Canberra, It’s a Wonderful Place

Canberra is just like Las Vegas, except that it’s colder, more boring, has less casinos, zero Elvis-themed 24 hour wedding chapels, and no one likes going there. But apart from that, they’re like, totally the same.

But really, it’s unfair of me to bag Canberra, because I’ve only ever had awesome weekends there (disregarding all the lame school excursions and the times my parents might have taken us to Our Nation’s Capital under the pretence of ‘family fun’). It’s far enough from Sydney to create the illusion of being quasi-exotic (if your idea of ‘exotic’ is really wide roads and a lot of boxy apartment blocks), and for this reason it gives you an excuse to behave outrageously.

Not that I need an excuse.

I went down last weekend for a fetish party that was being organised by the Canberra Under 30s group. (Yes, kink is alive and kicking in Canberra – who knew?). Initially, just me and Whipslave were going to go, but in the end our group snowballed into a posse of six. Four of whom had never been to a kink event before, let alone fully considered this side of themselves. Apparently, I’ve become the ‘bad influence friend’. Ha.

A while back I blogged about how there’s not really such a thing as ‘vanilla’ – that perversion is best represented by a sliding scale. I believe that all human relationships contain elements of dominance and submission – after all, BDSM doesn’t come from nowhere. And as part of that particular rant, I asserted that people who only socialise within the kink community are cutting themselves off from the possibility of being surprised.

That theory was proven when my presumably vanilla friends not only jumped at the opportunity of attending a fetish party, but came prepared with their own handcuffs and floggers.

It’s what Marauder describes as ‘kink-dar’. That sixth sense for pervy freaks – when you find yourself drawn to particular people, for seemingly unknown reasons. This is your subconscious at work, hinting to you that the friendly young man with the eyebrow piercing has it in him to one day pulverise your arse with a cane.

Still, as I was entering the party, I became flooded with anxiety – worried that I’d led my friends to a place that would be awkward and uncomfortable for them. Since ‘anxious’ is my default setting, I poured myself a glass of wine, and tried my best to ignore it.

The venue was really cool. It was at a property about thirty minutes outside Canberra – on a farm, pretty much. The owners of the house are a pair of doms who have lovingly converted the spare rooms of their home into dungeon spaces. Not only were the spaces fully equipped (with more floggers, canes, needles, hoods, and other assorted sexual implements than you can point a pointed stick at, boom tish), but they also had a great energy. The main dungeon area had a padded leather wall, a leather spanking bench, and a soft black mini-hammock-type-thing, which was suspended from the ceiling by chains, and which had soft little stirrups for feet. (No one got fucked in the chair that night, but it did serve as an excellent ‘spaced-out subbie seat’).

The other room was decorated to look like a medical space – with white walls, a bright overhanging lamp, and a gurney. This was of course my favourite, and it was in this room that most of our night unfolded.

When we first arrived, I couldn’t see myself playing that night. I was feeling shy because I wasn’t familiar with the crowd (who were all friendly and welcoming, but yeah I’m a freak), and I didn’t see myself initiating anything. Whipslave and I have been wanting to play for a while – we’re both subs who are curious about topping. But the idea of topping and actually topping are two very different things – and I was almost certain that I was going to lose my nerve.

(Funny, isn’t it, the way I get terrified at the idea of topping – that kind of psyched-out ‘no I just can’t do it!’ kind of fear, when logically that would be a normal reaction for someone about to get hit.)

Fortunately, it was Whipslave who took the initiative and got the ball rolling by offering to cane me. It really took a lot of convincing, but eventually, he twisted my arm. (For the more thorough, and probably more accurate version of this story, I suggest you read his version).

He was very good with the cane. In the same way that you’ll always get a better meal out of a cook who loves eating, receiving a caning from someone who also loves receiving a caning tends to make it extra good. Knowing how to build it up, how to bring you to the edge, when to push it further, when to pause.

I got lost so quickly. I was lying face down, and my hands were handcuffed behind me. This was an interesting caning, because I went to so many places. At first it was sensual, sleepy, dreamy. Then it was erotic – the sort of caning that makes me writhe and groan and smile and gasp. After that it got harder – heavier strokes from a heavier cane (my favourite sort. I adore the thick heavy canes – even though they look more intimidating, they are far easier to take than those little whippy ones, which sting like a mofo). This broke the dam of euphoria in me, and despite the pain, I hardly felt it. I became still, and went deep, deep inside myself, to a place of silence.

