There’s a reason why all the greatest works literature are all mostly about tragedy, death, destruction, despair, ill-fated affairs, violence and upheaval: it’s because they’re easy to write about.

Seriously, do you know how hard it is to write any kind of fiction without at least one of your characters carking it? It’s amazing how so few of us have actually experienced anything to do with, say, murder, and yet how many of us feel compelled to write about it.

Even if you don’t agree with me, there’s no arguing with the fact that ‘Peace and Peace’ just doesn’t have the same ring.

Do writers write about Doom all the time because they’re depressed? Or is writing about Doom the cause of depression? It’s a chicken-and-egg dilemma which could probably fill its own book, but anyway, here is something one of my ex-boyfriends said:

I see you’re writing a novel…. good thing that writers are the happiest people in the world eh?

(John Safran has built an entire career out of narcissistically dissecting his failed relationships; why can’t I?)

Petty bitchiness aside, (yeah, Xavier*, cos being a religious zealot makes a person SO much more contented than being a writer), there was a point I was trying to make, which as usual I seem to have forgotten.

Oh yes. I remember now. Okay. Right.

I haven’t blogged in a while, for the following reasons.

1. Happiness

Look, despite the romantic ideal of the impoverished writer alone in his/her garret, swilling wine and single-mindedly hammering out that tortured masterpiece before they inevitably die miserably, I know that there are thousands of creative people will back me up when I say that we are actually at our most productive when happy.

So, it’s not that happiness itself that has caused me to become uninspired, it’s just that happiness is hard to describe.

I’ve been trying to find the words to do it justice… the absolute most perfect way to tell you all how it feels.

But all I’m left with are reductive clichés:

I am seeing someone. He is wonderful. I am happy.

Beyond these flimsy, inadequate, ultimately futile statements, I am reluctant to share any more at this stage. Just as Bic Runga said It’s not for anybody else to know, I feel a need to gather this beautiful feeling up to my chest, hold it close, keep it safe. It is an embryo – too fragile to fling carelessly into the public domain.

I am trying to accept that it’s okay to be happy. That a giant flaming meteor won’t drop out of the sky and land on my head just because I dared to pull my head out of that expansive emotional quicksand known as Depression.

I feel better, stronger, more like myself. This is good.

2. Writing

Oh man, for some reason, I thought that once I’d finished writing my book, all my insecurities about writing would drop away. What I wasn’t prepared for was that they would get worse.

The act of writing a book is productive, brave, bold, admirable. Tell anyone you’re writing a book, and they tend to go all kind of silent and reverent, and say things like: “oh, wow. That’s really, like, interesting.” However, once you’ve finished writing, you find yourself with a giant ugly lump of a thing, that maybe could contain gold once it’s been chipped and dusted and polished, but is just as likely to turn out to be poo.

There was a five minute period after finishing in which I felt proud of my accomplishment, sure.

Beyond that it was just basically 100% pain.

So I got a job in a burger store, and actively stopped writing. Which made blogging difficult, since blogs are typically created with words.

But it was around about the moment when, after six long, sweaty, greasy hours in the burger store, while handling a customer complaint (that there weren’t enough pickles on their 1/3 pounder with cheese), that I realised I was ready to return to writing.

Sure, Tolstoy I might not be, but at least I now have the confidence to say that my talents are greater than heaping fistfuls of icky pickles onto an outrageously thick hunk of cow meat.

Last week I printed out my manuscript and mailed it to that competition I’ve been talking about entering. Gotta be in it to win it, I suppose.

3. Uh, they’re basically my main reasons. But while I’m here, might I mention that I’m a bit of a sadist now.

I’ve topped before, and enjoyed it on the level of: ‘ooh, this is a bit fun’. And intellectually, I could totally understand the appeal of inflicting pain and torment upon another. But it had yet to reach the stage where it made me, you know. Come.

Like, the idea of topping was not repellent to me, but it was never something I would jerk off to.

But something has changed. A part of myself has been prised open somehow. And it’s scary – I feel like a bit of a monster. Like, what does that say about the person I am, if I want to strap my lover to a bed and cane his bottom until he is insensible with pain? Until he is sweaty, gasping, straining, breathless? Begging for mercy; pleading for release?

Lately, my hands seem to have grown minds of their own. I seem them creeping around his neck, pressing, squeezing.

My confidence is quavering; I don’t know if I can quite follow through. But something that is deeper, darker, and more thoroughly doused in the slick black liquor of sex, is speaking louder than all these insecurities. The Creature has claws. I am awed and afraid and excited.

4. Oh yeah, that’s right. I totally remembered what I was going to say before.

You see, blogging is much like doing a grocery shop. During the week you are reminded continually of exactly what you need to buy, to the point where it is nearly inconceivable that you could ever forget, but then when you actually get to the supermarket everything useful gets completely erased from your brain, so that you spend yet another week living off Crazy Cheese and Marshmallow Fluff, when what you really needed was Food With Actual Nutritional Content, and an Industrial-Sized Container of Nappy San.

Anyway.

I am unsure about my organisational future with the Under 30s Group.

See, I’m no longer going to parties and events, and I don’t see myself re-emerging anytime soon (due to monetary restrictions, an anxiety disorder, and a general desire to keep my kink quiet and private for the time being). I feel out of the loop. And I don’t quite have the time or the energy to keep up with the influx of excitable and nervous newbies anymore.

That said, it seems sad to slink away from the group right at the point where it’s taking off.

So, I dunno. We’ll see.

In the meantime, hi! How y’all doin’?

* Not his real name. Der.

Last week I spoke at a kink workshop called the ‘Social Etiquette Discussion Panel’. The inspiration for this event stemmed from a conversation I had with HallowsEve and Tonbi a few months back; the general theme of which was “I wish someone had told me these things when I started out.”

When I first started to explore this kink thing, the path I took from Wide-Eyed-Newbie to Hardened-Old-Shrew was of the ‘baptism of fire’ variety. I’ve ended up in a good place, but there are times when I resent that the innocent wonder I once had for BDSM was stolen so quickly. Which is not to say that it is no longer magical for me, but I do slightly envy those who have no experience, because it means they are about to discover something amazing.

(Similar to, say, a person who has not yet heard a Radiohead album. Although Radiohead has brought me many, many, many, MANY hours of blissful enjoyment, nothing can quite replace the first time I heard Kid A, which redefined music for me, and blew my freakin’ brain).

Through Under 30s, I meet a lot of young people who are stepping into the BDSM scene for the first time, and who are somewhat ashamed of their innocence. Which is unnecessary – there’s no shame in being new and clueless.  It’s okay to admit that you wouldn’t know a sjambok from a violet wand. What’s annoying are people who try to act as if they’ve been around the block a hundred times, when in reality all they’ve done is watched Secretary furtively that time their flatmate was out.

As a general rule, established members of the scene seem happy to bitch about others if they’ve broken the unwritten code of social ethics, but it’s a bit unfair to criticise  if they themselves haven’t made an effort to improve communication. The Social Etiquette Workshop was about breaking down this vague wall of silence, and creating an environment in which people could feel comfortable enough to discuss ideas.

My main contributions were as follows:

People in the BDSM scene are people.

