolded me, and put me under the blade. Already a bundle of nerves, I didn’t want him to stop but wanted to postpone to when Týr was occupied. I wasn’t sure if I was okay with that. But after a long stretch of dragging one blade, then two, over my skin, he leaned in and kissed me lightly. And that definitely wasn’t okay - I was angry for wanting the kiss after the harsh blade, angry that he trapped me into wanting it without asking if it was all right. I let him kiss me and didn’t kiss back, feeling like every account of date-rape I had ever sworn not to let happen to me. I cracked, tensed up, and wormed out of the blindfold, only to discover that Týr was the one with the knife - he and Topdrop had switched mid-scene without my knowing. Týr had thought that the kiss was a dead giveaway that it was him, but he’d accidentally fooled me. “You’re… Schrodinger’s You!” I’d exclaimed, sending Eileen and Maymay into a fit of giggles on an adjacent bed.
The point being, kissing is a big deal for me. Those rules seem quite restrictive when written out like that, but they make me feel safe, and loved, and potentially shared.
I’m very glad we had that talk, given what followed…
Adam has about nine jillion ladies under his thumb, it seems. That night’s model was Rachel, who is as cute as she is shameless. He’d call “present!” and she’d snap to attention, arms folded behind her head, legs spread, conveniently vulnerable. And if I read her face correctly, she had to resist the urge to laugh gleefully a few times. She was eating it up.
At some point, Adam asked Rachel to thank Týr for him, and she offered herself for kissing. I may have looked askance? Because Adam then directed her to me, and I got so shy that she had to do the leaning-in. I really, really liked that kiss. I’m not going to rhapsodize about it, because I am the only one who is surprised. This marks my slow descent back into an adolescent state, which I’m still riding out. I sort of a little bit want to apprehend her and make out for a few hours. And feed her a leaf.
Later, Tiger and I settled down to something that was half scene and half conversation. I like the way we’re becoming closer (and our pet health project is finally taking off, after much hemming and hawing! I’m hem, and he’s haw), but the scene itself isn’t what I wanted to talk about. It turned out to be more complex than I’d anticipated, so it took a bit longer as well. And Týr, bless him, waited it out like a prince. He was exhausted (it was arse o’clock by the time we were done), he told me later he’d been a little lonely, but he let me do my thing. Which was a great foundation for the play and conversation we had the following morning.
It’s called a Dragon Tail.
More importantly, after Adam’s profuse apology to me this morning, I realized that I had better clear the air on one point related to this post. Adam hadn’t forgotten about our scene; Týr had asked for some time alone with me first. Fair enough, and I was assuaged as soon as he told me that. But you didn’t know that, dear reader. But now you do!
Týr stood in front of me, both steadying and alarming me with his gaze. Adam was behind me, preparing god-knows-what. He’d never laid a hand on me before. He still hasn’t.
Those of you that have read Týr’s account will know that floggers were my gentlemen’s weapons of choice. My knees threatened to give way as the two men passed the leather over me gently. But of course, my snarkface took over and declared it “the best car wash ever!” (Gentlemen, know that I snark less in private. Ahem.)
A pause, to note that I was standing in a room full of friends, in my underwear, feeling amazing and luxuriant. That’s an achievement in itself. Like I said, luckiest prude alive.
Of course, it hurt too. Týr doesn’t mess around when he flogs me, and he and Adam made a great team - I was always jumping in response to someone’s blow. And being flipped around was nice; it emphasized that I was subject to two wills, not just one.
And then there was the Dragon Tongue.
Is that its proper, capitalizable name? It’s very apt. The thing is one broad-ish piece of suede, curled on itself lengthwise and coming to a point at the end. The spot it hits feels warm afterwards. It can be gentle or very, very cruel, and always remarkably precise.
Same goes for Adam, who gave a nice thwack to a pre-existing bruise on my leg (walked into a desk - honest!), just to see me hit the roof. I cannot endorse this man enough. He’s respectful of me and Týr, he knows his own power, and he makes me feel like I am made of sex. Check out my introduction on his blog! Even I want my number now.
I ended up on the ground, wiggling my ass in the air in pursuit of more blows to the sweet spot, please, Týr, please, please, please. When the night was over, I had four tiny, dark bruises on my breasts, the size of beans. By the next morning, they had spread to the size of poker chips. Now they’re gone, and I want more.
I hadn’t played in what felt like ages, and Týr said he had various evils planned with Adam for Topdrop’s party. Couldn’t wait. I had opted out of most pre-planning talks, the better to relinquish control during the scene itself. A leap of… well, more of a hop of faith, considering I trust Týr a whole heck of a lot.
