04: “Getting Stuffed” – The Butt Sex Post

There is one key to good, safe, clean, butt sex – a shit ton of lube. Silicone lube, to be exact.

Okay, maybe there’s not just one key, but lube seriously is super fucking important. I learned this the hard way after a drunken romp in the sack last night with only a small pack of water based lube – long story short, now my ass hole hurts and (my B if this is getting a little too gross) but now it fucking bleeds whenever I poop. (Yes, girls dump too, get the fuck over it). Anyway, before getting into the steamy details of my ass escapades, I just want to give some premium advice that I was too stupid and/or too drunk to take – ladies and gents, if you’re about to shove your cock into your lover’s butt, please keep one thing in mind – you can never use too much lube.

Here are step-by-step instructions on how and when to apply lube for anal sex. Tape it above your bed or even to the back of that dusty condom in your wallet because you never wanna be without these helpful tips on tipping your mate:

1. Get a hard dick.
2. Get a consensual ass hole.
3. Put lube on your dick.
4. Put lube on the ass hole.
5. Put more lube on your dick.
6. Put more lube on the ass hole.
7. Okay you’re ready.
8. OH WAIT – just a little more lube.
9. Seriously, put some more lube on that cock.
10. And some more on that ass hole.
11. Okay – now fuck the ass hole.
12. Changing positions? Get more lube!
13. Taking a smoke break? You might as well get some more lube.
14. Need to stop and catch your breath? LUBE.
15. LUBE.
16. LUBE.
17. LUBE.
18. AND MORE MOTHAFUCKING LUBE!!!!

I know it sounds silly, but this shit is serious. I think most people are against butt sex, not because it’s some bizarre fucking sex act, but because they’re ignorant to how our ass holes work. I was adamantly against taking it in the ass, but once I found a partner that I not only have great sex with but, most importantly, feet comfortable with and trust, I was able to have butt sex that I genuinely enjoyed.

I’ve been fucking this dude since like, August I think. I started calling him Jersey Shore when we first met because he’s got the same name as one of my exes and I think that’s just fucking weird. He works for the show, so I’d just refer to him as Jersey Shore any time I gossiped about him to my roommates.  This wasn’t unusual in our house since our bedroom doors were revolving doors. It was just easier to stay on top of who was fucking who by referring to them with memorable characteristics – there’s been The Crip, The Rich One, The Young One, The Hipster, The Beard… so calling him Jersey Shore was just the norm. But now we’ve been fucking for like, five months, and I still cannot refer to him as his real name. I’ve never referred to him as his real name in conversation, and I sure as fuck have never called out his name in person. It’s always been Jersey Shore, and it will continue to be Jersey Shore for the rest of forever. The worst part – he has no fucking clue. Well, not until now, ‘cause he’s probably fucking reading this. Hey, sorry, your name just creeps me out.

ANYWAY, so I’ve been fucking Jersey Shore for a while now, and when you’ve been fucking someone for a decent amount of time, you begin to wonder when you’re gonna let them fuck or get fucked by/with all kinds of different things. I don’t know how it came up, but I’m sure he once just asked if I was into anal and I was like, FUCK NO.  But then I got a job at one of the most inspiring and liberal and sexually creative places ever – The Dr. Susan Block Institute. It’s here at Dr. Suzy’s Speakeasy where I’ve met a ton of super intelligent people who are constantly teaching me new and amazing things. It’s here that I’ve found not only my job and my home, but where I’ve found the only group of people who’ve made me feel completely and genuinely welcomed since I moved to LA almost a year ago. It’s here where I’ve found the one and only place that I can be 100% myself. It’s here where I learned how to get my ass fucked.

Since I have access to a slew of sex educators and porn stars alike, I began surveying those around me about butt sex. I’d say about 90% of the people I talked to not only partake in butt sex, but they actually enjoy it. And 100% of those motherfuckers all said the same thing – LUBE! They all assured me that I’d fall in love with getting pegged once I used the proper (silicone!) lube, so once I finally lost my anxiety about it, I agreed to try it out.

Jersey Shore is on the road a lot since he works for a ton of different shows, and I believe it was during the last time he was on the road that my sex drive took a leap into the sky and just never fell back. I was suddenly ALWAYS horny as fuck, to the point that I was sending this fucker pictures of Elton and Ru (my left and right tits, respectively) and sometimes even of The Duchess. I wanted to fuck him and I wanted to fuck him bad, and it was in the chaos of sexting with him that I finally admitted: “I want you to grab me by my hair and shove your cock down my throat. I want you to fuck my mouth hard before you throw me over the bed and spank me. I want you to fuck me hard – fuck my ass.” Needles to say, he was fucking down. Excitement overwhelmed him and, while still on the road, he made a few purchases at an adult store in Indiana weeks before his return to LA.

He got back to town mid-November and was free Thanksgiving night. How fucking appropriate – of course he wants to fuck me – fuck me in the ass – on the one day out of the year where I have only one goal for the entire fucking day: to be a total sleaze that drinks straight from a bottle of $4.99 wine while continuously eating a fuck ton of food for hours and hours and hours. This is the one day out of the year where I will welcome bowel movements with open fucking arms. Yes, poop shoot, release those brown giants in order to make room for more gluttony. Out with the shit, in with the fucking mashed potatoes!