Only to be pushed out of it again, as I was hit quickly, relentlessly; many hands upon my body; all male. The spell was broken and I came out cranky, like a child woken from a nap. I was petulant then, shrieking, wriggling, trying to get away. I didn’t care about composure anymore, didn’t care about appearing to be brave – I ‘did not want’, and yet down it came, again, again.

Somewhere in it, a voice: “stop it”. I was defiant, non-compliant. I scrunched my face,  not allowing the welled up tears their release. Raging, growling, spitting curses through clenched teeth.

When freedom was granted, I emerged as if from battle, woozy with too-much relief.

Then came The Shakes. The Shakes is a physical reaction to trauma – the fight or flight response. I love The Shakes. It’s sort of like being possessed, speaking in tongues, as your body does one thing while your lips try to articulate what is intangible, inexpressible.

I was so fucking high.

After enough of an intermission to regain control of my hands, I was totally g’ed up to cane Whipslave. He lay on the gurney, shirtless, bum bared.

I started off by flogging his back. For the first time, I feel like I truly found my rhythm. I didn’t doubt, didn’t fret. Just let it whack, felt the music in the act, the art. The performer in me suddenly sparked, and I was on.

Now I get it. Finally, I get it. How fun it is, how freeing. I’ve always known this, that BDSM comes from elements of your own personality – you don’t need to put anything on. So, I could be the cute, bubbly, giggly person I so frequently am, but in a dominant role. It’s a matter of working with what you’ve got, and channelling it outwards, deliberately, unapologetically.

(A trick I learned on the night was to keep my left index finger pressed to my lips – which was an effective way of stopping me from trying to say “sorry” when I hit a bit hard).

After the flogging, I moved on to the cane. This too, was fun. There’s something completely mesmerising about it – for the all the time I was caning Whipslave, I wasn’t thinking about all the meaningless crud which usually cycles through my head. Which is exactly why I love submitting – it’s one of the only things that makes my head SHUT THE FUCK UP.

It was also really nice to play with someone I knew trusted me, and who can take a lot of pain. This gave me the freedom to stop worrying, and to just go with it. Instead of flicking my eyes to his face after every stroke, I relaxed and allowed myself to sense what he was feeling. This is far more enjoyable, and a far more accurate way of reading a person. You don’t need to look, and you don’t need to ask. You just need to trust.

It was a very sexy way to feel. I revelled in it, to the point where I ended up caning three more people before the night was out. Taking delight in the way they trembled and flinched.

Who would have thought?

(By the way, I still walked away with the most bruised arse out of everyone who was there. Amazingly bruised. The whole thing is purple, still).

As the night was winding down, Whipslave gave me a lovely foot massage as we lay on the couch, watching the football. (This was kind of like torture for me – football is a hard limit! Those Canberrans really are a bunch of twisted sickos, I tell you).

In recent years I’ve been slowly coming around the concept of accepting kindness. I’m still not very comfortable with it, but I’m getting better. Normally when someone gives me a massage, I lie there feeling guilty for making them work while I receive all the pleasure. But to know that it brings the other person pleasure to give me pleasure makes it possible for me to enjoy it.

Which is a good thing. I think I’m making progress.

Now that I’ve conquered Canberra, I’m plotting my next escapade. Brisbane, perhaps?

Kinky Night Out

I have the frenetic energy characteristic of a person terrified of inertia. The reason why my days are so full is because I’m terrified of what will happen if I ever actually allow myself to be lazy. Because secretly, I love being lazy – it’s in my nature. I’m afraid that if I ever did slip into a sustained period of lying dozily in bed, I might never get out.

The all or nothing approach is perhaps not healthy, but it mostly works. I propel myself through life, stringing together social appointments and other endless commitments and obligations, ticking things off enormous lists with relish.

But it’s hard sometimes to keep up a sustained fight. And when I’m not feeling well, or it’s cold outside, it can become excuse enough to take the lazy way out. Even though I know that if I go out I’ll have a great time, I still have a really tough time with it, particularly at the end of a long day.

Which is why I need people in my life, so I don’t always have to rely upon my own motivation.

Last Friday, that person was Dragongirl – who had come up from Melbourne for the weekend. Since I had a sore throat and it was cold AND rainy outside on Friday night, I literally wouldn’t have gone out had it not been for her.

