Tuesday, July 30, 2013

How to Cook Masochist

Things you will need:
Unremitting agony
Implements of torture and misery
If necessary, a way to restrain your masochist

Begin the process of cooking your masochist by marinating it in fear and trepidation. You will want to start this step at least a few hours in advance of your scene, preferably an entire day before. The marinade should consist of a steady dose of panic-inducing suggestions, innuendos, predictions. At first, the marinade may seem to simply run off the masochist without affect, but don't worry: it's infusing itself into the bloodstream, creating a whirling, pounding sense of terror. Later, it will add a distinct flavor to the dish!

Right before you are ready to start in on your masochist, stir in some anxiety, doubt, and dread. Do this by reminding it what is about to happen to its body, mind and soul; what you have planned--and what you are still contemplating; and that while its survival is assured, everything else is basically still on the table. Reiterate that the pain they are about to endure might be your fault, but it was their choice, and that choice is about to fucking hurt deep.

Tie up your masochist so it's ready for the procedure ahead. This is not unlike trussing up a chicken, turkey, or pig. You can use rope, leather...hell, you can even use twine. The point is to keep exposed all the body parts you want exposed, and tuck away all the limbs you don't want getting in the way, so that the meat cooks exactly how you want it to. The masochist, feeling trapped at this point, may try to test its bonds by thrashing and flailing. Let it; the faster it realizes it's not going anywhere, the faster it will surrender to the pain ahead.

Now it's time to tenderize the meat! But, like my grandmother used to say, make sure you're using the right tools for the right job. If you want to warm the meat slowly and evenly, you'll want to start out with something smooth and flat. But sometimes the meat is acting tough, and will require a good pounding from the get-go to see any good results. The masochist may begin to tremble and strain, but this is all normal. Its endorphins are starting to bubble to the surface, and the more you let them escape, the better. Its smarting, aching flesh should slowly become a beautiful glowing red. It may also have purple areas, depending on your tenderizing technique; this is also nothing to worry about.

Once the masochist has been reduced to a tormented, runny mess, it is ready to be cooked. What's good about cooking masochist is that there are so many ways to do it. Masochist can be fried up with electricity and fire; it can be beat up with canes and floggers; it can be whipped with, well, whips; it can be baked with paddles and tawses. In its distress, the masochist will probably not remain quiet. It may even shriek, holler, gasp and scream in its throes of agony. Be prepared for this--have a gag ready, if need be. A ball gag works wonders. A small apple may fit in its mouth, too.

As the masochist cooks, all its juices will start flowing to the surface, and it will probably get creamy. Don't waste this soft sweet juice! Baste the meat liberally as the cooking continues. You can even remove the gag once in a while to force its juices back into its  mouth. It may very well be crying at this point, too, and the juices mixed with its tears should make a unique tangy/sweet taste on its tongue. Don't be shy about tasting yourself!

Depending on the masochist, you will know its ready when it's thrashing has simmered down to a low, miserable quiver; when its skin is flushed and throbbing; when the bruises have risen nicely to the surface; and when it can do nothing but stare into dreamy space, utterly removed from its current torment. Do not base your decision on whether the masochist has had enough solely on the appearance of the body. Judge on its state of mind: basically, it should have no mind left. Once your masochist is incapable of putting coherent thoughts together, it is probably done.

At this point, the masochist needs time to cool down. Sit it in a corner, keep it still and quiet if necessary. Treat it like a soufflé: don't let it drop too quickly! This part can be tricky to learn, but with enough practice, I'm sure you'll get it.

By the time the process is over, your masochist should look great, feel great, and taste great. Good job! And remember: don't be afraid to experiment. This is just one recipe; have fun making your own!

Thursday, July 25, 2013

My Response to the Editors at Good Men Project

Dear Good Men Project,
I've always been a fan of your site. For one, it's eye-pleasing, and two, the content has always been above grade. And let's face it, with a name like "Good Men Project," and a lofty goal like "enlightened masculinity," how could women everywhere not love it, or at least condone it? You want to show your readers what it means to be a "good man." You want to lead by example.

So here's my question for you: What the fuck happened?

I'm talking specifically about this article. You know, the one written by the guy who admits raping a woman while drunk, then tries to explain it away, just so that he can justify his need to party.
Drunk. And raping.

Let's take on a few interesting points from the article you put up as your featured fucking content, shall we?