It’s about 9pm on Thanksgiving night. I’ve already dumped twice and even took a nap by the time he picked me up from my best friend’s place in West Hollywood. I’m gassy as fuck and my tights don’t help the fact that there’s like eighty zillion pounds worth of yams and stuffing and bile rumbling around my insides. I’m surprisingly able to hold my toots throughout the entire evening, though, so don’t fear, there were no smelly surprises in the sack that night. What did surprise me, though, was not only that I finally had butt sex, but that I genuinely fucking enjoyed it.

He returned from his trip with three things – a small orange vibrator (intended for the ass) that we named Demopolis, an under the bed restraint system, and a bottle of silicone lube. After fooling around for a while he finally gets me on my hands and knees. He fucks me doggy style for a minute before finally attempting the butt. I perk up and say no, no ass without lube. So he brings over the bottle of silicone lube and I no longer have an excuse for why I won’t let him stick it in my poop shoot. So I hesitantly agree before squeezing some lube in my hand and rubbing it into my ass. He goes back to fucking The Duchess as I play with my ass hole, applying lube extremely fucking generously. I probably didn’t need half as much as I used, but I was super fucking nervous and all I heard in the back of my head was all my friends from the Speakeasy chanting, “LUBE! LUBE! NEVER TOO MUCH LUBE!!” I really think this mass load of lube is what made it so good, though, because without even realizing it, I had slipped a finger into my ass hole – and it felt good! I didn’t get it all the way in, but I started prodding my ass hole with my index finger, a little past my second knuckle, at the same speed to which Jersey Shore was fucking me. I moaned when he grabbed my thick waist, thrusting his cock deeper inside of me, and in the midst of this moment I found my finger had slid completely inside. I left it there for a moment, feeling the pressure as he pounded my pussy. Finally, I begged him to fuck my ass.

After some more lube on both his dick and my ass, I made him promise that he wouldn’t hurt me before I’d even lay back down. He promised, and I returned to the pillow I had been biting to soften my moans. He rubbed the tip of his cock on my ass hole while I played with my clit before asking if I was ready. Somewhere between my moaning I said yes and he pressed his cock inside of me. It was a little tough to get in at first, but once inside he slid right in and I could feel every inch of him inside of me. He didn’t move too much at first, and the pressure of his cock made everything feel even better than usual – a  caress down my back to my ass before a swift spank; my fingers rubbing slow, circular motions against my slippery clit; the yank of my hair as he pulled me upright, bringing me towards him. I could feel every inch of his skin against mine as he pressed his body against the curves of my back. The sweat nestled in the hair of his chest, dripping down to my ass. The weight of each moan and each breath. I had felt all of these things before but never with such intensity – everything was just so fucking vibrant.

Now, I haven’t had anal sex like this again since Thanksgiving (only that one time last night that’s now left me with a bloody butt hole.) And I do need to admit that I was hiiiiigh as fuuuuuck, so I’m sure that helped me feel more comfortable and aided the intensity of our touch. Regardless of my sobriety, though, I finally debunked an ignorant assumption of my own and I’m super psyched to now have a new hole to get fucked in!

I’m going to end this by challenging some typical – and totally understandable – excuses for avoiding butt sex. Honestly, I’ve used all of these excuses before, and this is my advice for how to just get the fuck over it.

“I’m too nervous.” Well, then you shouldn’t be fucking that person to begin with. Besides lube – comfort, trust, and communication are the most important factors of not only good sex, but a good relationship. If you’re not comfortable with the person, then there’s no way you’ll be able to be comfortable enough to find the right position for this type of sex – because seriously, you may need to get into some awkward positions. You should definitely have had sex with this person multiple times before you try it in the butt because you need to learn each others bodies in order to easily get into these weird positions. You need to trust the person because you’re letting them access a part of you that you probably haven’t even explored yourself. You also need to trust that they’re going to know when to be gentle and when to be rough, and that they’re going to take the directions you give them. Which brings us to communication – you need to be able to verbally express to your partner what feels good and what feels bad, because just how everyone likes to have “regular” intercourse in different ways, people like to have anal intercourse in different ways – different speeds, different rhythms… And make sure you tell them when it hurts. Don’t be afraid to tell you partner they’re hurting you because you can seriously fuck up your ass hole – I wouldn’t wish the pain of a bloody shit on anyone, so please don’t forget this. Our ass holes are a lot more sensitive then we think. Plus, if they care about you in any way, they won’t want to hurt you so SPEAK THE FUCK UP!!!

“Ew, gross, I poop from there!” Then clean that shit out, ya dingus! Nothing too intricate though, because I know that douching isn’t something that should be done super regularly. Your butt and your puss actually need certain bacteria to keep them healthy and clean. It’s honestly not healthy or normal for your butt or vag to smell like flowers – if someone complains that it smells like ass or pussy then kindly remind them, “BITCH, WELL THAT’S WHAT YOU’RE ABOUT TO FUCK!!” If someone tells you your pussy smells like pussy and you do, indeed, own a pussy, then chill the fuck out and tell them to deal with it. 100% of the time they won’t even say anything because they really wanna bust a nut just as much as you do. And don’t forget – sometimes, shit just happens. If there’s a little nug on your dick as you pull out then don’t make a big deal about it. What the fuck do you expect when you’re fucking the place someone shits from? Be an adult and deal with it.

