Kink In Exile

You know, it comes to my attention that meeting kinky people in a place where you are not tied into the local scene is more complicated than just finding them. Usually, when I meet someone for play I have some idea as to what their interests are. Maybe I’ve seen them play. Maybe they have a reputation in my community. For sure I can ask my friends about them. None of this is a substitute for communication, but it is a foundation that I’ve never really tried to enter into a scene negotiation with out. It’s all rather more complicated when you start with the questions “so…what do you call kinky?”

On the other hand maybe my communication skills will improve as a result.

Any advice?

Oh, and this is something I found in my personal journal that I wanted to share:
I’ve been staring at a blank page for over an hour and I have nothing. Ok, actually that isn’t true. I have 2 started posts that died after the 2^nd paragraph and some angst about self identity as it relates to kink. You see, I have been thinking recently about contradictions and all the writing I should be doing about being a kinky feminist, or a kinky humanitarian aid worker, or about how sex in the NGO circus is a really, really strange beast interrupted by exotic bugs and strange social norms, but frankly I am tired of angst. Maybe I’m too old. Maybe, just maybe I have just gotten enough distance from the hormonally induced “nobody understands” horror of highschool that I can look at my life and say “yep, these are contradictions; I’m human, what’s for dinner?” I have no idea how my blog will survive this!

It is a little surprising that I feel more at home with my kink identity now that I am marooned in a conservative vanilla culture than I did when I was part of an active kink community, but maybe this just confirmed for me that kink isn’t going anywhere. It is part of my life for better or for worse and it is strong enough to survive the rest of my life.

I guess what it comes down to though is that kinky people, real kinky people not the ones you find in fantasy novels, have lives that are not all kink all the time. I have friends who have kinky sex, work in dungeons, live with kinky partners and still have bills to pay and errands to run. So yes, I am a feminist, and a humanitarian aid worker, and I’m kinky and poly and generally a member in good standing of the radical sex sewing circle, and it all just works. Sometimes it’s strange, like when I deal with issues of child slavery at a conference on human trafficking and then I read my friend’s blogs and they are talking about consensual slavery and I have to actively switch gears, but most of the time this is all just a part of life.

A lot of people find one part of the kink scene or another that interests them based on their fetishes or sexual preferences, however, I have a different type of distinction to work with.  Sure I have my own specific fetishes as well as things I would rather like to avoid, but more importantly than those specifics is the way in which I approach those specifics.  I am, fundamentally, a geek.  I had my first crush on a computer geek in the 7^th grade – he taught me about denial of service attacks on our first, and only, date.  I never went back to the mainstream.  Intelligence is damn sexy, and part of that includes habitually questioning the world around you.  This means not only questioning the status quo but also the assumptions inherent in your lifestyle and subculture.

There are a lot of rules in kink.  Some are written out, created by dungeon owners and steering committees to keep people safe and prevent liable law suits.  Others are more subtle; they are the mores, and assumptions of our community.  But the interesting part is that the BDSM community is not one solid unit.  There are subsections within this subculture and each group has its own rules both spoken and unspoken.

When I say the BDSM community is my tribe what I really mean is that the sex positive, creative, gender bending, queer friendly, geek friendly subsection of the BDSM community is my tribe.  A shared interest in bondage does not a good match make.  If you ever sat through a kink event with the somewhat creepy feeling that the only thing you have in common with these people is your specific fetish and you would never talk to them otherwise you know what I mean. 

I guess what I’m interested in is what are our various ways of doing kink and what they’re based on?

I once attended a play event that ran over the course of a long weekend at the home of a friend.  There were two groups of people that struck me.  The first was a pagan couple in a d/s relationship.  They fit neatly into “my tribe” although I can’t specifically say why as I am much more firmly based on the s/m spectrum then the d/s spectrum.