With what I’ve learned as an adult, I’m pretty sure I’m technically a rapist. Technically nothing. One woman told me herself. Our encounter was years before—I’d been in a drinking contest and she’d been drinking and flirting with me (yes, actually flirting) all evening. As blurry and fucked-up as I was, I read her kiss of congratulation to me as a stronger signal than it was, and with friends hooting and cheering us on, I pressed her up against a wall and… well. Call it rape or call it a particularly harsh third base, I walked away with the impression that it had been consensual, if not really sensible. (She had a boyfriend at the time, but their boundaries were fuzzy.)
Years later, she was in a recovery program—not for alcohol, ironically—and she got in touch with me during the part where she made peace with her past. She wanted to clarify that what had happened between us was without her consent, that it hurt her physically and emotionally, that it was, yes, rape.

Even as he's telling this story, the author has to explain that it seemed ok to rape at the time.
The woman been flirting with him. Yes, actual flirting!
He was too blurry and fucked-up to realize a kiss is not an invitation for rape.
His friends were cheering him on. He had to please the crowd, damn it!
Her boundaries with her boyfriend were fuzzy...and everyone knows, no protective boyfriend=fair game for rape.
But here's the real kicker: he can't even bring himself to call it rape. No, it was a "particularly harsh third base."
It hurt her, physically and emotionally. He violated her body. But it wasn't real rape.

Which I guess is one of the reasons why he feels justified to "run the risk" of doing it again?

The author later goes on to say how it's even possible he was raped. He's not sure, of course. But it's possible! He might be a victim here, too! But he's willing to take that chance, and keep drinking and partying.

I've accepted a certain amount of rape as the cost of doing business, and so have most of the people I know.

And if he's willing to take the chance of getting raped, then by God, all the women he parties with should be willing to take the chance of getting raped by him. Because partying is what's most important.

I'm not surprised there are men like this author in the world. I'm not naive; I know plenty of men think rape is no big deal--did I say rape? I meant a particularly harsh third base--and women should just accept that if they're going to party, they have to accept responsibility for their actions. Actions that might get themselves raped. If rapists can take responsibility for their drunken misconduct--kinda--then the raped women should too, right?
This is the rape apologists' attitude, anyway.

But why is the Good Men Project defending it? For god's sake, why?

Oh, you put a disclaimer above the article, yes.
Do you really think this disclaimer absolves you? Let's take another look at it, shall we?

Editor’s note: This is a difficult article to read, and to publish.

Do you think it being "difficult to publish" exonerates you from doing so? You published a rape apologist article. You made that choice. You could have published an article like "Why I stopped drinking: because I raped" or "Why men need to stop blaming their actions on alcohol" or "I will never make up for raping while drunk." Or how about publishing an article from a woman's point of view? "I was raped by a drunk man at a party. Here's what happened."
But no, you guys chose to publish an article written by a rapist who admits he raped a woman, knows he might do it again, and doesn't fucking care, not enough to take whatever steps necessary to not rape again. Because it feels too fucking good. 

We at the Good Men Project do not endorse or support the author’s worldview

You don't endorse his worldview. But you published it as featured content. So what would you call it, if not endorsement? I guess if we can play around with words like "rape" and "boundaries," we can fudge the definition of "endorsement," too.

but it does speak to a very common experience that is often taken for granted 

Yeah, it's a common experience. One that has to stop. That's not what this article is about.

We thank the author for being willing to speak openly about it, and share his struggle with his own experiences

I guess if you get a writer who's articulate and can write about a difficult topic poignantly, it doesn't really matter what his viewpoint is, does it? You'll publish the article. Because he's sharing his struggle with his own experiences. Only...it wasn't just his experience, it was also the woman who got raped. Remember her? And I really don't think he's struggling as much as she is. But hey! He's open and honest about what he did! He deserves a cookie!

we want to make very clear that we do not agree with his conclusions.

I'm so glad you don't agree with his conclusions. Seems kind of weird, though, you published the article anyway.

And that's the kicker, isn't it? You guys didn't agree with the "conclusions" of the article, and you felt the need to tack up a disclaimer...but you posted it anyway. Why? Because it's sensationalist writing? Because you knew people would be talking about it? Because you needed the publicity?

