Sunday, July 27, 2014

My Assault May Not Look Like Yours

Trigger warning: creeper behavior, attempted assault, and my own fears of finally sharing this story.

At a recent party, I shared with some friends the story of the time someone took pictures of me through my bedroom window.

I was naked (as is often the case) and was looking out my window when a car rolled by. The car slowed down, and the man inside brought his phone up to his face and aimed it at my window. It looked as though he were taking pictures of me. Of naked me. I stood still in shock for a few seconds, then darted behind the curtain – at which point he drove off in a hurry and out of my neighborhood. But maybe that's not what happened. Maybe he was trying to get directions, and realized he was in the wrong place, and hurried off because he was late. Maybe he was taking pictures of something else.

I explain things away.

When I was a young girl, I was in a store and overheard a man talking on his cell phone about his penis. He seemed to be repeating the same thing over and over, leading me to believe he was intentionally saying sexually explicit things for the “benefit” of the woman around him. But that's not harassing behavior or abuse. That's just some jerk, right?

I explain things away. I minimize them.

After I ended my relationship with my first boyfriend in this city, he continued to text me despite my requests not to. He sent angry and vaguely threatening messages coupled with benign questions about how I liked the latest episode of a show we used to watch. He left presents outside my car. It wasn't until I told a friend this that she said it sounded as though I had been stalked. Really? Stalked? I couldn't have been stalked. He didn't follow me around or show up at my work or leave dead animals on my door. So it must not be stalking, right?

I explain things away. I minimize them. I must have misunderstood.

I find it difficult to say I experienced an attempted sexual assault. The words seem so strong, and yet – I don't know how else to describe the experience. It has taken me a lot of time to even talk about what happened, let alone come to terms with the reality, because It Did Not Look Like Attempted Rape.

I minimize it to myself: it wasn't “actual” rape: the person stopped. It did not take place in a dark alley and did not involve a weapon. It did not involve drugs or alcohol. It did not look like every TV movie that has some sleazebag trying to attack a young woman.

But it did involve someone trying to have sex with me without my consent.

Every day, acts of abuse, harassment and violence are committed against women. Every day, we are encouraged to question the veracity of our story and whether we had some hand in our own abuse. When we are stalked, we are asked if we've encouraged the behavior. When we are raped, we are asked if we led him on. When we are killed...well, I suppose victim-blaming a corpse is pretty crass, isn't it?

What I've learned is to stop explaining things away and minimizing, and to stop using stereotypical images of violence against women as the benchmark for whether something is “truly” a violation in my own head. Someone pushed me down and tried to have sex with me when I clearly didn't want to, and it was terrifying.

What does that sound like to you?

Saturday, June 28, 2014

I Am a Short-Haired Kitty

I recently cut my hair. A pixie cut – shorter than I've ever had it for as long as I can remember. I had been feeling stuck, stagnant, and ready for a change. And I admit that I spent the first day after the cut waffling between “oh god this must look awful” and “this feels so right!”

Hair is a funny things, for many women and men alike. It is our identity. A way to control our appearance. And in some cases, represents our journey in life.

I had two scenes that revolved around hair in the past few weeks. One was with young lady Cupcake, a woman with whom I've been playing. After me telling her I thought she looked like a Disney princess that needed to be defiled, we concocted a scene where she dressed up as a princess and I (the evil queen) “tortured her” and cut off her gown, all set to Disney music. (Pro tip: fancy dresses are poofy with many layers. Bring a very, very sharp knife.) At the culmination of the scene – to Frozen's “Let It Go,” no less – I cut off her hair.

This was something Cupcake had suggested, and was no small action. She hadn't had short hair since elementary school. As the final strands fell, we were both overcome with adrenaline rushes and a massive attack of the giggles. The scene was meant to evoke a transformation: from who she was / who people wanted her to be - to the kinkster she is becoming. With several snips of the scissors, I watched her appearance change from girlish to womanly, echoing the transformation she is undergoing in her life.

The second scene was for my good friend Rumley, who has had a long, thin braid for many years. The braid has represented safety and security for her, but with Rumley's recent move to my city, she decided she was ready to leave that part of her life behind. Together with several good friends, we burned off, then cut off, parts of the braid while whispering in Rumley's ear words of transformation, and journeys, and coming home. How she has friends and love and safety here. And with our actions, we welcomed Rumley officially to our city, and to our scene.

I had never fully considered my attitudes toward hair and femininity before. Errant comments by previous partners and Western social conditioning has taught me that long hair = sexy. As much as I admired my friends with short hair and found them incredibly sexy, I found myself still holding on to that baggage.

But with my hairstylist's scissors, I try to let go of that baggage. To move past what former partners have said about my hair, my body, my face. Today was the first day I looked at my new haircut and said, “I am not less sexy for length of my hair. This cut suits me. And damnit...I look adorable.”