The second group of people consisted of two couples, who seemed surrounded by an aura of protocols that no one else could transcend.  They interacted differently.  They interacted differently with everyone, not just their partners.  Again it wasn’t something I could put my finger on beyond saying “their scene ended, but it didn’t end.”  I suspect that the explanation is not as simple as saying they were in a formal d/s relationship because the pagan couple was as well.  Perhaps the distinction has a lot more to do with our outside lives.  After all, our non-kink environments inform our values and our expectations of interpersonal interactions.  Of course this is not to say that any one value system is inherently better, but we all have our comfort zones.

I guess I really do have a lot more in common with people who identify as vanilla but work in the creative field and are generally open minded than I do with people who identify as kinky but are also politically and socially conservative.

So what is your tribe?

So it seems rape is the subject dejour in the blogosphere and I’m jumping on the band wagon. Calico explored the idea that “a whore can’t be raped, only cheated.” And then Eileen talked about the politics of rape fantasies. Both posts are very well written and I recommend you go and take a look for yourself. This is cross-posted from my personal journal.

I live in a particularly fucked up place on a generally fucked up planet. I am surrounded by women who are more scared than any western woman I have ever met. They don’t walk alone, don’t sit with men, don’t wear tanktops, don’t drink in public. This is the virgin/whore paradigm taken to the nth degree – we are virgins and the whore should rightfully get raped.

I mentioned to a friend the other day that being sex positive in a culture where rape is so common was getting hard. He told me being sex positive was “extremely risky.” You know what, it is, but that is not what I needed to hear. As Calico pointed out, I am not empowered because I didn’t get raped. Rape is not ok, why is this a question?

Not getting raped should not be a full time job and I am sick and fucking tired of it being just that.

Being a good girl does not protect you from being raped.

Walking in pairs does not protect you from being raped.

Saying no to a drink does not protect you from being raped.

Wearing a burqa does not protect you from being raped.

I am done with the fallacy that a woman can protect herself from rape by wearing the right clothes, and seeing the right boys, and never walking the streets alone at night. Not only is this simply not true but it trivializes the experiences of women who do not fit neatly into the virgin column.

And there is another point I’d like to state loud and clear: not all men are rapists, not all women are safe, lesbian violence does happen and if you think it doesn’t we need to have a chat.

I do not deserve to get raped. I did not ask for it. Pay attention because this one is important – sex is a good thing, and good sex does not lead to rape.

And if you think this isn’t your problem because you’re male you’re wrong. Do you realize the impact on your sex life? Do you realize the affect that a woman in America getting raped every 2 minutes has on the woman you’re dating? Do you really think men can’t get raped? Do you really think that your sex life can be as fulfilling as possible when half of us are taught fear before we know what we’re supposed to be afraid of?

Or maybe you’re a good girl, do you think you’re safe? Do you think that the fact that you’ve never wanted to go to an orgy means you’ll never have to worry about the virgin/whore paradigm? Did you go to highschool?

Do you really think that my body, and my claim on human rights, is worth less because I enjoy sex? Because that’s what I’m hearing and I’m not happy about it.

We talk about safety in a lot of different ways when we talk about kink. There is the party line; safe, sane and consensual. There are the various risks involved with various activities. And of course there is emotional safety. This latter one is the aspect of scene safety that I wanted to talk about.

The safest I’ve ever felt was while bottoming in a heavy scene. To some degree this is of course because I had already established the level of trust needed for the scene. However, even more so this was because there is a contract inherent in that kind of scene – you can scare me, you can make me cry, you can make me bleed, but you have to put me back together in the end. I don’t just feel safe when I bottom, I feel protected.

Normally I am a very independent and self reliant person. That said, I’m certain that if I ever needed someone else to take care of me I have friends who would step in and make things work, but the only time that someone else is actually responsible for my well being is when I’m bottoming to them. This isn’t just a responsibility I assume they will pick up, or something I expect of my tops, but it is something they specifically agree too, something I ask for and negotiate if I’m going to be playing that hard. Negotiate your after care, that’s my advice. I once safe-worded out of a scene that really had been too much; however, I remember that scene very fondly largely because I was playing with a very caring and responsible top who knew how to put me back together again.

Maybe I’ve just been lucky, maybe it’s because I stress the need for communication as much as I do, but the only regret I’ve ever had about a scene is that I didn’t play harder.

