My favorite home atmosphere is this exact kind of early spring night, when the air is still nippy and the songs of peepers and wood frogs ricochet off the trees. It is an amazing and beautiful chorus, and impossible to ignore, even in the city if you live within a mile of a vernal pool or source of water. Their song is the clearest, most direct music of love and courtship – a dazzling aural display – and you have to realize how potent that song is when you compare the size of a peeper’s vocal chords to its vocal radius.
I had to write that just now, because I needed to honor the season of the frogs, and one my favorite earliest companions on muddy spring days. I had been meaning to write about it earlier, as I was taking in laundry hanging outside (nothing beats air-dried laundry) and stopped to soak in the chorus that reverbrated the air around me.
And if I didn’t do it tonight, it would never get out, because I am already bursting at the seams trying to process and write about my experience at Alphabet Soup last night.
Alphabet Soup being the kinky gathering at DTox that I mentioned before. It’s an event to gather all the different circles of kink/glbt/polyamory/swing into one big orgy – well, metaphorically speaking, of course, but it wasn’t too far off at times.
But I should start at the beginning. Which was when I was walking around completely lost trying to find the damned lounge at around 8:20pm, no bearing at all on where I was supposed to be going while rain kept drizzling down until my socks in flip flops were waterlogged (yes strange footwear, long story short I had fabulous heels that were fabulously painful). I dipped into a couple subway stations looking for maps to redirect me (how is it that some stations don’t have those maps?! Or only past the kiosks?! Feh.), and finally, tired, wet, and footsore, stumbled into DTox.
To say that I was intimidated would be an understatement. Not only do I not bar hop, I’ve never been to a gay bar, or a kinky munch. I had images of looming, muscular guys wearing leather harnesses and holding whips, staring me down through latex masks. Basically a mixture of all the images of deviant behavior that has been fed to me through the media throughout the years, and from bad porn. Freaks. Sexual deviants. Everything that represents the collapse of moral integrity in America today!!
Well, maybe not. But, ah me. Thank God I went and got my head set back on straight. Because just as with the Bound in Boston workshop, I entered expecting to find people nothing like me – people so outside my own reality as to have utterly nothing in common – and walked away with an even stronger confirmation that these are the kinds of people I need in my life. Like a big smack across the forehead, I realized how deeply ingrained I was with the average American judgment of the kink world (much less of poly, swingers, transgendered…)
It did take a huge effort, regardless, stepping into the bar and heading to the back lounge where it seemed the group was meeting. At least, there were snacks out, so I put my dripping stuff down on a cushioned seat and tried to find the hostess and introduce myself. I asked one woman if she was Mina, and she said no, but pointed her out to me. Seeing her already in conversation with others, I made my way instead to the snacks. Yes, great plan. Stuff food in mouth, prevent having to socialize. Mid-stuff, Mina hurried over demanding introductions, and then pulled me over to each person to introduce them. The ice was broken immediately, and when I got to meet and chat with Sinclair of Sugarbutch Chronicles fame I was hooked. I hid my awe of meeting a well-known sex-blogger in the flesh pretty well, I think, and we chatted for a bit about jobs and careers and where to move to for a better scene. He mentioned still adjusting to being “out” as Sinclair, while Mina told me she actually legally changed her name to Mina and is pretty much completely open. I was envious of her not needing to juggle the two lives of sexual and “daytime” lifestyles.
There was much socializing for the first hour or so, and I was starting to enjoy myself. I realized that I still didn’t have a place to stay in the city, and would have to leave soon to make it home via train at a reasonable hour. I asked around, and finally basically invited myself over to Mina’s place. She, the gracious and amazing woman that she is, offered to give me a roof over my head for the night, and I called back home to check in about my plans.
And then it was back to meeting this wonderful group of people. Mina was busy introducing a new fetish of balloon popping via humping to some friends, and I hit it off spectacularly with maymay, talking about the history of front-end web development and standards compliancy. I wish I could’ve geeked out with him more, but my knowledge is still rather spotty and self-taught, and he was leaving with Sinclair and co. for pizza.
