Rubber Pics

Me as a human foot stool.

Inside the vac bed.

Rubber

(Pain Part II is coming soon…)

So few people have heard the real story about how Marauder and I got together, despite it being one of my favourite stories to tell. So here it is, in its uncensored glory:

We first met at an Under 30s gathering at the Marlborough Hotel. Flirtation was had, numbers were exchanged. I went home that night buzzing with possibility.

The following Thursday we met up after work, with the idea to go fetish wardrobe shopping for Hellfire (which was on Friday). We walked together down Oxford Street, and I did my usual nervous chatterbox thing. (It had been a long time between dates, okay?) We ended up at House of Fetish, and for a bit of fun, I ended up trying on a $600 rubber ensemble. It was my first experience with rubber, which up until that point had seemed all a bit freaky and silly for my tastes. But as I talced up and squeezed in, all assumptions dropped away. It felt snug, secure, smooth. It squeezed my body into that of a voluptuous woman. It cinched me in and made all the sex bits stick out. It was so sexy I was having a lesbian experience just looking at myself in the mirror.

I had to exit the cubicle to access said mirror, and everyone in the store was suitably impressed. I stood there gawking at myself for a while, and then I turned to Marauder:

“Want to feel me up?”

His reply:

“Yes.”

That kicked off my now sizeable rubber fetish (and Marauder fetish, for that matter). Up until last night, my ability to explore that fetish was limited by its expense (my first outfit set me back around $300 bucks), and by the fact I didn’t really see a way of ‘playing’ with rubber, other than by wearing it in sexy outfits. I’d seen a bunch of stuff in porn, but I didn’t really think it was possible to try unless you were a porn star (why do I persist in thinking this way?).

At a private party I went to about six months ago, a couple was there who I’d seen around at other parties, but had never properly gotten to know. At this particular party, they’d brought around a few different rubber hoods (one of them a gas mask with a long breathing tube), which I got to try on. We did some breath play (where the top restricts the bottom’s breathing, in this instance through blocking the air tube) and I loved it. It scared me just enough to make me want more, more, more. I got to borrow the mask, but somehow it felt incomplete. I wanted to be completely encased and completely at the mercy of someone else. A rubber doll.

We’d been talking about it for ages, and we finally made a date for me to come over to their house and play with their rubber. And as the date approached, I got more and more nervous. I was excited by my nerves, realising that I’ve been playing it fairly safe of late (attending only parties held in my own home and playing with mostly the same people, and mostly the same kind of play). I like to still feel nervous, because I don’t want to ever get to the point where I’m completely comfortable and I know exactly what to expect. I savoured my anxiety all afternoon, chewing on it, extracting what intoxicating dread I could. When I finally rang their doorbell in my one rubber outfit at 9pm that night, I was awkward and stilted on the outside, but inwardly seething with nervous excitement.

There is something extra thrilling about playing in a new space – it lends a rich element of other-worldliness to the play. Entering their house was like being sucked into a vortex, which is funny, because later that evening I pretty well literally got sucked into a vortex. From the moment I was inside I felt it begin – even during the social formalities of general chit chat and fixing a drink. Everything was discussed before it started, and I sat there through it all with a big stupid grin on my face. I’m an atrocious poker player.

First up, I was told to take off all my clothes, and step into a big rubber sack that fastened around my neck. (I got to keep my rubber underpants on, which was more awesome than being completely naked). I was placed on my back and the sack was pumped full of air. ‘Sack’ isn’t the best descriptor – it was more of a big tube, which meant that one layer of rubber was pressed against my body, while the other layer ballooned outwards, turning me into a giant human caterpillar. It also meant that sections of the tube could be unzipped (so my body could be accessed) without letting all the air out. Once it was completely inflated, a rubber gas mask was placed over my head, limiting my breathing to that vulnerable rubber tube. It also limited my eyesight, but I was keen to close my eyes anyway.

I could barely wiggle inside the sack; I was helpless. Totally at the mercy of my two friends, who were using me as a footstool. It was utterly perfect, and I felt so euphoric it was better than any drug I’ve ever tried. It put me right in the moment, so blissfully disconnected from any of the stuff going on in my life. Inside my head, the same thing over and over: this is wild.

I sank into subspace and stayed there, pieces of me scattered among stars. I saw what could only be described as hallucinations – dancing colours and shapes, rubber-clad androids, and at one particularly intense moment, Kate Bush in the film clip for Running Up That Hill. (I fucking love Kate Bush). There was also much rudeness – it was surprisingly sexual. Hot and lush and pure. Wrenched away from the controlling clutches of my conscious mind. Rhythm running through me like electricity.

