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Slapped

June 26, 2009 Leave a comment

The first time I was slapped in the face – a legitimate, hard snap of the hand across my cheek – I was immediately transformed.  Needle-sharp tingling heat bloomed outward from my cheek, my breath was suddenly caught in my throat, and sparks ignited behind my eyelids, under the latex binding them shut.  Then the slapping continued, back and forth from cheek to cheek, my head jerking from side to side with each hit.  The sensation was overwhelming; not exactly painful, but more a dizzying and building heat and the breathlessness that accompanied each forceful impact.  And with each slap, I could feel something regressing inside my head, frantically and mindlessly asking the question, “Why?”

“Why was I being punished? What did I do wrong?”

A couple times I could hear the Why? pressing up against my throat, but all that would come out were dry sobs.  The delirious combination of mental and physical assault of being face slapped was, in a word, intense.  The link between face slapping and punishment is strong for me.  Here I was, being slapped – not because I was being punished, but for the simple pleasure of the one doing the slapping.  That idea makes me shudder with lust and fear, but my mind is frazzled by the disconnect with punishment.  In my head, there has to be a reason.

After all, here I am, having sex with this man, hearing him whisper demeaning names and fantasies that clench down on my mind and my groin, enjoying the pain he delivers to my body even as I am begging him to stop, exulting in the giddiness and rush of endorphins.  Perhaps the slapping punishes me for all of this depravity.

But, no.  My head rang from each smack as he fucked me.  I was almost crying, and each dry sob that heaved from my lungs seemed to free me of some invisible weight.  Even the gibberish of my regressed mind was freeing – like some deep inhibition shaken loose of its tight hold on my ribcage.

That night, being slapped hard for the first time, I finally caught a glimpse of that opening, that transformative release that I have been seeking.  It is a perfect melding of the physical and psychological; at least for me.

TESFest 2009, and beyond

June 21, 2009 Leave a comment

I’m really psyched about going to TESFest this year, which will be held from July 2nd to 6th in New Jersey.  It’ll be my first such event, and I’ll be volunteering in some capacity while there – which is great, because I’m pretty sure I’d otherwise be in a corner staring wide-eyed at everyone and trying to become a part of the wall.

This is going to be particularly exciting, because I plan to use TESFest as the jumping-off point for my roadtrip this summer to the Pacific Northwest.  Right afterwards I’ll be heading to Cleveland, Chicago… and from there, who knows?  All I know is that I’m going to end up in Seattle, figure out where to settle down from there, and then start planning for Burning Man in late August!

This summer promises to be full of new experiences at the very least.  Here’s to meeting a great kink community, making new friends, epic roadtrips, and the Spirit of Adventure!

Categories: firsts, graphic girl, links

HNT: wounds addendum

June 18, 2009 2 comments

DSC_2431Here is the bite on Monday, teeth indents still present.  Red and puckered, broken capillaries galore.

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And two days later, Wednesday night, it is yellowing and fading.  Makes me wonder and shudder to imagine what it takes to get the dark purply bruises so often shown off by other masochists.  Yes, okay, I have verified that I am, indeed, a masochist (thanks to all who’ve, ah, helped me on the road to this particular discovery).

The area is still tender to the touch, but I am more or less fully recovered.  Which means, of course, that it is time to return for more.

But, please.  No more tickling.  Hard limit.

Weekend wounds

June 17, 2009 Leave a comment

I have a yellow bruise beginning to fade below my collarbone, the really only lasting remnant of a long, packed weekend.  The whip marks were gone by the time I drove back to campus on Sunday, and the other marks on my back gone as well when I checked in the mirror yesterday.  Thankfully the lines around my neck are gone too, preventing the potential for embarrassing inquiries.

Just as quickly the memories start to fade, though if I concentrate, details begin to percolate back into my mind.  The first night, at a Hampton beach boardwalk, the flashing, garish lights of an arcade, frisbee in the dark, and dashing into the cold salty surf in my underwear.  Experiencing the terror and thrill of being surrounded by four sadistic riggers (unbelievably, none of whom had rope with them), and then the aftermath of trying to get sand out of places sand should never have access to.

The second day began messily, with what should have been an 18-minute drive (according to Google Maps) taking instead one hour of missed turns, dead ends, and one very, very frustrated driver.  But we made it to the Bound in Boston con, just in time for a group ice-breaker and stretching session with a yoga practitioner.  The stretching calmed me down enough to heartily enjoy the next couple hours of rope classes, involving pegs and rings, bamboo poles, and some spectacular escape games.  I learned that I am a horrible rigger, but I also learned how to improve.