I was stomach-flippingly nervous on the train. Týr had wanted to arrive before me and for me to close my eyes at the door. No control whatsoever - would I be up to it?
He covered my eyes, led me into the bathroom, and asked me to change. I hesitated over the skimpy undies, then told myself not to be a coward. But I was shaking a little by the time I opened the door.
Týr would lead me into Topdrop’s bedroom, where Adam would be waiting, and for an undefined stretch, I would be their property. They would grope me, rake at me, jam my pressure points and make my skin feel electric. They would make me howl, and smile at each other across my squirming body, congratulating each other on their shared ownership, and on a job well done.
But Týr led me into the main room, blindfolded. He tied me slowly, in a trickier harness than we usually use. My hands began to tingle from holding them high, and from the rope. Already well into subspace, I tried to mention it but was too timid to ask for a change. He laid me down, unwittingly forcing the rope up my ass, along with the already tiny undies. I felt exposed - huge and awkward, trussed up like a pig. And I heard Adam say to someone else, “I think I’m supposed to be in that scene over there, so I’ll have to go soon.” Am I an afterthought? The notion pricked tears into my eyes.
But this is what I wanted, right?
Týr hit me with the flat of his hand. I’ve gotten quiet too quickly for comfort, and he saw that, but I was responding non-verbally to his “what’s wrong?” Asking for more, even. I didn’t want to fuck this up. We were both so excited.
But underneath the subspace, I was furious. If you’re going to humiliate me, fucking hit me! Destroy me! I’ll take it if you want, but what do you want?
Needless to say, this was not a good setup; I felt like shit, and Týr in turn had lost his mojo. I stopped the scene, Týr got the harness off me, and we retired to Topdrop’s bedroom (thank god it was empty!).
He knows me well enough to sit there and take in the huge outrush of tension and tears. He held me as I raised objections. Didn’t you know I was nervous? Why a blindfold and a long, silent tie in the more public playspace? He offered counterpoints, but did not argue. (For my part, I should have put forth my nervousness more clearly before passing the subspace point-of-no-return. And maybe I should have opted in on those planning conversations…) We kissed. Things were, at last okay.
More than okay, actually. Usually, when our scene hits a wall like this, we’re done for the evening. But something about his assurance in the face of my relative hysteria calmed, strengthened, and excited me. I wanted back in. But I’d have to wait a while…
Týr is heading out to the bodega just as I am gearing up to clean the apartment. “Thanks for cleaning,” he says as he leaves the room, dismissing me with an ass-swat, as seen here. But I’m not in a particularly submissive headspace, and the spank makes me bristle. He notices.
“Want to know what that was?” he offers.
I follow him to the kitchen, where he shapes his fingers into a heart above his chest, then points to the sink.
“You want me to do the dishes?” No. “You love me because I do the dishes?” Nope. “You love water? Dirty plates?” His pointing becomes more exaggerated. Finally, he gives up.
“Love tap!” He’s banging the faucet now. “Love tap! Love! Tap!“
And I collapse against the kitchen door. I love this man, but he is often sillier than even I can hope to expect.
I walk crosstown to the office most days, and sometimes it’s my only time in the fresh air. So I try to make it count - get my head right for the day, maybe sneak in a faux-workout by walking briskly.
This involves an iPod. When the sun came out, I added sunglasses. And on the spur of the moment last Friday, I wore heels.
Holy catwalk, Batman.
My usual stride varies from a disconsolate shuffle to a determined march. But Friday I was strutting; hips rolling, eyes roving. Sunglasses give me license to be a shameless visual flirt, apparently. People were smiling at me, and not in that “what a carefree spirit!” kind of way. Rowr. And, yay.
I often think I have a different perspective since I’m not often an object of The Male Gaze - the one that sizes you up, determines whether you’ll be bought a drink, imagines the sound of your moans, etc. I’ve always tried to duck past it or not attract it. For better (I can feel pretty on my own damn terms) or worse (I feel like a weirdo sometimes), I tend to interact with people from the neck up. So I hope nobody begrudges me the young, hipsterish construction worker* that I smiled back at on Friday morning. Because sometimes you need unbiased third-party confirmation that you have a cute ass.
*Only in this city, my friends, do construction workers wear skinny jeans and look disaffected.
 | Týr on the virtue of vanity |
 | Wendy Blackheart on the virtue of vanity |
 | Eileen on the virtue of vanity |
 | SJ on Fits & Starts |
 | maja on Fits & Starts |