When I was twenty years old, I literally had to be dragged to my first munch. I don’t know what I was expecting, but I was absolutely terrified. But all that happened was I met a bunch of polite, intelligent people, who welcomed me and were genuinely interested in what I had to say. I was amazed.

I had the same experience (of relief and disbelief) at the first play party I ever went to. Imagine my surprise when, instead of flames or severed limbs, the only things that came out of the mouths of the other guests were words, many of them friendly.

Now it amuses me how, every time I shepherd a new member into Under 30s, they all say the same thing: “wow, I didn’t expect you all to be so… normal?”

Know how to say ‘no’.

Even to this very day I suck at saying no. I tend to say yes for the sake of pleasing others or to avoid making a fuss, even when this means I have to go very far out of my way to follow through with whatever I’ve agreed to. But the thing is, you’re far, far better off turning someone down (if they’re asking to play with you, for example) than to freak out when you find yourself in a situation you can’t handle.

Because I know how shocking I am at saying this simple, monosyllabic word, I’ve found that it helps to go to public events with a friend who can say no on my behalf.

Even doms need to know how to say it. I’ve heard stories about doms who have agreed to something that they weren’t comfortable with, just because they didn’t want to lose face, or because they wanted to make their sub happy.

Everyone has a right to say no – everyone!

Sexuality is fluid.

I used to have very rigid ideas about labels, and thought that your only kinky options were dom or sub. I really believed that people were born a certain way and could never change. I’ve since discovered that the term ‘switch’ is completely valid. (It does not mean a person is indecisive or confused!)

Now I know that there are so many different labels and definitions out there, and that people can identify as all of them, or none. It can change depending on your headspace, who you’re playing with, whether you’re playing in public or in private, etc.

Even though ‘submissive’ is still how I choose to describe myself, it’s not totally correct. I top occasionally, and I’ve also learned that ‘bottom’ is a much more accurate way of describing the role I play during public scenes. (For me, submission is so much more than simply receiving a beating. It’s an intensely emotional thing; the physical act of receiving pain/sensation is somewhat incidental. It also has a lot to do with love, service, pride, and humiliation. Simply bending over at a play party and letting someone have their way with my arse does not quite qualify as submission).

In addition to this, my sexual tastes have evolved and changed greatly, which has surprised me. Things that once terrified or disgusted me have become great loves. Be aware of the hubris inherent in saying something like: “oh, I’ll never understand how anyone could find (INSERT FREAKY KINK THING) appealing.” You’d only be asking for trouble. Trust me.

You don’t have to assume a role to interact with people at public events.

It took me a long time to realise that I didn’t have to be Lou the Submissive when I met people at parties – I could just be Lou.

I also wish someone had told me that it’s perfectly okay to go to a kink party and NOT play. When I ran the Sexy Freaks parties, the number one question I got asked by first-timers was “is it okay just to watch?”. Not only is it okay, but at these sorts of things there are people who are happy to hog the spotlight, and revel in the fact they’ve got an audience. Strangely enough, at Sexy Freaks, this person generally turned out to be me.

If you do play, be prepared for the possibility of a come-down.

BDSM brings up a lot of intense stuff. Some strange, surprising and sometimes difficult reactions and emotions can escape you – laughter, tears, elation, depression. It’s always wonderful to be able to channel these things and let them out, but it can also be incredibly draining.

This is why it’s so important to have friends in the scene, so you’ve got people you can talk to, and who will understand. If you’re feeling kind of bummed because you had your arse caned to a bloody pulp last Friday night, but that the bruises are not nearly as colourful as you hoped they would be, you might find that your vanilla friends are not satisfactorily sympathetic.

*

There are so many more points I can add to this, such as don’t be a dick, and use condoms. But this post is by no means intended to be a definitive guide. It’s just a list of things I wish I’d been told when I started out.

By the way, I’m still learning. We all are.

We’ve all met them. Those irritating people who will happily claim, without a shred of irony or self-doubt, that they are good in bed.

Of course, it’s those sorts of people who generally turn out to be duds. Not because of any physical or technical failing – it’s because their arrogance gets in the way of being truly receptive to the needs of their sexual partner.

Here’s a tip: just because it worked for your ex, doesn’t mean it will work for everyone!

These people get so blind-sighted by their smugness that they fail to account for the fact that people are, like, different. And if their masterful performance fails to bring you countless screaming orgasms, then you must be the one with the problem.

Now, I know I’m capable of being great in bed, but I would never promise it to someone. There’s just so much that can go wrong, especially when you haven’t had sex with that person before. I’ve discovered the hard way that what floats someone’s boat can just as easily sink another’s. There are probably a few people walking around this world thinking that I’m a crap shag, and well, I couldn’t really blame them.

I’d also like to stress the importance of making mistakes. If you hold yourself back for fear of doing the wrong thing, that’s not sexy either.  We all learn by getting it wrong occasionally, and if you’re afraid to experiment a little, you’ll never grow.

And while we’re still in the key of Rant, let it be known that flipping through the sealed-section of Cleo magazine does not a great lover make. You can read all you want on the subject, but nothing can replace hands-on experience, communication, and intuition. The notion of keeping crib notes on the bedside dresser is both hilarious and sad.

Similarly, you’re not going to turn into a sex god/goddess because of something you read on the internet. So go on, turn off your computer, grab your lover, and go have fun.

That’s it. This is the best advice I can give you. (And yes, your computer has an off-switch. It’s true – I’ve seen it!)

I’ll just be over here, dusting my cat figurines.

Doo di doo. (*mutters: blasted porcelain Persians*)

Ah, guys? You’re still here.

*sigh*

Oh all right, fine. Fine! Off the back of the success of my highly-acclaimed Guide to the Clitoris, I present to you:

How to Suck and Not Suck: Helpful Tips for Giving Head

1. Lube Changes Everything.

Yeah, you can perform fellatio using only the moisture in your mouth, but it makes the job more difficult than it has to be. If you’re going for greatness, lube is your friend. Before you begin, whip out the lube and apply generously all over the penis and testicles. Seriously, more lube = more better. I just can’t stress this enough.

And don’t skimp on the quality of the lube, either. Again, if blowjob glory is what you want, you’ll need some decent silicone-based lube – not the KY-type crud you get at Coles. (Also, the cheap stuff tastes awful!)

My personal recommendation is Pjur. It’s silky smooth, odourless, and it lasts forever (thus justifying the cost). Available over the internet, or from most good sex shops!

2. Have Fun With It

Contrary to the notion that fellatio is a submissive act, it is actually extremely powerful. I mean, your man’s most prized and sensitive body part is between your teeth, and he’s the one with the power? I don’t think so.

For me, it’s the power trip of being solely responsible for the most awesome pleasure that man has ever experienced in his life that makes giving head not just a positive experience, but a pleasurable one. It’s the look of their faces – complete abandon and utter gratitude.

So many women approach this kind of thing with reluctance or disgust. And even though I know I’ll get lynched for saying this – I do think that in a committed, loving relationship, it should not be considered sexist or offensive or horrible for the man to want a blow job every now and then.

It’s all in the attitude. Approach it with a sense of playfulness and love, and it’ll bring you closer. Approach it as you would an overcooked hotdog, and it’s going to be much less fun, for both of you.