I sank into blissfully deep ropespace twice on Saturday, experienced my first play party with a fully decked out dungeon.  Suspension points in the ceiling, rows of whips, floggers, cuffs, and sex toys hanging along the wall, and lots of people dressed in fetishwear.  I was out of place in my tanktop and stretchy pants, but it didn’t matter because soon my top was forced off and I was being whipped, first my back and then my front, then my back again.  To hide from the humiliation I was graciously blindfolded and saw nothing of my surroundings for the next hour.

More humiliation was to come as I was ordered to grind against a proffered leg until orgasm.  I came, but quietly.

I floated in and out of consciousness in between bouts of whipping, flogging, biting, and hair pulling.  The upstairs kitchen provided a reprieve and boosters: soft drinks, alcohol, and table snacks.  I refueled with sugar and chips, then descended again to be tied while sitting in a half-lotus, my body folded up like a clam.  Hardened piano wires flicked across my nipples, sending sharp coursing pain straight down my spine.

My poor nipples.  I take it back, they are probably the most bruised and tender part of my body and remain sensitive to any friction from cloth.  They were whipped, twisted, bitten, rubbed, flicked, and pulled in excruciating ways.

And the sex.  Oh yes, the sex.  Sex that left me sore and tearing latex from around my throat.  By Sunday, I was too sore.  Sex hurt.  I resisted, but was fucked anyway.  I screamed and tried to push away, but a low voice whispered close to my ear that he like hearing me scream.  I whimpered, and he praised me for whimpering for him.

I begged in a small voice to be hurt, and he happily obliged.  He slapped my face till I saw stars, then tightened latex around my throat so I couldn’t breathe.  I convulsed, he convulsed, and the latex tightened more.

Afterwards I curled into a small happy puddle of endorphins and didn’t emerge until my stomach grumbled for attention.  A small contest of wills ensued with my bedmate (safeword: gumdrop) before I untangled myself to run for the shower.  I first stopped to admire the marks scattered across my body, then winced as the hot water hit my skin and reminded me where it hurt.  Namely, everywhere.

And when I’d returned and dried off in the room, he came over to admire his handiwork, and decided the bitemark below my collarbone should be emphasized.  I tried to pull away, really I did, my palm pressed against his head, pushing away as he leaned in and “emphasized” the bite.

And that is the yellowing, fading bruise I have left from this past weekend.

NYC Sex Bloggers Calendar

June 16, 2009 Leave a comment

Sex Blogger Calendar 2010Just popping in here between packing to give a shout-out to the sexy sexy sex bloggers of the 2010 NYC Sex Blogger Calendar.

The models are: Abiola Abrams, Audacia Ray, Calico, Desiree, Diva, Elizabeth Wood, Jamye Waxman, Lucy Vonne, Melissa Gira Grant, Mina Meow, N, Nikol Hasler, Rachel Kramer Bussel, Sinclair, Tess, and Twanna Hines.

Whew.  Is it just me, or is it getting hot in here?  Read their full calendar bios here!

Categories: links, news

labels

June 9, 2009 Leave a comment

I find myself discovering more of the ever-widening sphere of kink,  LGBT, and alternative lifestyle communities as I talk to more people and reveal my own burgeoning proclivities to friends.  Yet there is a certain hesitancy to leap head-on into the full discourse of current topics and issues within that sphere, especially as related to gender.  Gender has become such an academic subject, and even now I am hesitant to reveal my thoughts on the admittedly limited reading I’ve done into it.  But, honestly, I cannot begin to breach the onslaught of terms I’ve found, from heteronormativity to cisgender.

Labels.  All of these labels!  It makes my head spin.

Before going further, I should note that this is neither a bash nor a rant on queer/gender theory, but the meandering thoughts of a confused but curious girl.  I should also take a moment to explain where I am coming from.  After all, I suppose it is my own partial suspicions and biases against pure academics after submitting to it for the past dozen years at work here.

As an example, when I was first exposed (fairly early in my life) to the Linnaeus system of organism classification – binomial nomenclature – I thought it was the perfect categorization system.  Every organism belonged in its proper place, everything clean and tidy.  Throughout middle and high school I lauded scientific thought and methodology.  My knowable world was rational and explainable.

Later on and several biology courses in, I learned that the classification tree underwent massive structural changes.  Domains were introduced, a new branch inserted for a class of primitive bacteria unlike other prokaryotes.  All organisms with nuclei became grouped under the heading of “Eukaryota.”  I also learned of the two classes of scientists who specialized in organizing species: splitters, who wanted to split organisms into their smallest common denominator (which is becoming increasingly anal-retentive with DNA capabilities), and groupers, who’d rather combine organisms with “enough similarities” together.

And the human element of all of this finally hit me.  Human priorities, human error, human decisions.  Human need for order.  The world as I understood it shattered.  There was no perfect system.  While at the larger scale, these categorizations still make sense to me, the level of arbitrariness increases the closer you get to the species, sub-species, sub-sub-species, etc.