“Oh, it hurts!” LUBE IT UP, BITCH!! Seriously – the only time anal sex has ever hurt for me was when the lube dried up (because I was using the wrong lube – use silicone based lube, NOT water based).  It may also hurt if there’s a really big cock involved. But from what I understand, with proper anal training, your ass can withstand the size of any cock and any thing. (Just no glass jars please – fuck, have you seen that viral video?) The reason we can’t use water based lube for ass sex is because the water will dry up and I’ve been told that our ass holes are like a Sham-Wow – it’ll suck everything up, but it won’t suck up silicone.

“But I don’t really feel anything in my butt hole.” Then rub something else! I can’t really get off on just butt sex – fuck, I can’t get off from “REGULAR” sex! When The Duchess is fucked I never have an orgasm – but when I spit in my hand and start rubbing one out while there’s a cock inside of me – THAT’S when I not only get off, but have the best, most intense fucking orgasms. Rubbing one out while there’s something comfortably in my ass brings out an even better orgasm.

So there ya have it. After six years of swearing against ass sex, I’ve educated myself,  found a trustworthy sex partner, and have finally not just experimented with anal sex, but fucking loved it! I have a great, big, juicy ass, so why not find more ways for others to enjoy it just as much as I do?!

With that, I’m now introducing my ass, which my roommates, Justine and David, dutifully named for me. I knew I wanted a Queen name because, come on, my shit is royal as hell. And, in relation to The Duchess, my ass is obviously ranked higher than my pussy and less people are ever honored with her presence. So they suggested Queen Victoria.

“Yeah, I heard she was known for being a tight ass.”

“And it’s a victory for anyone who gets there!”

Bitchez and bastardz, I bring you Queen Victoria, now open for business.

30 Days of Kink – Day 3: “IOU”

Day 3: How did you discover you were kinky?

I was never into foreplay. I always just joked that I was “impatient” or “just too fucking wet to wait.” It never went beyond some tongue teasing and a hand down the pants because 1. I rarely get off when someone besides myself finger fucks The Duchess, and 2. Most men don’t know where the fuck the clit is anyway.

I’ve always been a dominant person. I like to take control of situations, whether it be on a set or at work or even just choosing the fast food joint we should hit when we’re stoned. I like to know what’s happening, when it’s happening, and how it’s going to happen. I like things to be right and I figure the best way to be sure of it is to just do it my fucking self. It goes without saying that the partners I sometimes preferred were submissive – they didn’t mind my controlling tendencies and, even better – they did whatever the fuck I said. Make me dinner. Change the channel. Fuck me now.

But then I met Nigel.

And after being with him I was introduced to patience; to the tease. He never gave in, didn’t give me what I wanted… not until I fucking begged for it. And even then, he’d just yank my hair, “Nope, not yet.” Before I could beg some more – “Fuck me, just fuck me,” he’d shove a finger inside of me and I’d moan before I could even say please. He’d tickle my nipple rings with his tongue, pulling at them with his teeth. I’d moan as he finger fucked me harder and faster until I was just about to cum and then WHAM – he’d jump up, shoving my legs apart and forcing himself inside of me. His cock would enter just as I’d clench up for an orgasm; the arrival of my climax was only the beginning.

So it’s pretty clear that Nigel likes it fucking rough and I had never experienced sex like this until I was with him. He liked to beat my ass while fucking me from behind; to yank me towards him by my hair, wrapping one arm around my throat as he reached for my breast. I’d choke, losing my breath while he demanded that I beg for his cock. And to my surprise, I liked to submit to him. I liked begging. I liked being slapped as he stood before me, shoving his dick in my mouth and fucking the back of my throat ‘til I gagged. I liked being pulled up from my knees and shoved over a desk to be spanked just before being fucked. I quickly learned that I liked it fucking rough, too.

During my time with Nigel – at the dawn of my interests in BDSM – I did a ton of reading on the subject. I wanted to know more about what I was getting into, and I also wanted to know why. I thought hitting someone was bad – so why the fuck did I wanna get slapped in bed? Turns out that a lot of what we’ve pent up comes out when we’re immersed in a primal act, especially during sex. With that in mind, I’ve reminisced about my childhood and teenage years only to realize that my kinks were vaguely visible years before I’d even let a dick near me. I’d regularly roam suburban malls with my army of pre-teen Goths, decked in a cheap corset, spiked collar, and a bondage skirt. I’d drag a friend on a leash that was connected to their collar, also black and spiked. We’d pierce ourselves and each other. I’d play boot camp with my friends, giving myself the dominant role, yelling orders at my soldiers during recess. Though these behaviors were completely innocent and totally unrelated to sex, I obviously derived some sort of pleasure from it and it’s just really fucking interesting to connect my kiddy interests with my adult desires.