So I’m super glad she came to Sydney, because it was magic.

Fet Nights (as I’ve succumbed to calling them) start long before you walk in the door of the party. There is a whole ritual surrounding getting ready, and I’ve always been a sucker for rituals.

Actually, the process of getting dolled up for these things reminds me strongly of getting ready for the ballet performances I had when I was a kid. I’m also fascinated by the way people (particularly women) dress and prepare themselves; the little details that you wouldn’t think would make a difference, but do.

Public fetish parties are performative, absolutely. Makeup and costumes give you confidence and provide a sort of armour that you can lurk behind. They enable you to be superhuman.

There is something fantastic about the lead up to entering a party. Nervous energy rising towards the ceiling, like heat.

Even though I’ve done this enough times now to be slightly less awed by it, I still love that I never quite know how the night’s going to pan out. This used to scare me, and I would try to establish some control over the situation by seeking people out and asking for them to tie me up/hit me on the bum/etc. Being the driving force behind what was about to happen, despite the fact it would require me to relinquish control, made me feel safer. (Submissives, for the record, are the biggest control freaks of them all). These days I don’t do that – instead I just put myself in the room, and let it happen. It’s more fun, more organic, and then I can walk away saying: “well, none of that was my idea…”

Now, before Dragongirl and I got to the party, we went to Peter Pan’s house (who I refer to from now on as Pan). This was Pan’s first Fet Night, and might I say he looked resplendent in his basic black. Due to the fact I was hopped up on cold medicine and red wine, I don’t quite remember quite everything that was discussed in front of his straight-laced but inquisitive flatmate, but I don’t think it matters, since he was clearly preoccupied by Dragongirl’s amazing rack.

Although, Pan still seemed happy to associate with us the next day, so it can’t have been that bad. Heh heh.

Anyway, when we got in, I gave Dragongirl and Pan the unofficial tour of the place, and then we did the standing-around-having-strange-conversations-over-the-top-of-loud-music thing with some other people. This is always my least favourite part of any evening – because it’s one thing to follow through with social conventions at parties, but it’s another to do it while dressed entirely in rubber. It lends the scene a certain aura of ludicrous. (People still managed to pussy foot around their reasons for being there – at any time we could have been surrounded by a mixture of leather/corset/rubber/or PVC-clad individuals, as well as the occasional naked person, and STILL be discussing the weather. I suppose, after all, that weather is crazy, but…)

One of the reasons I like going out with Dragongirl, is that she has no qualms about cutting to the chase and doing something sadistic to someone as soon as possible. Which she did – to the youngest person there! (There was this cute metal/goth/emo dude who’d been dragged along by someone else, who we thought was eighteen, although that remains a question mark. He was super sweet, and his eyes were so big it looked like they were going to fall out).

We went into one of the more private play areas (that had the beautiful medicinal smell of a tattoo parlour, ahh) and she stuck a bunch of needles in his arm. Which he reckons didn’t hurt at all, because he’s a Real Man, even though I totally saw his lips quiver as they went in.

After we finished wiping the blood from Emo Boy’s arm, it was time for my flogging. There was a brief moment where I got uncharacteristically shy about taking my top off (the concoction of Codral and alcohol was wearing off by this stage), but it was thankfully short-lived. I peeled the rubber off, allowed Dragongirl cuff my wrists to the St Andrew’s cross, and let it happen.

Gods, it was good.

How to describe a flogging?

First of all, by ‘flogging’, I mean she used one of those implements that was a bunch of leather strands attached to a handle. There were a few different sorts available for our use, and she alternated between them. (The longer the strands, the heavier the blow. Also, there was one with knots in the leather, which really hurt a buggery, haha).

The feeling is of being beaten, but in the kindest possible way. An expert flogger (as Dragongirl most certainly is) will flog with a steady rhythm, which sends me almost immediately into a trance. There’s a sort of jungle energy to it – of sacrificing a virgin to a volcano, or, erm, some shit. (I’m on fire with this metaphor thing right now).

It doesn’t benefit from intellectualising too much – which is another reason why I love it. It sends me to a place like sleep, it makes me feel safe, calm, beautiful; it relaxes me more deeply than anything I’ve ever experienced; it sends me into the headspace of an infant, it pushes the pain out of me, it makes things tranquil, spiritual, peaceful.