I eventually emerged calm and spaced and malleable. Sweaty, engorged. Beatific, docile. At ease.

We went upstairs, where I was caned, paddled and spanked. I took it as quietly as I could, but it cut into the my dream-state and woke me up. Each stroke brought things sharply back into focus, and each anticipatory void let me drift. Time had lost all meaning; I had no idea how long it lasted or how many strokes I endured. I moaned and groaned, accepted and sighed, wriggled and twitched. Then it was over.

Into yet another room, on the floor of which was a large rectangle of rubber known as a vac bed. This was another type of sack – sealed on three sides, and with a zipper along the forth. It was held in shape by a rectangular frame made out of strong plastic pipes. I crawled inside, lay on my back, and put the breathing tube in my mouth. Then it was zipped up, and a vacuum was used to suck all the air out of the sack, trapping me inside nearly instantly. The rubber clung to my skin, pressed in on me. It was so tight I couldn’t even move my fingers. I was expecting to be freaked out by it, but all I felt was peace.

The breath play did scare me earlier when I was wearing the gas mask, but in the vac bed I had absolutely no problem with having my air restricted. I felt invincible. And it was still very sexual, deeply sexual. I never wanted it to end.

Even after the vacuum was turned off, just lying inside the sack in the warm blackness did it for me.

After that I got to watch other people in the sack (including Marauder, who had arrived towards the end of the caning). It was astonishing to see him shrink wrapped inside the rubber – the detail was incredible. It pulls so tight you can see individual hairs, and fingernails. I can imagine that the best part about it, if you’re a bloke, is fighting a battle against the rubber with a semi-erect cock.

It was feeling like the night was over, but just as we were getting ready to leave, I was distracted by a rubber catsuit hanging in the room. It was made to fit a man, and therefore it fit me very badly, but I got the gist. Before I got it we filled it with silicon lube, and it felt like wearing a giant condom. A bit gross and slimy at first, but once it warmed up it felt very good. Then I lay on the bed on top of a rubber sheet which we also drowned in lube, and I slid around on it for a while, wiggling and carrying on. It felt like Slip ‘N Slide. I giggled a lot.

After a long shower, the night was truly over. I thanked my hosts profusely and stumbled out into the night. I was so high Marauder almost refused to let me drive home. But I got there, it was all right.

Slutty Poetry

The best poetry comes to me when I’m hungover and supposed to be doing something else. Also for some reason this ancient art always seems to channel whatever depraved demon I happen to be entertaining that day. Whoever said poetry was dead?

Sirens
Now, your arms,
those great arms, around
my waist and reaching down
too far, all in plain sight,
as I wiggle, simper, twirl
around and through the light
like a girl with mist about her,
like a nymphet, beckoning you
closer, urging your hands
further, feeling those fat tips
on glowing parts, while I grow
ever more even footed,
nude soles flat upon the
ground, connected to a tidal
solidity, flush with unexpected
lucidity, receiving the wavelength
of sirens, all’s wet like oceans,
slowly easing in big rolling
droplets, this aqueous potion
which bleeds with a glorious
incandescence, that sick sweet
putrescence, eating us up for
breakfast, washed down with
booze-rich wetness, investing in our
coalescence, in the dry mouthed
remorse of mornings, of the void
outside your arms, of our certain
repentance.

Monogamy: The Cause of, And Solution To, All Relationship Problems

Monogamy is like democracy – it doesn’t work, but then again neither does anything else.

Everyone knows it doesn’t work, and yet most people always manage to be surprised when it doesn’t work. This puzzles me. Because it’s not like adultery is a recent invention. I mean, it’s in the Bible for crying out loud (listed under “Things That are Really Sinful”). The bare fact of it is, people have wanted to shag people other than the person they’re supposed to be shagging since the dawn of time. So why all the hoo har? Why can’t we all just get over it?

My perception of Australian society is that we are, contrary to the popular belief that modernity has turned us all into Godless sex freaks, a very conservative nation. My perceptions are probably coloured by the fact I was reared inside the so-called ‘Bible Belt’ of Sydney (the Hills District – i.e. Sydney’s home of Hillsong). Despite being the bastard child of two apathetic atheists, from ages 4-12 I attended a small, private Anglican school, which did cause a wee bit of confusion for me on the occasions when mum and dad responded to my praise for Lord Jesus Christ Our Saviour with raucous laughter.