Well, mission accomplished, Good Men Project. I'm devoting a whole post to you guys. I'm letting everyone know how disgusting, abhorrent, and chauvinistic your featured content is. Your name is forever tainted with your readers. You are not the "Good Men" project anymore. You are the website that posted an article defending drunken rape, and sent a clear message to your readers that if you're a guy who rapes, but you feel kinda bad about it, and you can write well, then you'll have a platform waiting for you.

Is that the message you wanted to send? Good job.
But if not, then you guys got some thinking to do.
My advice: pull the article while you think, and offer your readers a damn big apology, because dudes, you fucked up.

Friday, July 19, 2013

My Other Jewelry

A story of last night.
It was a night of rare proportions: ALL THREE KIDS WERE OUT OF THE HOUSE. They were spending the night at camp, sleeping in sleeping bags under the moon and stars. 
My youngest, the seven-year-old, has slept away from home without us, oh, maybe twice in his life. That's all. The older two teenagers have obviously spent many nights away, sometimes with friends, sometimes with relatives, sometimes not even sleeping, just going off to different places. They can do that; they're young.
But they don't always spend the night away at the same time. And in any case, it's not the same when just two out of three of your children are out of the house: you've still got one child left on your hands. Even if he's a sound sleeper, even if he goes to bed early, even if you know theoretically he's not going to hear a thing...you know he's there, he's your responsibility, and sometimes, shit happens. 
But last night was different. Last night, all the kids were gone. No children. Nada. We had the house to ourselves.

"You want to go out for dinner?" Husband called to ask me as I was driving home. Another rarity: he had gotten home before me.
"No," I replied. "I'd rather stay in and cuddle."
"Sounds good."
"Sounds better."

When I got home, he was on his computer, and by the looks of it, I could tell he was dealing with something work related, and he would be on it for a while. I went upstairs, got naked, and washed (inside and out).
Later I called down, "Husband? How long are you going to be?"
"A few minutes."

This is always a lie. A "few minutes" is never a few minutes. Sometimes, it's hours.
Years ago, I would have waited for him, and resented him for it. Now I either wait for him patiently, with no acrimony...or I do something about it.
I got out the newest butt plug in our collection, a thick metal jeweled one, lubed it up, and slowly--oh so slowly--began to push it in my ass. 

I wasn't in any kind of hurry. I knew Husband would not walk in on me; he was downstairs, doing his thing. 
Metal butt plugs are their own kind of nasty: they're cold, and completely unforgiving. They fucking hurt. But I was determined to get this one all the way in, until the jewel was resting snuggly against my skin. It took a while, and I had to practice some breathing techniques, but I got it there.
Once I was done, I got up (that plug was not going anywhere), washed my hands, grabbed my cell phone--
and took a picture of the plug in my ass. 
It wasn't the best picture, but when you're talking about an ass filled with plug, let's be real here: is there really such a thing as a bad picture?

"Honey?" I called down. "I just sent you a message...did you get it?"
"No...? What do you mean, no?"
"I mean I didn't get it."
"But it was a picture."
"Oh? Let me check again...nope, still didn't get it."
"Uh oh."
"Are you sure you sent it to me?"
"Oh god."
I heard his footsteps on the stairs. 
"Maybe you sent it to one of the kids?"
"Oh god oh god." 
The door opened. I was on my side, my ass facing the wall, so Husband could not see the butt plug. I was also frantically checking my phone.
"No, I sent it to you," I said, relieved. 
"Well, I didn't get it," he said. "What was it a picture of?"
I turned around and spread my ass. 
"Oh," he said. "Nice."

He fucked me from behind with the butt plug in. That plug fucking hurt. I saw colors and bright lights as I came, it was that good. 
When we were done, he watched me take out the plug, which turned into a process, as I was now extra tight, and extra sensitive. I grimaced and howled as I pulled the plug out. Husband smiled the whole time.
"Next time," he said, "I want to watch you put it in."

This morning, I asked him to check his phone again for the picture. 
"I still didn't get it," he said. "Shit, I think I know..."
He went to his computer, opened it up, and turned it on. 
"I messed with the settings on my accounts last night," he said. "Your picture was forwarded to my computer."
There, taking up the full screen, was a glorious picture of my bejeweled plugged ass. 
"Better erase that before your meeting this morning," I said with glee.
"Yeah," he said. "It's a nice picture, though."