I kind of hopped back and forth between grabbing handfuls of cheese puffs and joining people for conversation. I met an Oberlin grad (always mentally noted as the school I almost attended) and computer programmer – so many techgeeks! I’m not quite sure when it happened, but something finally clicked during that period of socializing, and I realized that I’d found my community.
I had mentioned the Boston bondage workshop I had attended to Mina during our introductory chatting, and she said that there was a Shibari master coming that I should get to know, and that she had brought plenty of rope. I perked up at that suggestion, wondering if I would be able to get up the nerve to actually ask to be tied up by a stranger.
Oh dear. And I have run out of time for tonight, so I guess I’ll try to finish this up in a second post tomorrow, sometime after my trip back north. Tales of being tied up, escaping ties, human-sized balloons, and more to come!
I finally came out last weekend, our campus’ Homecoming weekend, to a girl I barely knew at the beginning of the day. But by the end of the night we were sharing the kinds of personal stories I’ve never even told my oldest friend. At one point, we were talking about making out (half-seriously, but the potential was there), when she asked me how I know that I’m interested in girls. I blinked, thought for a second, and replied, “I get sexually aroused by them and by the idea of kissing and going down on a girl.”
And it was that simple. As soon as I said those words, I knew that I no longer belonged in the grey area of “bi-curiosity” anymore. I really do want to be with another female sometimes. Though I wonder if, for me, the sexual arousal isn’t so much a product of bisexuality as it is a product of hypersexuality. When you’ve got a sex drive like mine, gender doesn’t seem to matter much anymore. I’ve started to realize that I am just obsessed with the sensuality of people being together. Two beautiful boys kissing, two beautiful girls kissing, a guy and girl kissing – the combination doesn’t matter, it’s just a beautiful thing to watch.
(Yes, I am such a voyeur. And I got so hot listening to neighbors in the next apartment over fucking while I was in Boston. But I was also getting ass then, so now I’d probably just be cranky and grumpy listening to people having sex.)
On a related note, I just reread an e-mail I had sent to SR last month, and god would I love to do this to someone right now:
Once I get those pesky clothes off and get her into my bed, I will kiss all up and down her body, spending some quality time on her hopefully perky breasts. I will trail my mouth down her body slowly, spread her legs with my hands, and start kissing the insides of her thighs. I won’t go near her pussy until she is begging for me to touch her and grabbing my hair with her hands to pull me to her crotch. Only then will I start licking in slowly narrowing circles around her clit. I’ll press my lips in an O around her clit and suck. Hard. She will probably be bucking and grinding her hips into my face at this point. I’ll use both hands to spread her legs as wide as she can go, so that I can really get a good view and lick her completely.Then, once she is really dripping wet, I’ll tongue fuck her and lap her juices up. I’ll slide two (maybe three if she can take them) fingers inside her, bent at the knuckle to hit her G-spot. I’ll keep fingerfucking her with one hand while I work my way back up and kiss her on the lips so that she can taste her own pussy. If she lets me, I would take her nipple in my free hand and pull and pinch it. At this point, she will probably be thrashing in the bed, and might already have orgasmed a couple times. I’ll be able to feel the muscles of her sex convulse around my hand.When she’s calmed down a bit, I’ll slowly ease my fingers out of her pussy and have her lick my fingers clean.
And, finally, I think I should print this out and put it on the door of my studio:
Initially right after breaking up with SR, I stopped thinking about threesomes completely, because it reminded me of my failed attempts to get him involved in one. You’d think any man with balls would be pretty gung-ho and supportive of his girlfriend trying to get a threesome together. But after hearing him laugh about it and mention how surprised he would be if it actually happened, my enthusiasm dried up, along with my libido. I could tell it would be a one-person effort, and really, why bother trying with a guy who is so dismissive of the possibility?
And this is all, of course, besides the simple fact that the only reason he would ever visit me would be to have a threesome. No thanks. I’d rather go local if that’s truly the case.
(Who, bitter? ME? I don’t know what you’re talking about)
I guess I am not as over him as I had previously implied. I still get the urge to kick any Audi I walk by in a parking lot.
In any case, threesomes are now back on my mind, and I can’t stop thinking about having one. I certainly don’t want to do anything foolish or that I know I’ll regret, but on the other hand I think I need to do something completely sexual to fully transition out of my summer fling.