It’s been about a year since Nigel and I last fucked. Whatever emotional connection we had has been long gone, but I’ll always miss him because, in a way, he was a first for me – my first really rough fuck. If he hadn’t exposed me to rough sex I’d have never gone on to explore the multitude of pleasures I’ve found in BDSM. Nigel – I owe you big time. I’m officially granting you a lifetime supply of blowjays.

30 Days of Kink – Day 2: “Defects”

Day 2: List your kinks.

Today’s prompt is simultaneously easy and hard. Sure, I could simply list my kinks –

1. Spanking

2. Bondage

3. Rape play

But I’m not a list kinda bitch. What’s the meaning of a number followed by one fucking word or phrase if you can’t even really hear the swift slap of your palm against my bare flesh; if you can’t really feel the way my skin pulsates once your grip is removed; if you can’t really see your handprint on my ass as it dissolves into a bright red radiance. 

How do I even decide which interests to include on this list? Do I get to decide what’s defined as “kink” or have the kink goddesses before me already etched the solid boundaries of my desires into stone (or leather)? Can kink be a self-given title? And if so, can the title be received without having ever even experienced kink?

I think so.

Kink goes beyond sex. Yes, it involves sexual practices, but what defines kink is the idea that it surpasses “conventional” standards – and that, the instant kink is defined as “unconventional” – is the very same moment that kink becomes more than sex. When we’re told that something we enjoy is “different” or “weird” we resort to hiding it instead of accepting it. We hide in a dark corner with our defects until we unknowingly bump into another scared kid who’s hiding in the corner as well. We finally light a match to see that there’s been a silent crowd hiding in the same corner all along. We then quietly gather this army of freaks to indulge in our defects together, thus forming a community. And once the community grows, we find solace in the fact that the things we enjoy aren’t really as fucked up as we’ve been led on to believe. We finally find comfort in our defects; we identify as them. In this very respect, kink has become an identity.

I like to think of my identity as a big fucking middle finger. My size, my sexual orientation, my gender, and my preferences in bed – each piece eternally shouting obscenities to convention. Although I’ve come to terms with these identities at different times and through different experiences, they each affect the other, overlapping in all aspects of my life. I hadn’t felt complete until discovering, accepting, and unabashedly indulging in all aspects of my “abnormal” identity because there is no way to enjoy your complete self without accepting each of your “defects” equally.

So now, how could I ever just simply list my kinks? It’s impossible to explain the way a paddle feels without revealing the intensity at which my ass then jiggles. I can’t talk about being tied up without explaining that ropes don’t just constrict movement – they also slither between cracks and rolls to form luscious mounds of soft flesh. There’s no way to explain dominance and submission without explaining that I – the woman – is not always the fuck toy; that I can choke a throat with my own “cock” just as he or she or ze may.

Lists are for vanilla soccer moms. I pray to Satan I’m never subjected to one again.

30 Days of Kink – Day 1: “Pippi Painstocking”

Day 1: Dom, sub, switch?  What parts of BDSM interest you?  Give us an interesting in-depth definition of what that means to you. Basically define your kinky self for us.

Enjoying a spank at the 40th Anniversary of the Pleasure Chest 9/29/11, image courtesy of Bob McPink

I’m a horrible procrastinator and can be easily distracted in the midst of productivity, much like the rest of my ADHD generation and, of course, with the help of some really good pot. We put off the next line of a piece or the errand we have to run or the laundry we have to do by allowing ourselves just five more clicks – no, ten  clicks – no, ten minutes – okay, fuck it, I’ll just do it tomorrow.

Today it took me two hours to clean my room. My deviance from this task didn’t come from the usual glow of my MacBook Pro screen, though; the white whisper that begs me to update my stupid fucking Facebook status. No, today I was distracted by my full-length mirror. Every time I passed it I was compelled to check my reflection. I’d stand, my back directly to the mirror before taking six steps – the precise distance in order to achieve the perfect view of my entire body. I don’t turn around after the last step, though. Instead, I leave my back facing its reflection, turning only my head to see my chubby fingers grip the skirt of a shoplifted black cotton dress. The bottom of my bare ass reps for those of us who get off by going commando. It peeks from the skirt as I raise it a little higher until I can see about an inch or two of my crack. My lips break apart into a smile at the site of the purple bruises on either cheek. These broken blood vessels appeared on my ass just a few days prior, left by the kiss of a hard wood paddle. I stopped to witness the marks about five times during those two hours of “cleaning”, reminiscing about the slick tan wood against sheer black nylon against pale soft flesh. A crowd of strangers watches as I inhale, grinning with anticipation. WHACK.

This is just a glimpse into the pleasure I feel while I or a partner consensually inflicts pain onto the other. Pain is the most general term I can use to define what I like about BDSM, whether it be

the pain caused from a spank;

the rigid edges of a pair of tight metal cuffs;

the swift crack of a whip;

the firm grip of your hand around my neck;

the first gasp of air once the grip is released;

the constriction of my soft belly rolls into the bones of a corset;

my lack of control when I’m shoved into a restraint contraption, my body forced open for you;

the sense of power I feel while gripping your hair as I invade you with a counterfeit cock;

the red lines and torn skin left by my sharp purple finger nails.