Tuesday, July 16, 2013

Why I Need Discipline: Because No One Wants to Keep a Dog that Shits the Bed

Imagine you have a dog. She's an awesome dog. Cute, fun, and loyal as hell. There's only one problem: the bitch shits the bed.
Your bed.
It's not a constant problem. The dog doesn't do it all the time. Once in a while, maybe, like once a week--maybe even just once a month. I mean, shit happens, right? So you change the sheets, clean the mattress up as best you can, give your dog The Look, and carry on.
It's not that big of a deal, you think. Certainly not a big enough problem to turn around and punish the dog. After all, she's a great dog. Doesn't bark, doesn't knock things over, doesn't beg, comes on command, brings you your slippers and paper, sits at your feet in the evenings as you watch your shows...you wouldn't trade this dog for the world.
It just has this one small problem. It's a shitty problem, yes, but you can deal.

Except maybe the dog knows she's doing something wrong. Not exactly what, or when, or how; but she knows that once in a while, you turn around and give her The Look, that stare that says clearly "you are a bad dog. A bad, bad dog. BAD DOG."
And the dog doesn't like getting that stare, not one little bit. She wants to know what she did to deserve it. She wants to know what she did wrong, so she doesn't do it again.
Cause maybe, just maybe, the dog could be trained not to make the same mistake again. Maybe she shits on the bed because she doesn't know any better. Maybe she just doesn't understand how important it is to you not to do that. Maybe, if things were clarified a little bit, if some discipline were administered by a calm, dominant hand, she would be able to understand, and she would learn, and remember.

Learning how not to make the owner give her the BAD DOG stare would be good. Really, really good. And she's a smart dog; she can learn! She just needs time. Time, consistency, training, and discipline.
She wants to learn, because anything, even the harsh discipline, is better than the BAD DOG stare. The BAD DOG stare is horrible. The absolute worst of the worst. The dog would rather walk through fire than get the BAD DOG stare one more time.
The stare means the dog has disappointed the owner. Nothing--nothing--is worse than that.

The dog knows something else in the back of her small dog mind: nobody wants a dog who shits the bed. Not for very long, anyway. Sure, for a while, the dog's good qualities will please the owner enough to balance things out. But after a while, the whole "cleaning shit off the bed" thing is going to get old. The owner is going to get resentful. Eventually, he will begin to wish he had a different dog, one who didn't shit the bed.
But the dog does not want a different owner. The dog loves her owner. All she wants to do is make her owner happy. All she needs to know is how.

This is why it is often kinder, nicer, more dutiful, and more loving to discipline the dog. The dog learns what you want, what you expect from her. There are no questions; there are no doubts. Memories are made through lessons. Sometimes these lessons have to be harsh to make lasting reminders, but that is okay. The dog will accept discipline if it means becoming a better dog...whatever "better dog" happens to means for her loving owner.

What I'm getting at here is this: sometimes I need discipline. This does not mean I enjoy it, or crave it, or in any way look forward to it. But I ask for it, because I know it is how I learn, and what I want to learn is how to make you happy.

Because I know a dose of discipline now will save me from seeing disappointment in your eyes later. And anything, anything is better than that.

Did I just use an analogy comparing myself to a dog? Yes, I did, and I am surprisingly okay with that. Because, as Husband likes to say, I can be a bitch--but I am his bitch. :)

Sunday, July 14, 2013

Folsom Fringe Presenter

Living in the San Francisco Bay Area has its advantages. For the past few years I've been attending the Folsom Street Fair, and live-tweeting the event as I go. Checking out all the vendors and kinksters, posting pictures of really cool shit (with permission, of course), and showing off my purchases to my followers has been awesomely enriching. 

There's a conference that happens the same weekend as Folsom, named (quite aptly) Folsom Fringe. It takes place the Friday and Saturday before Folsom, and offers free shuttle service to the fair itself.

So here's my big news: this year, I will be presenting a class at Folsom Fringe! The class will be on how to self-publish erotica. 

I'm very, very excited. Maybe not so excited, I'm ready to start giving out socks to all my readers who ask me for them--

Ok, I gotta just throw this out here: why the fuck do so many readers ask me to send them my socks? Seriously, this is my number one request. Not signed copies of my books, oh no; my SOCKS are what readers ask me for. I don't get it. Seriously, it boggles my mind. I mean, none, NOT ONE, of my stories involve a sock fetish. Which does not mean there's anything wrong with that--you like to come on thick wooly socks, the sight of cotton anklets turns you on, then hey, sock yourself out--but it has never been delved into 
(I had to get that pun in)
in any of my stories. So why, why do so many readers write me, asking for my socks? I don't get it. I really don't. 