3. Take Your Time

If you’re racing through it, thinking ‘let’s get this over with’, it’s not likely to be great.

My suggestion is to start slow, and build your way up gradually. Perhaps start by licking the shaft and around the head, as opposed to sticking the whole lot in your mouth at once. Some guys like it fast and some like it slow – so to hedge your bets, start slow and go from there.

4. Use Your Hands

Bringing a man to orgasm using only your mouth is actually extremely difficult. For best results, I like to place one hand around the shaft at the base of the penis, and if possible, one hand gently cupping the testicles. Slide the hand that’s on the penis up and down in synch with your mouth (this is after you’ve poured on tons of lube). If you’re feeling lazy, just keep your mouth on the head, while your hand does all the work.

You can also squeeze the base of the penis, which keeps it hard, and which I’ve found can induce orgasm quicker (that’s only if you want them to come though – there’s a lot to be said for making them suffer and wait!)

With the hand that’s on the balls, just stick to tickling, stroking, or holding. (Do not squeeze – unless cock and ball torture is his thing). If you and your partner are the adventurous types, you can even venture down a little lower, and, ah, stick your finger(/s) up his butt. Once you get over the conceptual grossness of this, you’ll find that it’s actually the easiest way to bring him to orgasm (as it stimulates the prostate gland).

Don’t look at me like I’m crazy – it’s true – and if he’s comfortable with the idea, he’ll thank you for it. Trust me.

5. Don’t Stop The Instant He Comes

Orgasms can be increased and prolonged by staying there for a minute or so after the initial spurt. Which brings me to…

6. Swallowing is Easier Than Spitting. Sorry.

Yeah okay, so semen is pretty nasty. But swallowing is, by far, the better way to go. It’s like taking a shot of tequila – you wouldn’t put that in your mouth, swish it around a bit and then spit it out again, so why would you do the same with come? If his penis is in your mouth at the point of orgasm, it’ll hit the back of your throat, and then you can swallow without needing to taste it. Up until now I’ve been trying to resist using the phrase ‘suck it up’, but, there’s just no better way of saying it. Suck it up, bitches.

7. Watch Him Masturbate

If you’re in a relationship with the person, and comfortable around each other, get him to masturbate while you watch. It’s hot in a voyeuristic kind-of-a-way, and it also provides valuable information as to how he likes to be touched. Sometimes it’s impossible to get an understanding about how he likes it just from reading his body language, or even from asking him, which is why watching him jerk off will prove to be highly informative.

Watch, my friends, and learn.

***

Now, having said all that, there’s one final point I’d like to make:

8. Men Are Harder to Get Off Than Popular Culture Would Have You Believe

If you’ve been down there for half an hour, and nothing seems to be happening, don’t take it to heart. According to teen movies, getting a guy off is as easy as, say, slow-dancing with him for a few minutes during prom night.

Men are actually pretty tricky to bring to climax. Most of the boyfriends I’ve had have had difficulty coming during sex, let alone from oral.

The goal of any form of sexual activity should not be an orgasm – it should be about the connection, the pleasure, and the intimacy. Don’t approach this as merely a method of getting him off – try to see it as a way of giving him something incredible.

Finally, it’s your gift to give – not his to demand. (Well, unless you’re doing the D/s thing, which is kind of a different story, but even in that scenario there should be an underlying respect).

And that’s just about all I have to say about that. Happy blowing!

When I was a girl, I believed the key to being liked was to be nice. I would put up with just about anything, just so people would like me. And, it worked. Except of course it meant that some people liked me not necessarily for who I was, but for what they could make me do.

In the adult world, being nice is not all that useful. When it comes to sex, it’s often a hindrance (let’s face it: assholes are hotter than saints). At work, niceness is usually interpreted as weakness, and those of us who are nice tend to get screwed over. And personality-wise, merely being nice is, unfortunately, just not very interesting.

I probably got it from my mum – who was famous for answering the phone in a honey-dipped tone of voice, maintaining a conversational tone that was ludicrously polite, thanking the caller profusely, and then slamming the phone down, picking up a butcher’s knife and screaming like a banshee.

(I’m not sure that wanting to be liked was the reason for my mum’s niceness – I think it was more to do with a deeply imbedded code of social obligation that states that no matter how much you dislike a person, one must always, always maintain a friendly facade. Unless of course you live with the person, in which case you can wield knives at them with frequency and vigour).

Being nice is like having the word “sucker” tattooed across your forehead. I can’t walk ten metres though the city without being asked for change/propositioned by a sleazy foreigner/accosted by credit card salesmen. For years, the common features of all the men I ever dated were ‘unemployed’ and ‘had no qualms about asking their girlfriend for money’. I also had a way of attracting guys who were trying very hard to come across as nice, but who were actually dicks.

It’s hard however to separate this incessant niceness from my personality. Apart from the fact it’s ingrained, it is also based upon a certain amount of fact.

But being sweet and lovely is kind of incongruent with being a depraved, horny, kinky slut-bag.

Hence my current dilemma. I’m a nice girl who wants some really nasty things, and who doesn’t want to say “please” anymore. Unless it’s in the context of saying: “Please, may I have another?”

This is not to say that to participate in the BDSM scene, you have to be a prick. Ironically, these so-called freaks and weirdos are actually some of the friendliest, most welcoming people you’ll ever meet. When I first stepped out of my shell and into the Sydney kink scene, it was with a sense of celebration. No longer did I have to hide my weirdness from the world – in these spaces it was valued and appreciated. Finally, I’d found ‘my people’; those to whom I could relate.

However, there are days when I don’t feel all that celebratory about my sexuality. It can be a right pain in the arse, and I wish I could just be a goddamned normal person. I feel like kink is a burden that makes the chances of me meeting a compatible partner astronomically difficult. Sure, in the scene I’m surrounded by people who share my taste in perversion, but I have other passions and interests that go beyond a desire to be tied up and violated. Sex, while an important part of any relationship, is not everything.

Lately I’ve been faced with the dilemma of needing to get my kinky rocks off, but being utterly exhausted by social situations. It’s strange – in order to fully relax, let go, and truly be the person I am, I must first make a bunch of chit chat and go through the motions of pretending to be a confident extrovert. As a representative of the Under 30s group, I feel it’s expected of me to be something of an ambassador –  to ‘network’ and make favourable impressions upon all the right people.  It has started to feel like work.

I’m just so sick of being nice all the time. Being submissive is supposed to be about being selfless, but it can also be a very selfish thing. I want to be tied up, I want to be punished, I want to be used. I find myself feeling guilty for ‘taking’ from others – even though I’ve allowed them their kink, too. These wilful, demanding ‘wants’ of mine don’t go together very well with being nice. The Creature doesn’t care about putting other people at ease, or asking how a person’s week was, or being intelligent and witty, or laughing at other people’s jokes. It just wants what it wants, and lately, it’s been running out of patience.

Cue: anxiety.

So I’ve been thinking of ways around this problem. Is there a way to separate the kink from the social?

Then I realised, of course there is. It’s called seeing a professional.