The force of it almost winds you, the pain flutters across the skin like ripples of colour. And always at the other side of it – the person who is flogging you. The connection is as intimate as sex, or more so. Purer.

We’ve been doing this for years now – Dragongirl can read me so well. She takes me right to the edge of where it becomes unbearable, and then backs it off just a little. Massaged my skull occasionally between stokes. Covered my mouth; her hand getting coated in my tears.

I’ve taken to crying a lot during scenes lately, which I think is just evidence of having recently ended the longest and most functional relationship of my life. There is no lying in kink – the truth gets forced to the surface.

There are more embarrassing fluids that can escape you in an evening, believe me.

Later in the night, just when I thought things were winding down, Dragongirl bent me over a chair, tied me to it, secured my hands behind my back, and put a lycra hood over my head (which is a little something I picked up while I was in Japan – but had not until then actually used). I sank back down into subspace in a matter of seconds. The hood intensified the experience on two levels – it gave me an opportunity to completely disappear, and it gave me a break from being ‘me’.

See, I get sick of myself. During a scene, I hate being pulled from my reverie to answer a question or assure someone that I’m ‘okay’. Because the submissive side of myself doesn’t care for talk, or for reassuring people, or for being congenial. It just wants to roam, unchecked, unscrutinised. Do you know what a relief it is, not to have to smile, not to have to be nice, switched on, polite, funny, erudite, responsible? To go fully, quickly, towards that welcoming black, to give someone my body, to leave it behind?

To not have to apologise.

I know Dragongirl loves to hit people, and she knows I love to be hit. It works.

Towards the end of the night, Pan had to go.

“You’re crazy!” he said, all grin and sparkle.

“No I’m not,” I said. “Oh wait. Yes I am.”

Kink After Kids

Today I’m going to talk about something I know nothing about: parenthood.

I was at a baby shower the other day, and it got me thinking. (Before I go any further, I should point out that the inspiration for this post has nothing to do with anything springing from my own loins, nor the loins of any of my lovers. No loins were involved in the writing of this).

So anyway, I was at this baby shower, and it was every bit as freaky as I’d anticipated. Freaky because there it was, right in my face, unavoidably real: I am the owner of a (presumably) fully-functional BABY FACTORY.

One of those moments as a woman where you realise that your lower abdomen is not just an excess cake depository.

Around me were women in their twenties and thirties, with fat bellies themselves, or with small children on their laps, or both. And as usual I was feeling very out of place.

You might be surprised by this, but I actually want kids at some point in my life. There was a time when I didn’t – because I was terrified of post natal depression (runs in my family), and of turning into my mother (runs in my family). I also think that procreation is one of those things that doesn’t bear thinking too much about – lest you tear a hole in your brain from ruminating too deeply on the nature of existence and the origins of life. (Seriously, am I the only one who finds the whole thing REALLY FUCKING WEIRD? Most of the pregnant women I’ve met seem so incredibly blasé about it – more concerned about stretch marks and the lack of attractive maternity gear than the fact that they have ANOTHER HUMAN inside their body. Um, hello?!)

Putting the complexities of the universe aside for now; I really do want to know what it’s like to be pregnant. Firstly because I like the idea of my body having these hidden functions – to not sprog would kind of be like being a really gnarly transformer, and never transforming. The curiosity just gets the better of me.

Also, despite the fact that we live in a society that does its best to desexualise mothers, procreation is the ultimate sexual act. The biological purpose of sex is to reproduce, and as a highly sexual person, I think I absolutely have to see this through to its logical conclusion. (Conveniently ignoring Kathy Lette when she says “kids are a contraceptive”).

Women complain about what pregnancy does to their bodies, but between you and me, I find the whole thing kind of hot. That as opposed to looking ‘fat’, I think they look bountiful with life, sex, energy, beauty, etcetera.

Finally, as a person fascinated with human relationships, particularly romantic relationships, I’d love to know what it would be like to share the experience of being a parent – and to discover how that would deepen your relationship, and expand your capacity for love.

But hey, let’s not go crazy just yet. All in good time. (By which I mean, after I’ve turned 30, which as everyone knows, is the point at which you stop being confused about life, you turn into a real adult, and you discover the meaning of life. Right?)