So this long and way-too-much-information-filled anecdote was to get me to this: while I do understand the need for labels and still believe in the power of categorization, I’ve also realized that placing a label onto a thing necessarily reshapes how you think of that thing and places limits on the flexibility of those thoughts.  Labeling is natural and necessary, on the one hand, but can be powerfully blinding (and binding), on the other.  I look back on how I used to view the world in absolutes and cringe at my narrow-mindedness.  Yet we all begin our understanding of the world like this, I imagine.  We learn about all the differences between cats and dogs long before we are taught that they are related groups within the animal kingdom.

As I’ve continued to have beliefs stripped away and new ones built up in what I can only imagine will be a lifelong process, I’ve become increasingly frustrated by the limitations of labels for describing myself.  On Fetlife, for instance, I no longer know what best to put under role, where the choices are Dominant, switch, submissive, Master, Mistress, slave, Top, bottom, fetishist, kinkster, sadist, masochist, sadomasochist, vanilla, not applicable, and not sure.  I suppose the last option is most accurate, as I’ve been discovering my masochistic, sadistic, vanilla, kinkster, Top, bottom, switch, and submissive sides.

Of course, it is simply not possible to create enough unique labels for every unique combination that makes up a person.  And I still love learning the scientific names of the organisms I read about.  I understand that the nature of every human’s personal evolution and fluidity can never be fully described, that stereotypes are founded on truth but almost always stigmatized and exaggerated, that prejudices will always arise, and that new words can help to expand and build upon the vocabulary we use to understand what is around and within us.

I understand it all in theory, anyway.  After all, I am still only 23 years old, and a newly-minted 23 at that.  I’m only thankful to now be more open-minded and willing to broaden my scope of understanding than maintaining the rigid, unforgiving mindset of my teenage self.

On a related note, I recently had an absorbing conversation with a friend on how important racial heritage should be/is in influencing one’s life.  As an Asian-American, I grew up expected to relate school projects and assignments with my heritage.  In my AP Studio Art class, my teacher insisted that I make Asian-based artwork.  As one of maybe three or four Asians in my graduating class, I attained a status symbol and felt myself being molded to fit the characteristics of the quiet, studious Chinese girl.

Since then, it has been a constant, almost subconscious struggle of fitting my racial identity somewhere within the whole of my being.  Perhaps it is why I’ve begun to think about sexual identity more now as well, since it adds yet another layer of complexity to all of this.  However, and this really is the crux of the matter, I have never felt the desire or need to advocate on behalf of either of these, race or sexuality.  Which is an interesting thought, considering that I know I will never be accepted as anything other than heterosexual by my family.  Having fought for so long to simply be accepted as a sexual being (though I’m still not sure that has even been accepted – it is simply not discussed now), I have no desire to take the fight any further.

I wonder if these terms of academic discourse ultimately help or hinder the understanding of queer/sexual/kink/race identity for those who need it most, or, for that matter, if it makes it any easier to reach those communities that need the education the most.  I know how strongly people become attached to certain labels, identities, and ideals: passionate advocates for their cause.  But should we be splitting our race and society further into tinier, more specific boxes, or can we find “enough similarities” with which to fundamentally understand and support each other?

Homo sum, humani nihil a me alienum puto.
I am human, therefore nothing human is strange to me.

I am:

Taiwanese-American, a female, submissive, kinky, sadomasochistic, a top, a bottom, a tech geek, a web designer, a college graduate, an artist, a biologist, a tinkerer, shy, quiet, tentative, anti-social, curious, sexual, thin, round-faced, a tomboy, feminine, crazy, moody, introverted, reflective, thoughtful, selfish, fickle, independent, hungry, anal, obsessive, detail-oriented, spacey, near-sighted, funny, a bookworm, a science fiction/fantasy lover, a lover, a dork, realistic, idealistic, a homebody, hypersexual, young, a rope nut, a naturalist, a friend, a listener, a billiards player, a board game lover, a romantic, naive, solitary, intelligent, optimistic, amiable, hedonistic.

Questionnaire:

  1. What do the terms queer, cisgender, cissexism, heteronormative, heteroflexible, genderqueer, pansexual (whatever applies) mean to you?
  2. Is it important for you to identify as one or more of these, or as another sexual/kink/LGBT-term?  How are they relevant to your identity?
  3. How do you describe yourself?
Categories: reflection, writing

HNT: Clothespins

June 4, 2009 Leave a comment

DSC_1901

So since I’m going to be up anyway working like mad to finish some website work, I thought I might as well swing over here and procrastinate a bit on a post (like we do).  Last week, while grocery shopping, I looked up in the cleaning products aisle and saw a pack of 48 wooden clothespins hanging along a shelf.  I had to buy them.  I’ve had this idea of making photographs involving clothespins on the body for so long now, but the (admittedly few) places I looked only sold plastic clothespins, and I wanted wooden ones.