But to answer that question in short: I’m a switch that defines BDSM by finding pleasure through pain, who prefers spanking, restraints, and general roughness in bed.

I opened the document to start this piece at 4:43pm. I checked the marks on my ass only three times in the duration of writing it, but checked Twitter and Facebook and Tumblr countless fucking times while watching Short Bus, smoking the last of my weed, and dancing around to Best Coast’s album “Crazy for You” three times all the way through. It is now 10:38pm.

30 Days of Kink

It’s dawned on me how important it is that I update this blog regularly. Not only do I need to break the fuck out of my habit of procrastination, but I need to force myself to find time to write within the craziness of my schedule. After some late night internet-lurking I stumbled upon this list for the 30 Days of Kink. Not only will this help me write more, but it’s totally fucking relevant to this blog and to the scene I’ve been becoming more and more educated about and interested in.

With that, I wanted to share the list I’ll be following. I can barely contemplate how I’ll be responding to these – whether I’ll be sharing personal anecdotes or trying my hand at erotic fiction. Regardless, I’m super fucking excited to experiment with this new exercise. I strongly encourage responses about your own experiences or questions that my responses may raise (feel free to comment anonymously for my shy fetishists out there).  And, of course, I have high hopes that these stories pop a boner or two!

Day 1: Dom, sub, switch?  What parts of BDSM interest you?  Give us an interesting in-depth definition of what that means to you. Basically define your kinky self for us.

Day 2: List your kinks.

Day 3: How did you discover you were kinky?

Day 4: Any early experiences that, in retrospect, hint at your kinks?

Day 5: What was your first kinky sexual experience?  If you haven’t had one yet, talk about what you hope to have happen.

Day 6: Describe your weirdest/most interesting sexual fantasy.

Day 7: What’s your favorite toy?

Day 8: Post a kinky image you find erotic.

Day 9: Post a kink related song or music video you enjoy.

Day 10: What are your hard limits?

Day 11: What are your views on the ethics of kink?

Day 12: Tell us about a humorous BDSM/kink experience you’ve had.  If you haven’t had one, talk about aspects of kink/BDSM you find funny.

Day 13: Explain as best you can what the appeal of kink/BDSM is to you?  Why are you drawn to what you’re drawn to?

Day 14: How would you say real life BDSM/kink varies from fantasy BDSM/kink?  If you haven’t experienced real life BDSM/kink how do you think it might differ?

Day 15: Post a BDSM/kink activity you’re curious about and would like to try.

Day 16: What are the most difficult aspects of having a sexuality that involves kink or BDSM for you personally?

Day 17: What misconception about kinky people would you most like to clear up?

Day 18: Any kinky/BDSM pet peeves?  If so, what are they?

Day 19: Any unexpected ways kink has improved your life?  If so, what are they?

Day 20:  Talk about something within kink/BDSM that you’re curious about/don’t understand.

Day 21: Favorite BDSM related book (fiction or non-fiction)

Day 22: What do you think is important in keeping a BDSM relationship healthy?  How does it differ from a vanilla relationship?

Day 23: Since you first developed an interest in kink, have your interests/perspectives changed?  How so?

Day 24: What qualities do you look for in a partner?

Day 25: How open are you about your kinks?

Day 26: What’s your opinion on online BDSM play?

Day 27: Do your non-kink interests ever find their way into your kinky activities? If so, how?

Day 28: How do you dress for kink/BDSM play?  What significance does your attire have to you?

Day 29: Do you have a BDSM title (e.g. mistress, master, slut, pig, whore, princess, goddess, ma’am, sir)?  What is your opinion of the use of titles in general?

Day 30: Whatever BDSM/kink related thing you want to write about.

03: “Bound by Brains” – Exploring S&M (a work in progress)

“I’m interested in manipulating what’s in the mind. 

The brain is the greatest erogenous zone.”

-Lily Fine, Professional Dominatrix

 .  .  . 

I was a nine-year-old sadomasochist. I swear, it was nothing sexual though – I just liked being the boss. There were numbers painted on the concrete in front of the Anne Frank Little School House where the kindergarteners lined up every morning in anticipation of an escort to class. These numbers served a different purpose when the bell rang for recess, though. One through ten, I’d have all my forth grade friends line up and we would play “boot camp”. Hands planted on my hips, I’d march back and forth in front of the line of elementary soldiers shouting orders.  “Touch your nose! Hold your breath! Stand on one leg for ten seconds!”

There would be serious consequences if a soldier disobeyed or lost their balance. I’d swoop into the ignorant soldier’s view, pressing my forehead against hers, screaming, “What the hell do you think you’re doing!” She’d wobble a bit, attempting to regain one-legged stability before I shouted some more.  “Drop and give me a million!” The soldier would plop onto hands and knees and I’d march away, arms folded, with a grimace slapped across my face.  Then the bell would ring and we’d all laugh, scurrying back to class.  This was how I had fun.

Eleven years later and I find myself strapped into an under-the-bed restraint contraption, my bare ass glowing red.  “Harder!” I cry, and SMACK.  I cringe, my entire body tensing up as Eric’s white handprint radiates before quickly fading back to red. I lie on my stomach, his two hundred eighty pound frame now straddling my thick hips as he grips my hair, yanking my head back towards him.