First of all my apologies for the delay in posting. I’ve had some health concerns that took me away from the computer for longer than expected. However, to make up for it here is a story I wrote after a recent holiday. Enjoy.

I used to be that kind of girl. You know the type. Heads would turn as I walked past, eyes following the sway of my hips in my expensively tailored skirt. I used to care about my makeup at 8am. Used to wear the most outrageous shoes at ungodly hours of day and night. That’s all changed now. Different job different uniform.

I slipped a thousand baht note in the back pocket of my tight black jeans and returned my wallet to my bag, swinging it up on my shoulder. The city was cold and grey. A light drizzle had been falling all morning and threatened to work its way up to a storm as I hailed a cab. Somehow no one imagines the tropics this frigid; maybe months of 100-some-odd degree days have spoiled me for the cold.

The cab pulled up to the hotel lobby and I wondered, not for the first time, what the hell I was doing. I hadn’t seen him in years, three to be precise. He was a mystery when I met him and unlike every other man I have known had continued to be such throughout our acquaintance. He’d surface, emailing me with some random bit of information as if we had spoken only yesterday than disappear again. Last week he called, told me to meet him at the Amari; gave me a date, and a room number, then hung up.

I stepped out of the cab and checked my reflection in the hotel window before walking in. I took a deep breath trying to compose myself. Struggling to regain that sense of ownership over the world I had when I met him, I hit the button for the 9th floor. “He’s just another man,” I told myself “you’re in charge here.” But I couldn’t settle the flustered feeling in my belly as I knocked.

“Come in” I heard him say through the closed door.

“Long time no see.” I dropped my purse by the door and took a few more steps into his suite closing the door behind me. I found him at the teakwood desk seemingly engrossed in the morning paper.

“Strip.” He didn’t look up, merely continued reading this morning’s business section, apparently not in the mood for small talk.

I hesitated for a moment, wondering if maybe he would give me a bit more by way of greeting. When any further conversation did not seem forthcoming I unzipped my jacket and slid it off my shoulders. I draped it over the back of an upholstered chair near the wall then stepped out of my shoes, and stripped off my silk top and jeans piling both on the chair. I was left standing in my cream-colored lace bra and panty set, a little nervous, and more than a little curious.

Finally he put down the paper and looked at me. “I didn’t tell you to stop.” He waved an impatient finger at my bra.

“You also didn’t tell me what you were doing in town.” I smiled.

He stood up then, and I expected him to hit me. He didn’t. He leaned against the desk taking me in, waiting with studied patience. The way he looked at me made me tense, like he knew that a disapproving glance would be the only punishment he ever need administer. I unclipped my bra, and slipped off my panties then stood looking at him, waiting coolly. Two can play this game. He took something from the desk then and came closer. I stood my ground, head held high meeting his eyes but failing to find the relaxed posture he assumed.

“Kneel” he said.

Again I hesitated, but this time he didn’t wait. This time he grabbed me by the hair and threw me to my knees with such force that I had to catch myself with a hand on the soft beige carpet. As I sat up regaining my balanced he leaned down and slapped me. Not hard, but unexpected. I inhaled through clenched teeth but looked up to meet his eyes.

“You came here because you wanted this,” he said, his voice cold, a little impatient. “Because you’re the kind of filthy little slut who likes to get her ass beaten, aren’t you?”

He pulled a knife from his belt opening it with a snap and then stood toying with it, watching me. I stayed on my knees, silent, neither giving him the answer he wanted nor denying what he said. He leaned down and traced my jaw bone with the knife as I willed my body to stay motionless.

“Because if you didn’t come here wanting to get your ass beaten you’d best be leaving. I have other business in this town, little girl.” He plucked my blouse off the chair then and threw it at me taking a few steps back to lean on the desk.

I caught it with one hand and tossed the soft fabric into a corner of the room.

“No?” He smiled.

“No. I don’t want to leave,” I confirmed.

“And why is that?” He tested the blade with a finger not bothering to look at me.

“Because I want you to fuck me,” I said.