Later in the evening, I excitedly took out a few clothespins and my (now newly recharged) camera to test things out.  Well, it was definitely an interesting learning experience, finding where the pins worked and held on.  I only did my extremities this time – can only handle so much of this at once.  (Some may disagree with this.)

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The rest of the photos can be seen here.  Yeah, I had fun with Lightroom.

letters from the tropics #1

June 1, 2009 Leave a comment

photo by Gordon Denman

While traveling abroad in Costa Rica and the Cayman Islands two years ago, I kept up a correspondence with a man I’ve grown closer and closer to over the years, despite our never having met in person.  We had first started talking online while I was with Tim, becoming friends and confidantes of each other’s perversions and hidden fantasies.  After I left Tim, this man – J – was the only person I felt I could lean on for support I desperately needed.  Throughout my time in the tropics, I kept as connected to J as I could, e-mailing and chatting with him whenever there was Internet access, feeding my unhappiness and anguish through wires and satellite to him.

I needed to heal, to find some sort of validation for what Tim put me through, to fill the void he’d left in my life, to find an end to my emotional floundering.  J helped guide me through each of these, and I have no means for expressing the immense level of gratitude I feel, except by being healthy, happy, and continuing on in the life he helped me get back.

In any case, I’ve been rereading these e-mails, though some are still painful to remember.  J requested that I send him updates on my well-being and travels, asking frequently after my social, mental, physical, psychological, and sexual health.  This evolved over time to assigning tasks for me and exchanging fantasies.  This following one always takes me back to the sand and sun of the Caribbean, so decadent and sluggish in its beauty.

(I altered some things to make it flow better, as well as fixing some pretty awfully constructed sentences and poor punctuation usage.)

To: J

On this surreal, whitewashed piece of land, it’s easy to
become consumed with perpetual laziness and the desire for
simple luxury.  Being surrounded by water, waking to a red sun
and the sound of crashing waves, brings with it certain
imagery: rippling, flowing translucent curtains blowing
freely through wide balcony windows; sandy colored houses
beautiful in their simplicity; hammocks swinging
gently under coconut trees; wind tugging at loose clothing
and long, entangled hair…

Lying on a rope hammock, completely relaxed, eyes
half-closed, it’s easy for the mind to start wandering.
Easier still, given the circumstances and hazily blue
atmosphere, to wander along visual thoughts of
pleasure…heat…lust…depravity…simple carnal desire.

To begin, as the hammock continues to sway slowly, to long
for human contact, for the touch of heated skin.  To
luxuriate in images of undulating bodies, meshed and
intertwining.  Not even complete scenes or sequential
events – just the pure visualization of lust.  I shift
slightly, friction between my thighs beginning to refocus
my mind.

My distracted thoughts, combined with my reclined position
and natural curiosity, shift to imagining these fragmented
images in the hammock.  What would it be like…?  Two
bodies, pressed together by each other’s weight.
Crisscrossed rope digging into skin.  Every movement
shifting the hammock…

I picture different positions, wonder how they would work
here; how feasible, how comfortable.  How pleasurable.
Finally, I’m left with one.  Me on top, crouched over your
body, pierced by your cock.  Just rocking
slowly…forwards and backwards…almost imperceptibly.
Sensations jolting through my body, aided by your roaming
hands, grasping hair, skin, pinching and massaging.  My
thigh muscles alternately tense and relax, lifting me
slightly and sliding me back down onto you.  The hammock
rocks with our movements, rope creaking and stretching
around us.

So excruciatingly slowly.  And yet…as much as I yearn for
the release, there is a sweet desperation to prolonging it.
I clench down, so I can feel every inch of you filling me.

Finally, it becomes too much for both of us – too much
sensation, sensitivity, buildup.  You grab my hips and
thrust hard at the same time, searching for the depth you
crave, for complete entrance.  The pace quickens, the
desperation takes over.  The hammock shudders with our
bodies, swaying erratically, absorbing some of the energy
of our movements.

It doesn’t matter that I’m coming, that I’ve come, that
suddenly it is all too sensitive.  Your hands grip into the
soft flesh of my hips, directing my body, forcing me down
on your cock again, again, and again, meeting your
upthrusts.

As you come deep within me, continuing to pump all the
while, through the low groan coming out of your lips, as
your head tilts back against the rope braids, your
fingernails dig into my back, pressing me down until you
are drained…emptied.

We’re both panting, mouths dry, skin tingling.  I feel the
sweet, hot sticky fluid oozing, coating the insides of my
thighs, dripping onto the hammock.  A breeze sends its
musky scent up to us.  It mixes with the salty ocean air.
I inhale deeply.

Delicious.