“Tell me you love that fucking cock. “

I keep my lips sealed, squirming beneath him.  He wraps his arm around my neck, my mouth forced open for air.

“Say it!”

I gasp.  He squeezes my head tighter and I finally shout.

“Fuck you!”

He grips my hair again, burying my face in my pillow.  Long story short, this is how I fuck.

I tried explaining my sex life to a friend once without growing a lady boner. I’d reminisce about the difference between Velcro and metal cuffs, always preferring metal because the Velcro could be wiggled off easily and they didn’t leave marks. I craved the cold, hard surface of metal digging into my wrists like a chisel into stone.  I was once left with the kiss of a handcuff, a greenish bruise on the inside of my wrist, for a week. This is sexier to me than any hickie.  My friend shuddered.

“Jesus Christ dude, doesn’t it hurt?”

“Well yeah, but that’s kind of the point. “

 

There are two key elements to S&M – pain and power.  The latter is kind of easy for me to dissect – I’m a dominating kinda gal, taking leadership roles on film sets, in my job, and even with my indecisive friends who can never decide what our Friday nights should entail.  I’m naturally a powerful person, so I get off when someone else can overpower me.  But the pain aspect has become trivial to me.  It hurts.  Like, really fucking hurts.  But what keeps me begging for more?

Bettie Page is probably the most notorious fetish model.  These days, you can find her voluptuous figure and trademark Bettie bangs plastered on t-shirts and coffee mugs and air fresheners almost anywhere.  But at the time of this photo – around 1955 – any person gaining pleasure from this image would have been deemed mentally ill.  For over a century the American Psychiatric Association considered anyone who got off on bondage, beating, and humiliation to have a mental disorder.  It wasn’t until the 1980s that it was removed from the Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders.

Honestly, I can see how the APA could screw this up.  Though it’s ridiculous to consider the act of being bound and gagged as a disorder, I wouldn’t be surprised if many people involved with S&M suffer from some sort of psychological illness, but instead of acting out in a destructive manner, they find solace in S&M. Scientists at Northern Illinois University helped solidify this idea after finding that S&M can help fight depression.  The NIU team took couples’ stress levels before and after their “tie-and-tickle sessions” and found that, yes, stress and testosterone levels rose during the act, but they felt happier afterwards. A separate study done by the Novosibirsk Institute of Medicine found that spanking eases depression because it releases endorphins that leave you feeling euphoric.  Yep – that’s right, bitches – we can fight pain with pain! 

The film Secretary, a feature adapted from Mary Gaitskill’s short story of the same title, explores the idea of overcoming self-injury with S&M.  A wimpy girl named Leigh is released from the loony bin and finds a job as a secretary for E. Edward Grey’s paralegal office.  He catches her cutting one day and confronts her about it, but she’s not sure why she does it.

“Is it that sometimes the pain inside has to come to the surface, and when you see evidence of the pain inside, you finally know you’re really here? Then, when you watch the wound heal, it’s comforting, isn’t it?”

He then commands Leigh to stop cutting.  And she does.  She stands at the edge of a bridge with her sewing kit – the purple box that houses her razors and iodine and a fairy figurine with a sharpened edge – and she dumps it into the river, releasing herself of her instinct to self-harm.  But this recovery doesn’t happen so easily – no, because her impulse is replaced with her new relationship with Edward, one that includes spanking and restraints. After finding a new obsession in this film, I began making sense of my own situation.

After four years of being cut-free, I was lured back to the false comfort of the razor blade, along with the 3 million other students, housewives, cashiers, servers, and accountants who succumb to self-injury every year. Summer break forced me away from my second home in Chicago, sending me back to the east coast. I would hibernate in the dull pink bedroom assigned to me in my parents’ new suburban home, locking the door and blaring RuPaul’s Drag Race so my parents knew not to disturb me (because drag queens are as high a priority to me as breathing).  Then, retreating to my bed, I’d bury myself under quilts and pillows, planting headphones in my ears. Kathleen Hanna’s words would seep into my head, her voice watered down from the usual grungy vocals of Bikini Kill to a sweeter hum. I can’t say everything about it in just one single song.  I can’t put how I feel in a package and sell it to everyone. A warmth grows behind my eyes and I cringe.  I hope the food tastes better in heaven.  The warmth leaks and I reach for the box cutter stolen from my dad’s tool kit.  But no one said life was easy.  The blade dances across my belly, careful not to collide with my stomach tattoo.  No, no one told me anything to prepare me for fucking this. 

Roy Baumeister, a social psychologist at Case Western University explains the idea of replacing self-harm with sadomasochism, saying, “The satisfaction gained from S&M is something far more than sex. It can be a total emotional release… Sadomasochism is a way people can forget themselves.”

Two months after I was reunited with the razor blade, I was finally able to stop picking at the scabs.  I was able to let the wounds heal, allowing golden scars to form, hibernating between the stretch marks above the tattoo on my stomach.  I was back to my preferred home in Chicago, and Eric was pulling my hair again.  I haven’t made myself bleed since.