And with those words, I echoed the thoughts of my friends who, for years, have been telling me what they knew and I had yet to believe.

My journey continues.


Tuesday, June 24, 2014

letting go

letting go
was never my strong suit
like a dog with a bone
always gnawing and holding on
except, you know,
that i'm a kitty
except when you called me a unicorn
your unicorn
and I felt so very special
and magical
and wanted
until the magic
faded or
you didn't want it anymore
I was never really sure which
but now our relationship
over and much like a stuffed animal
missing an eye and well-worn
fur rubbed off
and it's time to throw it away
toss it in the trash
delete the texts and toss the gifts and forget you ever
made a dent in my heart
except I can't
when I figure out how
to get rid of all those emotions and memories and feels
you better believe

I'll be fucking thrilled to see the trashman.

Sunday, May 4, 2014

Hungry for Kink

I've been playing with a gorgeous human pet recently, and the subject food keeps coming up as we talk about play and scenes. And like the opening of the refrigerator door, a light has come on for me.

Food, like sex and kink, is a primal part of our lives. It keeps us alive. Not only do we all kind of have a tiny bit of an attachment to the very act of eating, but many of us have extra attachments, as well.

We don't just use food as sustenance. We use food as comfort. As sensual foreplay. As a way to show we care or like someone. As a way to shame ourselves or others. Food is a reward. Food is intensely loaded with symbolism and meaning and everyone experiences it differently. Our relationship to food is deep and what happens if we take all those emotions, scripts and experiences and play with them in a kink setting?

Magic sexytime.

Taking these loaded experiences around food as use them as a way to deepen the emotional experience of a scene sounds fun, intriguing, and damned sexy. Food is tailor-made to be used to humiliate, objectify, shame, decorate, and provide sensation. Being that I love all sof those things, I started making a list. (I like lists.) I wanted to think of all the ways I could incorporate food into a scene.
  • Being made to eat scraps
  • Watching other people eat
  • Putting food on your bottom's nose (like a dog with a treat) and told “stay”
  • The obligatory “get fucked by a cucumber/vegetable” scene
  • Decorating people with cake frosting
  • Eating off the floor/off dog bowls
  • Chewing up your bottom's food, spitting it out, and making them eat it
  • Eating bad-tasting food and having to compliment it
  • Begging for food
  • Being a food platter
  • Force-feeding / being fed by hand
  • Food being controlled/monitored throughout the night
  • Holding food/wine bottles inside orifices and offer to people
  • Eating food with semen or other bodily fluids
  • Drink a milkshake with straw taped to a cock
  • Making your bottom cook bacon while naked/topless

Any other ideas?


Friday, March 28, 2014

Why I Teach Nude

Public speaking is a fear shared by many people. Being naked in another. And haven't we all had nightmares where we were naked in front of a class?

Not me. I started out my kink teaching career being nude, joking that it would distract people if I didn't have good course content or couldn't present well. I've worked hard at the confidence to say that neither are true, and I'm very proud of my classes. So why do I still strip down?

I'm sending a message.

I don't do it to be ogled. Don't get me wrong, I'm an exhibitionist. But I'm not taking my clothes off to teach because I get a thrill out of strangers appreciating my body. The opposite, actually. I want people to look at my body and think, “She's not perfect.”

Not that I want to hear a bunch of critiques on how I could get some more upper arm tone, but I want to be a real girl. I get nude because I believe in showing people real bodies that are scarred, imperfect, or otherwise not out of a Photoshopped advertisement.

One of the biggest gifts that the scene has given me has been seeing the wide variety of shapes, sizes, and colors of the human form. Not just weight, but the very way someone's breasts or arms are shaped. Like many women in our society, I grew up with messages telling me to look and act a certain way or risk ending up ostracized, alone, or unwanted.

I believe in accepting myself – my ass, my thighs, my scars, my marks. And when I accept who I am, I feel powerful. More powerful than an amazing outfit, I find power in being in my own skin. And if I can show people that, I've taught something beyond what comes out of my mouth.


PS: I make a distinction between “naked” and “nude.” “Naked” is super fun sexytime with body parts and yumminess. “Nude” is the lack of wearing clothing.

Monday, March 24, 2014

I May Have Avoided Date Rape

Let's just be clear: people are raped because someone rapes them. I hate victim blamers, who ask questions like “Well, what were you doing going to his house?” or “Did you do anything to lead him on?” At the same time, I believe I am responsible for looking for warning signs, or red flag behavior. This is something I've never been good at. I have a tendency to see the good in people and justify their behavior – no matter how abusive, controlling or manipulative it might be.

But red flags – or even yellow ones – can help people understand if someone is safe or likely to hurt you. I recommend to many women that they read “The Gift of Fear,” which can help in this area.