It’s funny that I’ve come all this way, to wind up right at the point where so many others begin their journeys. For a lot of my kinky male friends, their first BDSM experiences were of going to commercial dungeons and seeing pro-dommes. For some, the bulk of their kink happens with a professional mistress, and they go to public events simply to socialise.

After having been involved in the scene for years, that approach seems unusual to me, but then I have to remind myself that way-back-when, I once believed that the only way for a submissive female to get their rocks off was to be a porn star. It’s only because I started meeting people who were volunteering to dominate me that I stopped thinking that way.

Seeing a pro-domme doesn’t mean that it has to be strictly business. Just because you’re paying someone to have their way with you doesn’t mean you can’t also be friends. But… that’s not what I’m after. I want someone who doesn’t know me, who hasn’t met my ‘Nice Girl’ persona, who doesn’t care about whether I call them the next day. Because some of the things I want are really pretty fucked up – stuff I can’t even admit to my kinky friends. I don’t want those things to be associated with ‘me’ –  yet I want them all the same. They are things that I myself am not particularly happy about wanting. That hard edge where what you’re comfortable with slides into the grey area of what scares the crap out of you. The sweet spot.

A pro-domme could be exactly what I need to be able to live a ‘normal’ life. See, I could date a man who is not in any way kinky (but who is passionate and sexy – this is non-negotiable), and then go off to see a pro every month or so to get my dose of electro torture/latex/breath play/blood, pain, depravity, etc, and be completely content.

I mean, yeah, nothing in life is ever quite so neat as that, but still, I think it could be a workable solution.

There is just one small problem: money.

Darn.

Ah well. As soon as I sign that movie deal for my best-selling novel, I won’t have to worry anymore. Until then, I guess I’d better keep being nice to people.

Ever felt tired of being you?

I know, right. Strange concept. For we all love being ourselves, all the time, continually without ever taking a break, even though we’ve had our entire lives to trawl over the same sort of things we always think about, through dealing with the never-ending barrage of trivial concerns that come up in the course of an average day. (What will I eat for dinner tonight? In my fridge is a carrot, some cheese I’m too scared to look at because it’s been there a while, and half a litre of soy milk. Does that constitute a meal? / Gosh, it’s a bit chilly; I should have brought my jacket. But of course my favourite jacket is at the dry cleaners. Damn that incontinent cat! / Will that person I like ever call me back? I texted them on Tuesday, and then again on Wednesday, and they didn’t reply, but maybe they have run out of phone credit? Maybe they were involved in some sort of heinous accident that rendered them incapable of using their thumbs? Or maybe, just maybe, they were put off by that time I stalked them. But surely not – nothing says ‘I love you’ like a stalker… right? / I should probably do more sit-ups; I’m starting to look a bit chunky-monkey down there. But how many sit-ups is an adequate amount? My Wii Fit instructor said I had a ‘beautiful posture’, but is he really to be believed? Maybe he’s just buttering me up so I feel positively-inclined towards Nintendo, and thus decide to fork out the stupid amount of money needed to purchase the next edition of Rock Band??)

Oh ho ho. Who would ever want a break from such scintillating commentary? Well, call me crazy, but that kind of shit gets old, man. And so if someone gives me an opportunity to escape, well, I’ll take it.

Trouble is, there isn’t an off switch. It’s like… well, okay this is a long story, but it’s relevant, trust me. Right, so, when I was a kid, my grandparents lived in the country. Thus every summer, my psychopathically self-absorbed loving parents would drive me and my sister several hours to the country for a visit. I would barf in the car every single time, but that’s not the story I’m trying to tell. No, the real doozey was the time the cassette tape (c’mon kids, you remember those) melted a bit and got stuck in the player, so that mum couldn’t get it out. A drive out to country NSW is interminably boring, thus any music was better than none. Which is how we came to listen to Tracey Chapman’s Talkin’ ‘Bout a Revolution about forty million times, and mum’s favourite: Can’t We Talk it Over in Bed by That Dude in the Eighties. Well anyway, what I’m trying to get at here is that my head is much like an overheated Commodore with a dicky tape deck that refuses to let go of a cassette that was maybe okay the first time, but makes you want to hurl yourself out of the car after repeat listens; of which you have no control over; it just plays and plays and plays.

(Incidentally, it took me until I was about twenty-four years of age to realise that a request to ‘talk it over in bed’ is not quite as innocent as donning your flannelette PJs and tabling your arguments over mugs of warm milk. *Shudders at thought of how many arguments parents had, and how many of those were conciliated ‘in bed’.*)

Even though a bed is all some people need to chill out, unfortunately it’s not quite so simple for me. As previously mentioned on this blog, I tend to think a lot – especially a lot – during sex, of all things. Which is frustrating, because I pride myself on being a switched-on and considerate lover, but sometimes my goddamned head gets in the way.

But then, there’s kink.

Ah, now we’re talking!

Last week, I had the pleasure of being hogtied. It had been so long since I’d done anything kinky, I’d nearly forgotten why I like it so much. All this time I’ve been all cranky and depressed, and all this time I’ve been thinking: “I don’t need nuthin’ from no one.”

As I’ve also mentioned in this blog, there is a big difference between suffering artfully and just bloody suffering.

Last Wednesday, as the rope cinched tighter around my wrists and ankles, I started to float. My thoughts slowed down and became quieter. Any petty physical complaints I had disappeared. I stopped feeling self conscious about my body. The energy in the room altered; intensified.

Subspace can be described as calming and meditative. For me it’s both of these things but it’s also deeply sensual – my perception of the world shifts from my eyes to my skin. It’s like tapping into an undercurrent which is always there, but which is ordinarily obscured by sounds, sights and thoughts.

What I love about subspace is that I don’t need to try. It’s not up to me. See, normally, I’m a control freak who thinks that good things only come about as a consequence of putting a lot of effort in, and conversely, that bad things happen because if I don’t try hard enough. Submitting to another person’s will forces me to remember that I’m not responsible for every single thing, and that it is necessary to sometimes drop your defences and let yourself be held.

There was a moment on Wednesday when, after I’d been hogtied for about fifteen minutes or so, I started to feel physically uncomfortable. I had to hold my upper body up somewhat, and I was starting to get sore. Reality was seeping back in, and I was starting to feel like my ordinary, annoying self again. But just as I was on the verge of asking to be untied, I realised that it wasn’t about me. My will was largely irrelevant. The person who had tied me up now had control over my body, and it was my duty to endure whatever he wanted for as long as he wanted it.

And just like that, I swooned with pleasure and acceptance, and dropped so deeply back into subspace that I can’t even quite remember what happened after that.

Lost, swimming, weightless. Warm and dark and vast. At peace.

I closed my eyes and became perfectly still. He lay beside me and stared at my face. It was the most intimate and revealing place he could have looked, and it was almost too much to bear. To have someone look into me that closely, to really see.

Stripped, naked, and vulnerable; yet unharmed. Cared for. Cherished.

‘Freedom through bondage’ is by no means an original concept. But it’s the best way to describe it. For I was free – free from time, from the constraints of my physical body, from my mind, from the constant burden of having to be productive all the time; from everything except that which was pure and true.

Also, it was sexy. I think that deserves a mention.