02: “Counterfeit Cocks” or “That Time I Fucked a Married Dude in the Butt”

There is absolutely nothing wrong with fucking a ton of people just for the hell of it. I’ll be the first bitch to admit that sometimes, I really do just want a motherfucker to shut the fuck up and stick it in already. But besides just going through innumerable amounts of condoms, I’d like to think of my past year and a half of slutting it up as a learning experience. I’ve earned my degree in ass getting through active participation instead of boring classrooms, presenting you now with my Bachelors in Blowjobs, a Masters in Making Out and a Ph-mothafucking-D in How to get Dick. Along with the one-night stands and fuck buddies who have aided me towards my current title of Proud Slut, there have also been instances that one would typically keep hush-hush. But being the honorable practitioner that I am today, I say, “Fuck that!” I find even more pride in my uncomfortable encounters than ones that came easily to me. We gotta take the good with the bad because we learn a lot more from shitty situations than we do from perfect ones. And unfortunately in the business of sex, there sometimes will literally be shit involved.

It all started in the back of a friend’s Chevy Cobalt. We spent the dawn of our evening devoted to a handle of Vladimir Vodka, each esophagus burning shot aiding me towards the tolerance of the next. After a while of pregaming and clumsily dancing around a friend’s bedroom, we tossed what was left of the alcohol into jugs of Wawa lemonade and fruit punch before finally making our way out for the night. Cramming six drunk twenty-somethings into a sedan is a feat amongst itself, let alone passing Vlad-tainted jugs around inconspicuously. But after our cramped twenty-minute drive consumed by obnoxious music and maniacal laughter, we made it to what would typically be a generic Philadelphia nightclub. This night in particular was a Wednesday, which meant club Shampoo had been transformed into Nocturne – one of Philly’s only goth and industrial clubs, catering to those drenched in bondage pants, fishnets and neon colored synthetic dreads. Though I left these interests in middle school, I’d always been curious about the club and deemed it better suited for a fucking freak like me as opposed to the mainstream clubs frequented by most.

So there I am, donning a leopard print dress shoplifted from Wal-Mart, grinding against this lanky married dude I had only just met, who can only bring himself to awkwardly shuffle against the shimmies of my fat ass. Every so often the humidity caused by a room full of sweaty pale kids was intolerable and we’d make our way back to the car to refresh ourselves with more booze.

I sat between Married Dude and my best friend Geri in the back seat as the friend in front, Victoria, ferociously attacked the guy in the passenger seat with her mouth. I watched their lips smack together, tongues sloppily intertwining, spit glistening from their nostrils to their chins. I decided to follow their lead and, after a straight swig of Vlad followed by a more tolerable swig of Vlad-spiked lemonade, shoved my tongue down Married Dude’s throat. There weren’t many places for my hands to rest comfortably, so they inevitably landed in his crotch. His Army pants were no aid in camouflaging his raging fucking hard on, and after the quick discovery it was hard to ignore. We suffocated each other with our tongues and saliva, and in the midst of a quick gasp he whispered, “Let me take out my boner.” Even in the midst of my severe inebriation I didn’t find this the least bit attractive. Laughter burst from my lips like the load I’m sure was brewing in his balls, and I couldn’t contemplate the fact that a grown fucking man still used the word “boner”, in the heat of the moment, nonetheless. I laughed some more before telling him to shut the fuck up, but before I could mute him with my mouth, Geri erupted – “No, take it out, I wanna see you suck his dick.”

What?

I laughed some more because, well, I’m really fucking funny so needless to say, my best friend is really fucking funny too. It had to be a joke when she asked to watch me suck this man’s dick. She was asking me to suck this man’s dick in front of her. She was asking me to suck this man’s dick in front of her in the back seat of an acquaintance’s car in the parking lot of an urban club. In a questionable area. After midnight. Yeah, it totally, absolutely had to be joke.

With my head in his lap I hocked some spit in my hand and gripped his cock to his elation. Not much time passed before I went from huddling over his crotch to flailing to my back. Geri found a satisfactory spectator’s view in the front passenger’s seat once Victoria and her beau-for-the-night found solace sucking face somewhere else.

It wasn’t long before Victoria realized she had left something in the car and as she opened the door she found Married Dude’s face in my crotch. What the fuck! We all laughed as she grabbed whatever the fuck she needed and slammed the door shut. In the midst of cackles I asked if he had any condoms and was genuinely impressed with the speed in which he slipped one on while under such a drunken spell. His pelvis shot into me and I gasped. With each thrust I experienced utter agony. Don’t get me wrong, the dick was good, but the metal pane of the car door was not, and it chiseled into my spine with every. fucking. thrust. I persisted, though, and would later bare a bruise on my back as the night’s souvenir.  Geri watched as if we were merely enacting a shitty sitcom. She popped some chips in her mouth and took a swig of spiked punch before complimenting the sounds that I made.

Needles to say, after a night like that, there are no fucking boundaries.