So anyway, the whole religious indoctrination thing  has probably coloured my viewpoint, but that doesn’t account for the fact that all around me, monogamy is largely accepted as the ‘norm’. It’s the default, the Windows XP of relationship operating systems. Of course, Windows XP is a piece of shit, but most people don’t even seem to realise that there IS an alternative, and even if they do, it’s all a bit risky and difficult to try something new.

My boyfriend is a Linux man.

Now, don’t get me wrong. I kind of like monogamy, although maybe it’s got more to do with that Anglican school than I care to admit. All I’m saying is, I’m sick of being told by the media, the music industry and the makers of Sex and the City (the film version) that cheating is the worst thing a person can do to you. I just don’t know why we continue to set up these rigid structures that suit virtually no one and then get upset when our lovers fall short of these naively unrealistic standards. At what point did human nature become something we have to rise above in order to love someone?

Like I said, I actually don’t mind monogamy. When I love someone, I tend to like to focus my energy on them. It’s also about quality control. In my opinion, the best sex happens when you trust someone completely; when you know them deeply. And call me predictably female, (ugh), but I’ve never had decent sex with someone I didn’t love (in one form or another). I suppose that trust and intimacy are by-products of love, and therefore perhaps it’s not love itself that is needed; however I still maintain that it is the sexual X-factor. (I’m trying very hard to avoid using the term ’special ingredient’…!)

However. I believe my current relationship works precisely because it’s not strictly monogamous. Rules and restrictions have a tendency to make people act out. If I’m not allowed to sleep with, or even flirt with other people, I become crazed with the notion: ‘this is going to be the only person I sleep with for the rest of my life’. Which is terrifying! No matter how good the sex, it’s always only going to be a type of sex. People such as me who are into BDSM will have a little more room to maneuver within this restriction, a lot more room than most, but at the end of the day, the act of sex is not very complex. The main points of difference come down to a person’s body, a person’s style, a person’s soul.

Marauder on the other hand, (my boyfriend), gets off on novelty and excitement. That’s not to say he doesn’t appreciate quality (i.e. sex with me, lol), but he is always going to be drawn towards the thrill of the unknown. His previous relationships have been killed by monogamy, which is why he wanted me to enter into this thing with eyes wide open. He’s made it clear that he will occasionally need to have sex with other people, because it’s just something he needs to do. This doesn’t make him any less loyal, trustworthy, responsible, loving or kind. And yet because we live inside a society where monogamy is the norm, he struggles continually with feeling that he is a bad person, and that his desires are deviant.

Why does it have to be like that? Why should he have to feel guilty or ashamed? At least he is honest with me. Furthermore, at least he treats me with respect – which is more than my monogamous yet selfish ex-boyfriends can claim. I refuse to be his gaoler – it disgusts me to see men whipped into submission (not in the good way) by their jealous, insecure wives or girlfriends. It’s revolting to see men castrated, de-sexed by our outmoded and hypocritical obsession with ‘morality’.

I don’t understand the victory in forcing a person to remain faithful. Controlling them to the point where they won’t cheat – not because they don’t want to, but because they’re scared. I particularly hate that cliche of ‘getting the ring on their finger’ or ‘dragging them to the altar’; as if getting married guarantees complete devotion and fidelity with no effort on your part. I hate this idea that once you’re married, you can get as fat or obnoxious as you want and it doesn’t matter because your partner is stuck there for life. And I particularly hate that all ‘cheaters’, no matter what the circumstance, are shunned as monsters.

Come on, people. Shit happens. The only reason cheating hurts so much is because we make such a big deal of it. If we could all just accept that humans are flawed, if we could all stop acting like we’re so superior to animals, if we were able to be honest with each other without fear of recrimination, we’d all be a lot happier.

Surely I’m not the only one who feels this way…?

Sexy Times for Sexy Minds

First posts are always awkward.

It’s the blogging equivalent of a first date – you turn up with all these intentions to be witty and intelligent, but ultimately just end up sounding like a wanker. It’s inevitable. But sometimes, underneath the horror and the angst of it all, something clicks. Something is coolly and clearly ‘right’ about it, despite the fact you’re blathering like an idiot and you’ve just spilled spaghetti sauce all down the front of your new dress. And, in a strangely similar way, I have that same feeling about this blog. Sure, we don’t know each other very well, the conversation is a little stilted, and I’m feeling irrationally paranoid that I’ve forgotten how to blog altogether, (it has, after all, been a while), but despite all that I’m hanging in there. In fact, I think I’m having fun.