I am giving a class on self-publishing at Folsom Fringe, I am very excited, and I would love to see you there. I will also be selling autographed copies of my books. 
So...come! To Folsom Fringe! 
And, you know...come, in the generally understood sense of the word. Cause orgasms are always good. 
It's just a suggestion, of course. I'm a sub. I don't give orders.

Friday, July 12, 2013

A Message To Tops Out There

You know how in some movies, there's this girl--
She's fat, she's ugly, she's downcast; she's made fun of, mocked, humiliated and berated?
I was that girl.

I was called stupid. I was called fat, ugly, awkward, and ditzy. I was told I looked like a boy. I was told I had funny teeth. I was told I had a weird face. I was told all the other girls were prettier than me, that of all the girls in the class, I was the ugliest.
Ugly. Stupid. Fat. Ugly.
I was an embarrassment. Unworthy of friends. Unworthy of respect. Unworthy of anything but ridicule.

I grew up. My face changed.
I look in the mirror now, and I know, on some level, that I am not ugly.
I also know--deep in my heart I know it--that looks have nothing to do with love, or respect, or worth.

But I cannot change the lessons of the past. The lines are etched in the soul, little scratches made not with a pen--my implement of power of today--but with harsh words, and the grating laughter of everyone around you.
The scratches bleed.
Not a lot. Tiny drops of blood that fall like tears. But enough to stain. Eventually, the scratches are deep enough to form scar tissue.
You grow up, you cut the scar tissue away...but the skin beneath will never be the same. The lines etched with shame are carved too deep for any amount of healing to reach. Smiles become your mask, to hide your disfigurement.
You laugh. You amuse. You try to entertain.
But in the back of your mind, you wonder...are they laughing with you? Or at you?
Will you ever be anything other than an object of pity?

Weeks ago, I went to a party. I had a clear expectation in my head that I would get some play. I didn't know how, or from whom...but the expectation was there. Perhaps that was presumptuous of me.
The party went on, and I realized my chances of getting any kind of play were growing dim.
A male friend was there, a well-reputed, well-respected Dom. He saw how unhappy I was. He asked me what I wanted. I was honest with him: I wanted a spanking.
He offered to give me one.

I argued with him about it for a while. There wasn't enough space; there wasn't enough time; there wasn't enough freedom in the room for two people to engage in their own little scene. But the real reason why I was arguing with him was this: I thought he was offering to spank me as a favor. Not because he wanted to, but because he was willing to indulge me.
If there is such thing as a pity fuck, then there is such thing as a pity D/s scene...and I was afraid this was it.

Perhaps it was the look in his eyes that finally told me he was serious about wanting to spank me. Or perhaps I just really, really wanted it, enough to throw dignity to the wind and accept a pity pounding. Most likely it was a mixture of the two. But in the end, I did get my spanking.
He leaned me against the wall, I lifted my skirt, and it was the best spanking I could ask for, exactly what I needed. Not too heavy--I still needed to drive home--and not too light. It was the perfect balance of sting and slack, bite and bend. It was full of gooey satisfaction, and I thanked him afterwards for his consideration.

But I still wondered, walking through the parking lot on my way to my car: had he really wanted to spank me? Had he done it to please him as well as me? Or had he done it simply to do me a favor?
Had I been his "good deed" of the day?

I know--
I know, because I keep telling myself--
I know he wanted to spank me, and wasn't just doing me a "good deed." I know because of the light I saw in his eyes; and because, when I think about it rationally, this man is not a man who would do anything he didn't want to do, even to do someone else a favor.
Even give a girl a spanking.
But the self-doubt, the shame, the disbelief...it runs deep. Shame, like water, can cut through the strongest bedrock, the deepest conviction. It can seep into the smallest corners of the heart, until every bit of confidence has been washed away.

Some of us need to be told that you want to play with us; you want to slap us, spank us, do nasty and delicious things to us, make us cringe and squeal and flinch and moan, because if you do not tell us, we will not assume.
And even when you do tell us, we will assume you are lying. Because you cannot possibly want to play with us. How can you want to play with us? Ugly, fat, awkward, us?
That is what some of us masochists tell ourselves.

At least, that is what this masochist sometimes tells herself.
I am working on this. I am.
But sometimes it feels like the work will never be done.