So when I found myself chatting online with a potential date, I listened to the warning bells in my head and soon found that the handsome, kinky fellow was throwing up a lot of red flags as we talked about kink and what it meant. Like what kind of flags, you say? I'm glad you asked.

  • He explained dominance as “getting his way.” When I asked how he handled it when he didn't get his way, he said he wasn't sure because he almost always got his way.
  • He expressed a fondness for fucking girls in front of their roommates, their friends, and other girls. He didn't seem focused on whether they enjoyed it, but that he did.
  • He shared a story about forcing a girlfriend who was into watersports to partake in a reluctant threesome with her friend. He shared that he “made her involve a friend. Which was quite the traumatic event for her.” He said that his partner “didn't want the friend to even know or watch. So making out with her friend while I pissed on them both took some work on her part.”
  • And, my personal favorite quote: “if a person 100% wants to do something and wants you to do it to them then I don't see how it's humiliating or topping.”

All of these actions paint a picture of someone is at best incredibly selfish, and at worst a narcissistic sociopath. All of his actions paint him as someone who puts their sexual wants and desires over the comfort of their partner and won't take no for an answer.

What does that sound like to you?

At the end of the conversation, he said, “I certainly didn't force either participant to do anything they didn't want to and to my knowledge neither had any regrets after. Perhaps I'm too unsophisticated to understand how your topping humiliation and emotional masochism is different.”

I was ready to explain the difference to him but he exited the conversation and blocked me. (Hooray for litmus tests!) I top emotional masochistic scenes (including humiliation) because I have been given express consent on the part of my partner. They are eager and willing to explore those spaces with me. In the cases where there is some uncertainty and fear, we talk about it and how we can take baby steps if it is truly an area they want to go to. I don't just force someone into something because I enjoy their emotions – that's the very definition of non-consensual behavior.

I want enthusiastic consent. I don't look for a “no,” I look for a “yes.” It isn't enough to say “well, they didn't tell me no.” And just in case that message doesn't come through loud and clear...


I want to know that amidst the crying, wriggling and shame that my bottom is feeling, there's still a satisfaction and pleasure because THEY HAVE ENTHUSIASTICALLY CONSENTED AND COMMUNICATED THAT TO ME. Not because they felt coerced. Not because they felt obligated. Because they wanted it. I try very hard to look for this enthusiastic consent because my rapey side demands it.

Because without that enthusiastic consent from my partner, I'm just another rapist.


Sunday, March 2, 2014

Inspect Me

I like shaving my pussy. I love the feel of the soft skin, devoid of hair. I love the sensation of my partner's tongue sliding around my folds. While it is every person's right to groom their Yes-Yes Spot* as they desire, my personal preference is razoring off every red hair.

I had done a particularly good job shaving before a date – so much so that I implored my partner to view my newly-denuded nethers. As he moved his face between my legs, I found myself turned on by a whole new kink: inspection.

As I understand it, inspection play is...well, it's pretty self-explanatory, isn't it? Someone inspects you? But it seems like it would be so much more. That my partner would not just view me with his eyes, but take me in, drink me in, examine me, judge me, value me. That he could speak volumes with his eyes – as he often does – and tell me without words how my body makes him feel.

I feel as though inspection play is not just visually appreciating your partner. It seems like there's a deepness to it. Just as cock worship is more than a mere blowjob, being inspected seems to possess an intense scrutiny that would drive me to squirm under my partner's eyes. The helpless feeling of just being watched. The feeling of being on display. So many of my turn-ons in one kink – how have I never explored this before?

This kind of play could be incredibly hot, but dangerous. Because I wonder if the biggest draw for me is the fear. The fear of being inspected and scrutinized and coming up wanting. As if hearing my partner tell me that they think my ass is too big or my feet are too bony or my breasts aren't the right size feeds into a deep-seated emotional masochism that would validate my own insecurity. I've played with many different kinds of emotional masochism that played on many of my own fears and anxieties, but body image is something I've always stayed far away from.

For the most part, I like my body. I recognize that I will never have tiny thighs or a perfect hourglass figure, but I like many of the curves of my body. There are things I would change, but overall I'm happy. But the part of me that tends towards self-destructive thinking can't help but wonder what a red marker and comments on my skin (“lose weight here, firm up these, get more color here”) would do from an emotionally masochistic standpoint.

I don't know that I am brave enough to have that kind of scene. As much as I love the dark twisty feelings of negativity, anger and sadness, and as cathartic and healing emotional masochism scenes can be for me, this is one area that feels too tender to poke at. It's a nice feeling, in some ways – to run into something that resembles a soft limit. In some ways my love of rape play, incest play, needles and blood had me wondering if anything was going to be off-limits or too scary to try. It's oddly comforting to see something that feels too dangerous to explore.

Like waterboarding. That is not a roller coaster that this kitty has any intention of riding.


*My vagina is my “no-no spot?” Fuck that, dude.