So, what brings me back to blogging?

I resisted it for a long time because I’ve developed this horrifying idea of myself as some sort of ‘real’ writer who is far too busy with her novel to waste time on a silly little blog. Ghastly I know! But I’ve been craving the immediacy and informality of blogging that a novel simply can’t satisfy. And the connectedness – I’m sick of feeling like my ideas are pent up inside my head with nowhere to go.

And what, precisely, am I blogging about?

Ok, this is going to be a bit of a long story, but bear with me. When I was twenty years old I had a conversation with a man (on a first date, ironically), in which he asked me if I was submissive. Submissive? I’d never thought of it consciously before. I didn’t have the vocabulary to articulate that side of myself. To have someone point it out so plainly was a revelation. Spiritual. And it was also a giant relief, because I no longer had to pretend to be someone I wasn’t, or feel ashamed of who I was. It was one of the most powerful moments in my life.

I fell in love with him, and we proceeded to have a horribly destructive relationship.

After I eventually disentangled myself from that wreckage, I was confused. He was my sexual revolution, and in the wake of that relationship I questioned whether my sexuality was to blame. Had the relationship become abusive because of the Master/slave dynamic? Was that just a facilitator for the abuse – a fancy dressing for something depressingly cliched? Was my pseudo-Catholic guilt right all along? Were we were being punished because we gave into our immoral carnal urges?

I felt embarrassed and guilty for a long time.

During this time I pursued a couple of ‘vanilla’ (non-kinky) relationships, which ended up being similarly destructive, except without the awesome sex. Then I decided to find ways of ‘unleashing’ my kinky side through controlled means, like going to fetish clubs. This gave me some good experiences, and I found it to be fulfilling and liberating during a time when I was fairly desperately single and not exactly overflowing with self confidence.

By the time I decided to drag myself into the city and attend a drinks night for the Sydney Under 30s BDSM group (of which I’d been an inactive member for some time), I was no longer looking for a romantic partner, or even for sex exactly. I was just looking, in a very unspecific sense, to be involved. And because I wasn’t looking for any kind of romantic complication (I was, after all, planning to move to Melbourne later in the year), I of course met a man with whom I drifted slowly, sanely, towards love.

That’s where you’d expect to stick the happy ending. And it was, in one sense, an ending. An end to guilt, shame, confusion and depression. But it was the decision I made on that night, to go outside my comfort zone and seek something different, that’s where something began. A desire not just to distract myself with love or to get off, but to participate, communicate. Since then I’ve become actively involved in the running of the Under 30s Group, and I realised, lame as it sounds, the importance of community.

The kink scene, particularly for those of us under the age of 40, is undernourished in Australia. Not enough people are talking, and even fewer are crawling out of their shells to attend events. The arrival of a couple of New Yorkers (eee Eileen and MayMay) jolted me into the realisation that it’s one thing to be smug and happy in your own sexuality, but it’s another to share your experience. This is something that can be really thought provoking and interesting.

Every single day I’m frustrated by the conservative and outmoded ideas about sexuality that are shoved in our faces by the mainstream media (I have a particular loathing for ‘Sam and the City’ on smh.com – oh the rage!). The whole battle-of-the-sexes ‘men want sex and women want committment’ bullshit that finds its way into everything. Am I the only person who is sick to death of being force fed these (depressing) mantras?

While some might consider this sort of fluff to be harmless, I don’t. The overwhelming response we get from new members joining the Under 30s group is “thank god, I thought I was the only freak in the world” (or something to that effect). Most are painfully shy, and still dogged by a conditioned paranoia that they are doing something devious or wrong.

I’ve never been politically inclined. I used to roll my eyes when passing the Queer Space on campus at UTS, with all those fiesty kids with nose piercings and dreadlocks who were handing out rainbow condoms and protesting against oppression and other such Important Issues. It’s positively un-Australian to take yourself too seriously, and you wouldn’t want to speak with too much intelligence or conviction lest you be considered a tall poppy.

But, let’s face it, in terms of sexual enlightenment in this country, we’re mostly just a bunch of backward bogans.

I hate protest rallies. I hate gratuitous sincerity. I particularly hate politics. But I like to blog.

And thus welcome to my ramblings. I hope to be honest, frank and humorous at all times about my sexual/fetish exploits. I’m not really looking to change to world, more just to be vaguely amusing and to get people thinking and talking.

Blog on!

-lou