All I’m saying is, I’m not opposed to the idea of sprogging at some point in my life.

However.

What happens to kink after you have kids?

Does having kids mean that you have to bury that side of yourself, because it’s impractical, improper, and altogether too adult?

Sitting there at the baby shower, hoeing into the twee finger food and trying to act interested in a conversation about daytime television, I was feeling the way I usually feel – like an alien. One of these things does not belong here…

Everyone surrounding me was so cheerful, so motherly. Most of the women at this baby shower had spent their Saturday night indoors in their mortgaged houses with their husbands and children, eating wholesome home-cooked meals and watching PG-rated, family-friendly DVDs.  Meanwhile, I was sitting on a sore bottom that had recently been caned, wearing makeup from the night before, and about to jaunt off to a book launch at the Writers’ Festival. Compared with these real women and their real lives, I felt like a ridiculous caricature. Like everything about my life was just a meaningless preamble in the lead up to having children.

This life that I’m currently living – who am I kidding? Going to fetish parties, getting falling down drunk, having love affairs, kissing men, women; everyone, slutting myself around like some sort of genetic mutation between a rabbit and a slug – it’s all just killing time, isn’t it? Until I discover my true purpose in life, the true meaning of love, and all my demons disappear?

Thinking about kink in the context of being a parent has caused me to ponder: is kink an indulgence or a necessity?

I’m an intensely practical person, and this side of myself is always a little bit annoyed at how absurd and illogical my fetishes and desires can be. They usually involve staying up all hours of the night (most kink parties don’t kick off until at least 11pm), spending money on the entry fee, the outfit, and the alcohol (and whatever else it takes to have a ‘good time’), getting bruised to the point where doing ordinary things the next day is difficult, and needing time afterwards to recover and come back to reality.

Most parents don’t have time to sleep, let alone dedicate this much energy to something so impractical. Which is why most of the people in the kink scene are young (without kids), or older (kids have grown up).

So does that mean that, for twenty years or so, you must put your own desires aside for the sake of being a good parent?

And is it healthy to neglect everything you used to be passionate about because being a parent is ‘more important’?

This is the sort of territory in which I flounder, because I can theorise all I want, but ultimately I’ll never be able to offer anything worthwhile to the argument, because I don’t have kids.

I’ve been reading some online forums on the topic of BDSM and parenthood. Most maintain that it is possible to still have an active kink life, and raise your children in a responsible and loving way. However, most of these scenarios rely upon a situation where the parents have a monogamous D/s relationship. Basically, it helps if your fetishes and kinks can be channelled into something resembling a marriage.

But… what if you have desires that just don’t go together with being a parent? What do you do with them? Do you avoid the whole thing altogether, and leave it to the people who are more inclined to be satisfied with the domestic ideal?

In considering this discussion, my thoughts turned, reluctantly, to my own upbringing. Which was conventional in a lot of ways (two parents, two kids, house in the suburbs), and unconventional in a lot of ways (having two parents who were severely depressed most of the time, for starters…)

My parents were not naturals– not the sort of people who you would say were destined for parenthood. But in saying that, they weren’t bad parents. It’s just that things in our household were perhaps a little different to how they were for my friends (particularly since most of my childhood friends came from very conservative Christian families).

My mum in particular has always treated me like an adult. As a kid that’s not always a good thing – sometimes you want to be mothered, and don’t want to have to deal with  grown-up responsibilities. However, now that I am grown up, I appreciate that my mum loves me for who I am – not the cute toddler I used to be.

When I was growing up, the fact that my parents occasionally forgot that my sister and I were children (and that they themselves were parents) meant that we weren’t censored from much. And without going into too much detail (because, ew), my parents basically did have a D/s relationship (with my mum, most definitely, on top).

I was never traumatised by it – in fact I find it kind of funny now. (What was traumatising were the constant fights, the screaming, crying, and uncontrolled anger – which happens in so many households).

I’ve been forced to acknowledge that if my parents had spent more time making love, and less time making war, I’d be considerably less fucked up.

Which gives me an answer, of sorts.

And now, having reached this conclusion, let’s never speak of it again.

I’m Lazy, so Here Are Some Pictures

These photos of me and Talby were snapped at the Uber Rope workshop by the very talented and sexy Marauder. And yes, the last photo is of me eating cake. I was, as usual, demonstrating a mastery of poise, composure, and grace.