“There are a million other men who’d be happy to fuck you, you little slut. Why are you here?” He asked.

I looked at the knife in his hand imagining how the cool blade would feel against my skin. He watched me with a knowing grin. We’d been through this before — he knew exactly why I was there, and I knew he wouldn’t let me off that easy. That’s why I kept coming back.

“Because you’re the only one who comes to bed with a knife.” I said. “And because if I’m very lucky you might bend me over that desk and beat my ass with that fine belt of yours before you fuck me.”

He came toward me then, leaning down to kiss me as he pulled me roughly to my feet. He slammed my body into the wall; his knee parted my thighs and his forearm pushed hard against my collarbone. I struggled, and found the bulk of him leaning over me almost suffocating. And then I felt the cold metal of his knife on my body again and froze. The blade traced my full round breasts teasing each pierced nipple. He pressed harder, making me gasp and fight to steady my body.

“Don’t move,” he counseled as he lifted one ring with the knife pressing the tip of his blade into my painfully erect nipple.

My breath came ragged as he ran the blade down over my belly and tickled my thighs. He slipped the knife up and I unwittingly parted my legs.

“Good girl,” he cooed shifting his weight and wrapping his free hand around my throat. He paused there a moment meeting my eyes, giving me just the barest hint of reassurance before his hand tightened, and I felt the tip of his knife against my clit. I screamed then, and against all better judgment I fought him. My breath came jagged as I tried to twist out of his grip. His hand constricting my throat, my panic and the weight of his body over me conspired to make me dizzy, and I pushed against him in a frenzy. In an instant the knife was gone. His mouth covered mine muffling my screams. His tongue pushing into my mouth felt suffocating as he pressed me into the wall pinning my arms over my head.

He pulled me stumbling across the soft beige carpet to the desk and bent me over its polished wooden top. He held me there a moment with one strong hand pushing between my shoulder blades and then I heard him unbuckling his belt. The swoosh of it being pulled out of the belt loops and the snap when it finally came free were maddening. My body tensed in anticipation and the wetness between my legs was enough to drown in. He let me wait.

The first stroke landed with a snap across my ass; the sharp sting of it giving way to the deeper burning warmth. I moaned then. Crushing my breasts into the cool surface of the desk, digging my fingernails into the palms of my hands, I moaned. He let me savor it, let me feel all the nuances of leather hitting skin, and then raised the belt and brought it down again, hard, fast, and this time without pausing between strokes; his hand pressing into my lower back holding me still. I let the pain wash over me until I had lost count of the strokes and knew I was home as surely as if I had fit the key into the lock and carried my suitcase across the threshold.

Through my endorphin-induced haze I felt him come up close behind me. He wrapped his arm around me pulling me into him, his other hand tangled in my hair. His soft kisses on my shoulder a stark contrast to the beating he had just doled out. Too dazed to move, I surrendered to his touch, dimly registering that he was no longer dressed. I felt his naked body leaning over mine; his hard cock teasing its way past my neatly trimmed mound now covered with that tell tale slippery wetness. This got my attention, and I shifted my hips back trying to get closer.

“Is that what you were looking for, little girl?” he purred into my ear, stroking my back with slow lazy movements.

“mmm-hmm”, I mumbled. “I want you to fuck me.”

“I can see that,” he said and circled my clit with a slippery finger.

I moaned and stood up on tippy toes, pushing my hips into his body, trying to get closer to his retreating hand.

He laughed at that and grabbed a fistful of my hair, pushing roughly into my waiting cunt . Just the way I like it.

I exploded almost immediately, the combination of my sore ass and his unrelenting fucking making me scream loud enough to raise the dead. I bucked under his firm hands trying to get more of him in me. He teased, giving me just enough to make me lose my mind but not enough to be fully satiated until he was good and ready – until he had gotten the cruel amusement of making me beg for it, and then he plunged deep inside me riding my last powerful orgasm to his own.

Afterward, we lay on the bed sweaty and exhausted. He ran a rough finger over the knuckles of my left hand, pausing over the scar. “Tell me about this one,” he said.

I took back my hand. “It’s a long story.”