Does that make any sense at all? I guess I am looking for a transition man (or couple) for mostly physical gratification, with a slight sprinkling of emotional comfort as well. I wish sometimes that I had the ability of one of my closer friends to separate sex and emotion. I recognize the physical desire, but cannot separate it from my emotional needs. I have tried the hookup/one night stand thing, and the sex has never been satisfying*. Perhaps it is just a case of not finding the right kind of man. But I doubt I will be descending into the depravity that is college frat houses anytime soon to look for that satisfaction. I am done with frat boys.
I suppose the one good thing that has come out of all this is that I am channeling a lot of this mental frustration into my artwork. Not to say that I am making art related to my “internal conflicts”; more that I am converting all the drama, stress, and sometimes-depression into energy I can use more productively. I guess the stereotype of the tormented artist does have a point to make. Earlier this month, I attended a talk where a close friend revealed how sexual assault affected the art she made, even though she did not make that connection at the time when she was making her work. It got me thinking about how my own artwork is affected by my personal life – something that I surprisingly have never considered before. Is the fact that I am suddenly making wooden bird sculptures and woodcarvings a reaction to my summer in Boston and the messy aftermath?
*Oh, I did get close with one nameless blue-eyed Kiwi I met at a pool party in Taiwan. He had the most alluring crystal eyes and tousled boyish hair. The foreplay was amazing (he went down on me underwater!!!), actual penetration not as much. He had great recovery time though. After the first blowjob, we played around in the pool and got worked up enough to slip into the woods and fuck (condom-less and with his promise of pulling out. Yes, I know, terribly irresponsible and dangerous, and I luckily came out of it clean and none the worse for the experience, except for a million fucking mosquito bites). And after he came and we cleaned up and returned to the pool, he was completely hard again within 15 minutes. After two complete orgasms. But things turned sour quickly when we were caught mid-fuck on top of the waterslide, and I refused to finish him off while a lifeguard yelled at us from below. He ignored me for the rest of the time I was at the party. Figures.
May I never experience the managerial idiocy that the poor souls at Where is Bob? have to face daily. At once hilarious and depressingly sad, I’ve become instantly addicted to this blog that details the misadventures of working in a university IT group under a completely incompetent manager.
In other news, I had a most unexpected dream last night. I was in some kind of shadowy replica of a dorm room, chatting with a shifting number of girls. At one point, there is only one other girl, also Chinese, sitting on the bed. I can’t stop staring at her eyes, and suddenly we’re making out, lips pressed and drawing air like we depend on each other’s breath to live. My ears and face feel hot where her fingers press into my skin – and somehow I know that my physical, dreaming body is reacting to the imagery. And then her hand dips down between intertwined legs and against my groin. I mimic her movements, and feel my fingers sinking into soft, wet flesh. I push further, feel her muscles tightening around the two fingers now buried inside her. The contact is overwhelming.
I wish I could remember more of what happened afterwards, but the image fades from there. I may have been on the cusp of waking at that point.
It must be all this teasing to SR of how I’m going to get a girl with a strapon when he’s not around.
There is so much going on in my life right now that I am beginning to question my sanity. Mere snippets of any one of the numerous dramas could take entire blog posts, and more. But, right now, in the midst of my fervid studying, I find that I am not thinking about any of that.
No. Instead, I find my mind drifting to her. This girl…my crush.
Yes. I have a girl-crush. And it is just that: a crush. No more. I realize that nothing will ever come of it, both because I am unattainable, and in all probability so is she.
But that does not stop me from desiring, and from fantasizing. It does not stop me from imagining pulling her softly but firmly by the shoulders, pulling her down with me onto white sheets and a downy mattress. I would caress her skin as I continued pulling-pulling the jeans from her body, the sweater, pulling her body closer to press against her heat.
She would shiver with my touch. I can see her eyes closing in embarrassment; her cheeks aflame; her hands uncertain, clutching herself. It would be okay. I would lean down, over her body, gently molding my lips to hers.
What I would do for a kiss.
I want our bodies to melt into each other: two soft and liquid forms embracing and moving together. I want to taste her skin. I want to reach into her soul, to take a piece of it when we finally part, that I may hoard and guard it jealously, that I may own that small fragment of our experience and claim it.