A few weeks into seeing him, he finally felt comfortable enough to show me his toys. I had already been aware of his curious sexuality – his innate desire to suck a dick and, of course, take it up the ass. But his wife was always repulsed by the thought so he had never taken initiative to explore his desires. She eventually left, though, and as quickly as she was out the door, he was on the internet ordering anal beads and dildos. I was excited when he offered to show them to me. Both dildos were pretty “realistic” looking – as realistic as a rubber dick with a suction cup can get. One was average sized with an ultra defined head and a slight tilt upwards. The other, though, is what I can only describe as “fucking huge.” Like, bigger than a Coke-can huge. Like, so fucking big that even I couldn’t take it and The Duchess* was literally black-and-blue bruised the morning after. We spent a lot of time joking about the fake cocks – sticking them on the walls, batting them at the cats, sword fighting. I knew he wanted me to use them on him, but I didn’t exactly know how the fuck it would work.

* Yes, my pussy has really been dubbed The Duchess.

We spent one romantic evening shoveling carbs in our mouths at some local Jersey Italian joint just down the street from his marital abode. It was the first time he’d treated me to a meal and he would soon eat the leftovers of my shrimp alfredo out of spite for my inability to share the intense feelings he had for me. Until then, though, we would merely smile at each other between chomps of garlic knots and onion rings; share a loving gaze between slurps of Coke and long, slimy linguine. After reaching an extreme level of bloatedness, we left the restaurant with hands intertwined.

Arriving at his home I immediately sought relief in his bed before luring him under the covers next to me. The usual fondling ensued – making out leads to a hand up my shirt before a pinch of my pierced nipples, then the shirts are off. His hard on rubs against my knee before I finally shove my hand down his pants. He then returns the favor before pants are off and he finds a place between my legs. We rub against each other before the teasing of his head against my clit is unbearable and I pull his waist into me. That’s how it usually happened, but this night, this night was different. This night, instead of finding him inside of me, I’d be finding my detachable cock inside of him.

My cotton thong was still in place when he whispered something about his dildos. When I nodded my head in agreement he almost fell off the bed in order to make his way to the closet where his toys found a home. He handed me the one with the slight bend before finding a position on his knees, his face huddled in his arms, eyes closed, a deep breath in anticipation. I watched the lube glisten on the tip of the imitation cock before rubbing it against his ass hole. I pushed slightly inwards but it barely went inside of him. Ass holes were way more resistant than I expected. I kept lightly pushing the head into him and it would forcefully pull itself out. He moaned before telling me to just stick it the fuck in already. For the first time, I was nervous to fuck someone. Are you sure I’m not hurting you? He ignored the question and continued to plead before I finally shoved the thing into him with the power of a punch. He gasped and my arm acted as a jackhammer, pushing it in and out and in and out. It finally slipped and I couldn’t keep a firm grip on it because everything was just fucking covered in lube – the dick, the sheets, my hand, his ass. My frustration grew when I couldn’t consistently grip the thing before I shared my wish to have a strap on. And then it dawned on me. I grabbed a pair of scissors and snipped a small hole on the crotch of my thong before slipping the rubber dick through. I was proud of my contraption regardless of its need to be held in place while in use. We stood at the end of the bed and I threw him over the edge before spreading his legs and placing my counterfeit cock between his cheeks. And then suddenly, this odd sensation reigned over me with my first thrust inside of him.

I had experienced a lot in my sex life up until this point and learned that with each new position or new toy comes a new sensation. The first time I let someone fuck me, someone I loved, my heart grew tender. The first time I held a dick in my hand and my mouth, my pride grew with the satisfaction that I could provide someone else with satisfaction. And bitches and bastards, I have to admit, the first time I fucked a dude in the ass; a married dude in the ass; a married dude in the ass with a homemade cotton strap on – I felt a sense of power. I was fucking him and, regardless that I couldn’t feel a thing physically, it felt fucking amazing to my sense of self.

He finally reached climax and I was able to pull my dick out only to find that the head was lined with shit. I wasn’t sure how to break the news to him so I just laughed and let him see for himself. Are you fucking kidding me! He yanked the dildo off of me and ran to the bathroom in embarrassment. I cackled between attempts to ease his shame. I mean, that’s what typically comes from an ass hole anyway, so I’d much rather pull some shit out of him than see a spout of blood. He locked himself in the bathroom, scrubbing at the dick for a while, ensuring it was completely feces-free. I paced around the apartment for a while, naked, before rewarding my deed with a bag of Cheetos. I didn’t find my reward in the satisfaction of my hunger, though.  No, I found my reward in – I shit you not! – a dick shaped Cheeto.

I’ve only shared a moment involving shit with one other person, someone I thought to be the love of my life. And, no, he didn’t shit on me and I didn’t shit on him. It was one of those things that just kind of happens when you find yourself so genuinely comfortable around someone that it’s no fucking biggie to take a dump while they shower just a foot away from you. Unfortunately, though, this experience did not follow suit. Since my first love I have never felt so secure with a partner that I could share a dump with them, and definitely did not find this comfort with Married Dude. Long story short, he confessed his love for me after an affair of only weeks. My immediate response was to laugh. I laughed in his face and said, “No you don’t,” before desperately seeking a cigarette and speeding away in my piece of shit ’90 Ford Escort, never fucking ever to return.