It’s handy being a masochist. When life gives me lemons, I rub the juice into my wounds.

Yesterday I was talking to a friend, and we were discussing how people come to associate places with relationships. She told me that there are certain places in Sydney she can’t go anymore because they remind her of her ex. When she said that I realised that there are certain places in Sydney which have the same effect on me, but which I actually enjoy visiting because I’m sort of into morose self-induced sentimentality.

The same goes for music – there are some albums that will always, no matter how much time has passed, remind me of lost loves, misery, heartache. Which I absolutely love playing, precisely because they make me hurt.

(For the full effect, you can combine the two by putting on your favourite wrist-slashing anthems while driving through the suburbs and streets where your failed relationships took place. Fun, fun, fun!)

When faced with my demons, I clothe them and feed them.

But I’m no Shirley Manson, because I’m not only happy when it rains. I also happen to like pleasure. Love it, in fact. But like a cold blob of  ice-cream melting over a hot pancake, sometimes the beauty is in the contrast. Too much pleasure is monotonous, and too much pain is just maudlin. But splice that baby through the mix, and you’ve got yourself something so powerful, it’s addictive.

Sometimes the pursuit of pain is really the pursuit of pleasure, but in disguise. Orgasm denial, for example. The suffering caused by not being allowed to come is only really a way of making the orgasm, when you’re finally allowed to have it, that much better. (Sadly, even though orgasm denial is a concept that makes me waterlogged with lust, I’ve never properly explored this with a partner before. I mean, I’ve done stuff where my orgasm has been temporarily withheld, and I’ve even been ordered to go a weekend or so without coming, but the real, juicy mind-fuck of it has not been properly fleshed out yet. Which is a crying shame, but hey, there’s still time).

Suffering in itself can be pleasurable. There have been times when I’ve been caned, flogged or needled, where the pain sensation has flipped over into pleasure, or when it reaches a certain level of intensity where the concept of pleasure versus pain loses meaning. Then there is the pleasure that comes when something that is very painful stops, and you become flooded with gratitude and relief.

But suffering is not limited to that which is merely painful, particularly not where emotions are concerned. In the emotional realm, suffering can be defined as anything from boredom to frustration to agitation to fear to embarrassment. These are all things that most people try to avoid, and certainly, on a conscious level I do my best to steer clear of these kinds of feelings.

Yet there’s something in me that is drawn towards suffering, that likes it. There’s got to be – how else can I explain my lifelong attraction to men who are unavailable, strange, confusing, changeable?

It’s not all about the pain though, it’s the payoff. The jackpot. The hit.

There are days when I wish I could get my kicks through easier, more reliable means, like gambling, or heroin. In terms of a stupid bet, nothing tops love. Sorry to keep quoting pop lyrics at you, but as Amy Winehouse says, ‘love is a losing game’. (No wonder she turned to smoking crack – it’s less bloody trouble!)

What do you do when the one thing you really want is also the most elusive?

Well, I don’t know about you lot, but I went to the desert.

Sometimes when I’m feeling powerless, I like to take control into my own hands. So when the universe only seemed willing to give me loneliness and boredom, I decided to take myself to a place where I could continue to be lonely and bored, but on my own terms. The desert seemed as good a place as any – so I went to stay in an eco-hut 110 kilometres north of Broken Hill.

The minute I got there, the constant torment of having an outrageous libido and an unsatisfied heart was lifted. Because there was absolutely no way I was going to get laid or fall in love, (as I was staying on my own, in one of the most remote places in Australia), the pressure was taken off, and I was able to chill-the-fuck-out. It was wonderful, and exactly what I needed. I devoted my time to reading through my manuscript (which, to my surprise, was awesome), writing in my journal, aimlessly strolling around, staring at the sky, and trying not to think too much.

Funny the way that, by embracing all the things that were making me unhappy, I was able to find peace.

That said, six days into it I was ready to move on. I wanted to plunge back into my life, with all its frustrations and annoyances.

So here I am. Desert fresh. (Just quietly, I’m all for environmental conservation and all that, but when your solar-powered hot water generator stops working because of unseasonably cloudy weather, eco huts SUCK!)

I came back to find that Sydney had finally succumbed to spring. And I knew that this winter had just been a dark precursor to something full and sweet and beautiful.

If you’re playing with orgasm denial, part of the exquisite psychological torture is not knowing exactly when you’ll be allowed to come. Maybe tomorrow, maybe never.

The only thing I know for certain is that when it comes, it’s going to be explosive. Just how I like it.

So, I was watching Debbie Does Dallas with two of my friends the other night, as you do.

Friend 1: “Hey, let’s watch Debbie Does Dallas!”

Friend 2: “Hell yes! This won’t be at all weird!”

(Film is screened. Awkward silence descends. It is weird.)

Friend 1: “Ha ha ha. Ha. Isn’t this funny? Ha. How about I fast-forward to the end?”

After everyone nods dumbly, he skips through the highlights of the film, straight to the grand finale where Debbie does the guy who owns the sports store. (Bonus points to the dude who played that role, as it required running with an erection).

Now, due to the sheltered existence I’ve led, this was my first experience of seventies porn. And shamefully, I was shocked, as was Friend 2, by how disconcertingly real the actors looked. Specifically: in the shot where Debbie is on top, the viewer is treated to a close-up view of her anus, in its unbleached, un-waxed glory.

Holey moley, I thought. I have never seen an image of a woman with hair on her arse before.

That’s right, folks. Never.

Compared with what I’ve become used to in porn, where the women featured are more-or-less identical, I felt confronted by Debbie. Even though I know that the women in modern day porn aren’t ‘real’, I had still lost sight of what an actual woman looks like, to the point where it took a B-grade seventies skin flick to remind me.

And my overall feeling was not repulsion, but relief.

Now before we go any further, I’d just like to state for the record that I’m pro porn. I’m not saying that it doesn’t objectify women, but I am steadfast in my belief that sexual desire has nothing to do with political correctness. My favourite kind of porn is the kind where the woman gets tied up, tortured and humiliated. Beyond the fact I’m kinky and this kind of shit turns me on – I like it because the woman’s reactions are real. The set up is artificial, (as are the tits, in so many cases), but the tears, the screams, and the moans of forced pleasure are sincere.

Last week I was interviewed by a journalist who was conducting research for her Masters project; a thesis about young people and their attitudes to sex. It is her hope that this research will lead to “…a less sensationalised and more empathetic portrayal of young people and sex”, which is a cause I can totally get behind. To be honest, I wasn’t expecting any of her questions to surprise me or provide any further insight into my own sexuality, since sex is a topic I ponder pretty well constantly. For the most part, I reiterated the same rants I’ve been spouting for years: Australia is a largely conservative nation with very dated attitudes to sex; young people are given conflicting messages about sex; women are presented by the media as either angels or whores; we are a culture saturated in sexual messages and yet simultaneously coy about sex; most Australians are bollocks when it comes to talking about and communicating their sexual desires; many young Australians wouldn’t know what true sex appeal was if it came up and hit them over the head with a piece of two-by-four.

However, one of her questions forced me to revisit how I perceived sex during my high school days, which gave me this realisation:

The most damaging thing the media is doing to young people and their ideas about sex, is propagating the notion that ‘attractive’ people are the only ones having sex, and more to the point, ‘attractive’ people are the only people who are allowed to have sex.

That the concept of an ‘unattractive’ person having sex, or having any sexual desires of their own, is disgusting.

I know ‘the media’ is a uselessly vague term, so here’s where I level the barrel of this gun and point it in one direction:

Porn.

Question: when was the last time you saw a woman in porn with lopsided breasts? Have you ever seen a porn star with stretch marks, cellulite, or pimples? Can you name a woman in porn with hairy armpits? Dangly labia? Buck teeth??

These sorts of things are rarely shown, because they are gross, ugly, and unsexy.

Right?

How often do we really see people, regular people, at their less-than-best, particularly when it comes to nudity?

When I was in high school, I was repulsed by myself. I felt like I had the body of an overweight 13 year-old boy, because instead of curves, all I seemed to get was puppy fat. I had pale (in my eyes: pasty) skin, freckles, acne. I kept waiting to develop into a woman, to suddenly grow long limbs, and ‘actual’ hips and breasts.

I was ashamed of my body, which in turn made me ashamed for having sexual desires. How could a creature so hideous be brazen enough to want anything? Didn’t I know my place?

Women compare their looks to other women that are deemed desirable. Women see other faces and bodies every day. They also see boyfriends and husbands openly ogling other women, especially on the beaches during summer. This sends the message to women that they’re not desirable or attractive enough to their partners or potential dates.

On TV and in porn, you only ever see thin, flawless people engaging in sexual activities. The only time you see ‘fat’ or ‘funny looking’ people having sex, is in comedies.

Pornography plays into the false idea that to be sexually attractive to men, or good in bed, there are certain things women have to do, be, look like, act like or enjoy, whether or not we actually can, are, look like, act like or enjoy those things.

The more I think about this, the angrier I get. Because I wasted my entire adolescence despising my appearance, when the reality was I was in my physical prime. I told my friends, quite sincerely, that I would never let anyone see me naked, and that if I ever got married, it would have to be to a blind man. I really believed that I would never have sex and that I would never get married, because I was so hideous.

And in ways that have only begun to be measured, (porn) is coloring relationships, both long-and short-term, reshaping expectations about sex and body image and, most worrisome of all, threatening to alter how young people learn about sex.

In researching this piece, I stumbled across two remarkable websites:

The Shape of a Mother – a site dedicated to photos and stories of women who have had children, and the 007 Breast Gallery – the pictures and voices of women who want other women to know what normal breasts look like.

The pang of empathy I felt when looking through the Breast Gallery was sharp and profound. And in the space of about half an hour, I went from thinking my own breasts were aberrant, to feeling truly proud of them. Seriously, up until this afternoon, I always secretly wanted some sort of cosmetic surgery (not augmentation, because I think implants are abominable), to accepting my breasts as my own, and beautiful.

Breasts are an issue especially close to my heart, because not only are mine small, but earlier this year I was diagnosed with ‘breast mice’ in my left breast – non-cancerous fibrous growths. This means that my left breast is both bigger and a differently shaped to my right breast, and I am extremely self conscious about it.

An ex-boyfriend of mine once told me that my breasts were the weirdest he’d ever seen, and that my right breast was “basically non-existent”. To say that this was devastating for me is something of an understatement, and I went right back to feeling ashamed for having sexual desires, and ‘lucky’ to have a man who was willing to put up with my deformities.

This was the same gentleman responsible for this pearler: “For someone not very attractive, you get a lot of attractive guys.”

Experts say men who frequently view porn may develop unrealistic expectations of women’s appearance and behavior, have difficulty forming and sustaining relationships and feeling sexually satisfied.

Of course, ‘experts say’ is a ridiculously vague thing to say. Except I’ve lived that. I know exactly what they mean.

Is porn really to blame? And if so, what can be done?

Personally, I don’t think porn is the culprit, I think it’s the producers of porn who only hire actresses with certain body types. And it’s not men who are to blame – the demand is there for women who look different to the ‘usual’. If my week working in a sex shop taught me anything, it’s that men crave variety.

Also, more women are getting into porn, which means we’re going to be able to make some demands of our own.

And, as ever, I think the key to dismantling these body image monsters is to encourage more people to talk about it. To share their photos, their stories, their feelings.

Which is why I think the most eloquent way to end this post is with a photo of myself, taken not long ago (by the lovely Marauder), showing a woman who is far from disgusting, but who is still struggling to believe it:

Writing fiction is probably one of the most psychologically revealing activities you can do, with the exception perhaps of volunteering to be a participant in the Dr Phil Arena Spectacular. It’s like installing a plate-glass window in your bedroom, or a floodlight in your bathroom. Whatever you’ve got festering away in your subconscious invariably gets exposed for everyone to see. Is it any wonder that most writers are nervous wrecks?

Sex and death have been the prevailing thematic favourites in my writing. The novella I wrote for the HSC was about a woman who was ‘cursed’ with unreasonably good luck, which made her life bland, which made her become suicidal. (A ‘hilarious’ black comedy ensues, in which this woman keeps trying to kill herself, only to be saved by some miraculous fluke every time. *SPOILER ALERT* It ends with God telling her she’s an idiot, before sending her back to earth with heinous injuries and a long and painful recovery ahead of her).

As you can see, I was a tremendously happy teenager.

During my uni days, I tried my very hardest to steer my writing out of the gothy black hole it kept wanting to veer into. Which resulted in stories about schizophrenic sex addicts and outspoken promiscuous gay men.

But really, I was hiding.

The reason why the idea behind my novel (which is now sitting, meekly, on my hard drive, waiting for an edit), was so powerful, was because I decided to Man Up and write something straight from my pulsating, bleeding heart.

Ker thump. *splodge, splodge*

Which brings me to:

When you write, you notice patterns.

For me, I was actually a little surprised to realise that the word I kept using, again and again, was: “blood”.

And like, hey. I hate vampire fiction. Also, the reason why I became officially sick of Stephen King, was his insistence upon ending any book with torrents and torrents of blood (much in the same way that Shakespeare ends half his plays with everyone being slain). Both of which I put down to men being lazy.

Shakespeare: “God. How do I end this play? Oh, whatever, I’ll just do the mass carnage thing again. Those suckers just love this shit. I mean, this was supposed to be a comedy, but whatever. Tragedy it is!”

Stephen King: “God. How do I end this novel? Oh, whatever, I’ll just dump a whole heap of blood and guts over all the characters, who were actually kind of sophisticated up until this point but who cares, and then make the ending incongruently happy, because that means more sales in the American market. Win! Where’s my cocaine?”

If there’s a point, Mulder, please feel free to come to it.

Right, right, right.

Blood appears to be something of a fascination of mine. It comes up so frequently in my book that I’ve decided to put it in the title.

But it wasn’t until a friend of mine sent me this link that I actually started to think seriously about it. What does blood mean to me? Why the obsession? Why do I engage in activities that force it out of my body? What can I say about it that no one has said before?

I’m not really sure yet. But as a means of collecting my thoughts, here is a brief history of me and blood (specifically with reference to my sex life):

First off, I bleed a lot. Ten days at a time, easily. At nineteen, I had the depo provera contraceptive injection because I was told it would stop periods altogether. (HA HA HA). What it actually did was make me bleed for three months straight. Whatever reservations my boyfriend at the time might have had about that sort of thing, quickly got shoved asunder at the prospect of not having sex with me for ninety days.

Ever since then, I’ve stuck with the good old fashioned pill, and it works for me. That said, there are still seven days in the month where my uterus ejects a not-insubstantial amount of menstrual fluid. Anyone who’s been my lover for more than a few weeks will be able to testify: you’ll get bloody. Get over it man, and get in there!

Menstruation doesn’t have to be a shameful, dirty thing. Certainly, some of my all-time best sexual experiences have been defined by it. One of my favourites was the time Marauder wrote the word “slut” on my stomach in my own blood, and photographed it. Another was the time I came home late from work to discover he’d bought me a mechanised fucking machine. Well, I wasn’t going to let a little thing like being on the rag spoil my fun, and again, we have photographic evidence to prove it. (The photos from this night would probably get Marauder arrested on manslaughter charges. They are AMAZING).

Despite the fact I personally don’t have a problem with sex while Aunt Flo is in town (excess laundry aside), it’s something I only feel comfortable sharing with boyfriends. Apart from the obvious – blood is a potential carrier of diseases – it’s also a spiritual thing. There’s something about marking and being marked; something permanent.

I had one boyfriend who couldn’t stand the sight of blood – due to a childhood trauma. Which was something I couldn’t argue with… but I always felt… ashamed and unclean. So I suppose if I’m ever going to ‘settle down’ with anyone, ‘being okay with lots of blood’ would be a non-negotiable requirement.

The other times blood has made it into my sex, has been through kink.

During a scene, there’s something that changes the moment blood is drawn. Sometimes it’s unintentional – a caning that goes harder than expected. Other times blood is an unavoidable by-product of play – if you’re using needles, for instance.

Both are awesome, so awesome.

During a caning, if the skin breaks so that blood is drawn, it changes the dynamic from what might have been light, sensual, and fun, to Fucking Bloody Serious. It brings out the adrenaline-laced scent of battle – of glory, release. I know people who have been caned so hard that their blood splattered the walls, and I’m impressed, but have never journeyed that far myself. Don’t know if I ever will, but if I do, it will because someone who loved me wanted that blood out of my body, all over my skin, all over his/her skin; everywhere…!

The blood that comes as a result of a play-piercing session is always after-the-fact. It oozes during the aftermath, as the needles are removed. I suppose it does it for me because I’ve got a medical fetish, and I particularly love the smell of alcohol wipes. (Alcoholic, much?)

When I was an angsty adolescent, I used to cut neat lines in my leg with a Stanley knife. The object was not to kill myself, or not even really to hurt myself; oddly, it was about healing. I used to take great care in washing, sterilising and bandaging the cuts, so that they might heal as quickly as possible.

Tattoos are another passion of mine, particularly because the process of getting them is bloody. And again, the significance is ultimately in the healing. Going through an ordeal to emerge stronger, irrevocably changed.

My next kinky ambition is knife play that involves cutting. I’ve had sharp knives drawn across my skin before, but never to the point that blood was drawn. Now, something in me is craving it, and will not be satisfied until it happens. I’m finding it hard to explain why, other than I want to be opened and observed, and being cut is one of the most explicit and direct ways of achieving that. There is nothing more personal, more erotic than blood.

Also, it scares the shit out of me. Which is precisely why I want it so much.

Believe it or not, I’m actually a shy person.

Certainly, that might seem a bit rich coming from the girl once seen at a fetish party getting her vagina electrocuted while tied to a dentist’s chair. Or from someone who regularly took out the nudy award at any given Sexy Freaks event, and who was always first to put her hand up for a caning/bondage session/rubber sack experience/whatever.

If you don’t know me very well, you’re likely to think of me as that mad, exuberant, drunk person, clutching her fourth glass of cheap red, laughing, shrieking, talking, flirting; always up for a party.

And yeah, that’s who I am – some of the time. But it’s not who I always am, and it’s certainly not how I used to be, not at all.

These last three years have been massive. I went from being someone who found it hard to make new friends, had trouble making conversation with strangers, scared lovers away with my intensity and desperation, and had lingering troubles with insecurity and feelings of worthlessness. I was perpetually nervous and almost completely lacking in confidence.

Needless to say, parties were not my idea of a good time.

I’d like to think that my transformation from wallflower to social butterfly was brought about entirely by my own motivation, but the real reason why I started leaving my house frequently was due to a disturbed flatmate who was eating my food, using my computer, and cavorting naked in my room while I was out. It was during this period of my life that I started seeing Marauder, and it was then that she started to get all Single White Female on me – demanding to know who I was seeing, when I’d be home, and whether or not she should save any of her bizarre vegetarian cooking for me (the highlight of which was the dish made entirely out of couscous and onions).

I went from being a person who was once content to eat noodles in her pyjamas on a Friday night, to someone who would attend the opening of an envelope. Your neighbour’s cousin’s best friend’s bar mitzvah? Gosh, why didn’t you tell me sooner?  I’m THERE!

Marauder helped. An excitable Gemini, I fell in love with his fearlessness. As I fell into step with him, my life became a series of crazy adventures and schemes. By the end of 2007, I found myself in New York, shaking my booty with a bunch of drunk Santas in a jazz bar in Brooklyn, reaching out to him and letting him lead me places I never would have gone on my own.

2008 was something of a blur. Marauder and I started hosting our own fetish parties, the first of which was attended by the press (Michael Atkin from Triple J) and broadcast nationally. (How fucking cool is that?) It was at these parties that I really came out of my shell – and went further with public play than I’d ever imagined was possible.

I learned that pain is only a bad thing if you interpret it as such, and that I am a much stronger person than I give myself credit for. I also gained confidence in my appearance, and realised that 95% of sex appeal comes down to how you present yourself to the world; not the genes you’re born with.

I realised that people are drawn to those who are comfortable in themselves.

Simply: I stopped apologising to the world for my very existence.

All of this is awesome. And in the process of coming out of my shell, I’ve met so many interesting people and made so many amazing friends.

But now I find myself in a place where I’m questioning everything. I suppose it’s the depression speaking when I ask myself: what is the point of going out? What do I want out of public play? What am I trying to prove?

I feel like I’ve reached the limit of how far I’m willing to go in public. In the same way you tend to have deeper, better quality conversations when you’re alone with someone, the same goes for kink and sex. The more people in the room, the more self conscious I become. On top of that, I just feel tired. Summonsing the energy to behave like a socially-adjusted extrovert takes a lot out of me. Yes, it’s rewarding, but at what cost?

It takes a lot of bravery to open yourself up before a group of people. To bare not just your body but your all your emotional hiding places – the little pockets of grief and despair.

Now that I’ve been to more kink events than I’ve had hot dinners, I feel in need of a rest. I also feel like it’s threatening to become stagnant. When you do the same thing repeatedly, even if it’s something as imaginative and energetic as BDSM, the tendency is to become complacent.

This is not to say that I’ve ‘grown out’ of kink. Far, far from it. I mean, gods, this morning I jerked off with the black butt-plug I got in Japan, to thoughts of being dressed entirely in rubber, strung from the ceiling, teetering on thigh-high ballet boots, and electrocuted while having my breath restricted. Seriously. The less I give this thing, the more bizarre it becomes.

(When I went to see Dylan Moran, he did this bit about how we all have a Beast inside us, and the Beast only says one thing: ‘MORE’. He then goes on to explain that if you refuse, the Beast says: ‘GIVE ME WHAT I WANT OR I’LL MAKE YOU WEIRD.’)

My desire for more kink in my life is precisely the reason why I feel like it’s necessary to retreat. Because now I crave play that is more serious, more emotionally involved, and more sexual.

See, one of the reasons I’ve never been interested in the swingers’ scene, is because group sex is ridiculous. Add an audience to sex and it becomes a pantomime. Which is some people’s cup of tea, but not mine. I find it nearly impossible to let go sexually unless it’s private – I even find it hard to fully relax enough to come with partners the first few times I have sex with them. Which I think makes me, ah, normal.

Anyway, I’ve had some truly fantastic public play experiences over the last couple of years – but they’ve not been overtly sexual. They’ve been sex-y, sensual, arousing, but not orgasmic. (Except that one time with Marauder and needles – but that was private – which proves my point).

I *want* my kink, now, to be sexual.

Which means that I’m going to have to open my heart a bit, and let some people a bit closer to me. You know, put something of myself out there where it can be potentially stolen, lost, or hurt.

*Ack*

I don’t know if I’m ready. I’m in a bit of a strange place – caught between the past and the future, wrestling with some old demons which have chosen this moment in time to resurface. I’m still fending depression off with a stick, holding on until it passes.

Kink can be used for healing. I know that. And I know people who would be willing to help me out.

I need to surrender and admit that I can’t do everything on my own, and admit that yes, sometimes I need people. As does everyone.

It’s hard for me, though. Damn hard.

I’m sorry. I know that for many thousands of people, some of them kinky, the internet is a legitimate source of soulmates. But for me, it has only ever been a source of pain. (The shit kind).

Aw, c’mon, you say. Can’t have been that bad.

Yeah, well. You know that thing you say to yourself when someone hasn’t responded to an email? When your mind starts to turn over possibilities as to why they seem to have lost interest in your flirtatious banter? The point at which ‘maybe they died’ comes up, and you chastise yourself for being such a freaking egomaniac?

Well, turns out, in this particular instance, the person I’d been chatting to over the internet did actually die.

So, I’m a bit burned. But hey, I’m not saying it couldn’t work for you. Just make sure that the person you’re chatting to didn’t used to be a heroin addict, and if they were, tell them to go easy on the drinking, k?

True story.

Anyway, when I joined Fetlife, it was only ever with the intention of keeping in touch with people I actually knew in real life. (Fetlife, for the uninitiated, is the fetish equivalent of Facebook. I can’t say I dig the name, but as far as kinky social networking goes, it’s pretty awesome).

Now that we’ve got Under 30s up and running on Fetlife, I’ve been enjoying it even more.

But, as tends to happen when sex and technology collide, you get your usual share of idiots.

My profile states very clearly:

I am looking for friendship, and I do not chat online.

However, I don’t know why I bothered to stipulate these things, when the only pieces of information sleazy randoms appear to be reading are ‘submissive’ and ‘single’.

Ger.

On about a weekly basis, I get a new message from someone desperate, saying something predictable, stupid, or both.

I’ve been around long enough to be able to separate these losers into categories. First cab off the rank:

• The Dude Using a Cock Shot as a Profile Pic

Okay, I don’t care if you have the literary prowess of Hunter S. Thompson, if your profile picture is a blurry snapshot of your erect member, I will instantly delete your message. Seriously guys. Seriously. When, in the history of the internet, has a woman EVER been wooed by a picture of a wang? What is WITH guys and photographing their own genitals?! And then feeling the pressing need to SHARE it with everyone? Sharing is NOT caring! BLERGH!

It’s gross. So very gross. Lose even more points (plunging your score into negative infinity) if the cock is pictured ejaculating.

• The Dude Generously Offering to Make You His Lifelong Slave

This gets my goat even more than the cock shots, and that’s saying a lot. You wouldn’t believe the amount of messages I’ve received from dominant males listing all the qualities I should possess to be worthy of being their slave. This one, for example:

From time to time I require, need a woman to give over to me possession (sic), control of her body (ohh and most certainly her mind S) to enjoy, to direct, to ……use. I seek a woman who at a predetermined time, for a set duration and with prescribed limits, will do what I tell her, when I tell her, where I tell her (and with what S). I want a woman who will do ……..things to herself while I…… direct her.

Sounds like… he wants a woman who will… masturbate a lot… with random objects… when told.

(The ‘S’ is for ‘Sucks’).

Dude, I’m not on Fetlife so I can be instructed to masturbate, all right? Believe it or not but I’ve got that one taken care of, and all under my own direction!

Bur.

A dominant asking a submissive to be their slave on Fetlife is the equivalent of a man asking a woman to marry him on RSVP. Like suggesting to a person that you have sex based on the observation that you’ve got a compatible set of genitals.

The thing that REALLY annoys me is that I’m willing to bet that this sort of pitch is probably often successful. Because there was a time in my life where I didn’t value my sexuality at all, and was willing to throw my submission at any old dom who so much as scratched his hairy paunch in my direction. I just couldn’t believe that anyone would be willing to take the time and effort to hit me with things, and as such I always felt unduly indebted to anyone who did.

Well, those days are gone.

• The Dude Looking for a Webcam Playmate

First of all, for me, all the power and beauty of BDSM transpires in the energy exchange between two people. Which generally necessitates both people being in the same room.

I know that it probably makes me a luddite to say that no form of communication can beat a real, physical exchange, but seriously, I just don’t get the whole webcam or phone sex thing. What’s the freaking point? As mentioned, I don’t need encouragement to masturbate. I’m doing just fine with that, thank you.

Secondly, it has occurred to me that the guys who are looking for webcam playmates are probably MARRIED, and looking to get off with some stranger on the internet while the missus isn’t around. Which really isn’t my gig.

• The Dude Who Cannot Construct a Decipherable Sentence

These messages are usually entitled “hey…” and the body of the message usually contains one failed attempt at a sentence.

can we talk?

No, we cannot talk, due to the fact you cannot speak English properly.

U have MSN

Despite your confident assertion that I have MSN, (presuming of course that ‘U’ means ‘you’), I do not. Any other wild guesses you’d like to make about the software I’ve got installed?

hey how r u?

In answer to your question, I’m bursting with energy, unlike yourself, who appears to find the task of hitting the ‘a’, ‘e’, ‘y’ and ‘o’ keys altogether too taxing. I’m not quite sure why you’re sending me a message, since you should clearly be at the doctor’s office, getting that chronic fatigue thing you’ve got going there seen to.

Don’t even get me started on those who end their every sentence with ‘LOL’.

• The Dude With Nothing on his Profile

No picture, no information about himself, no interests – and yet clearly we have SO much in common.

Look, we all suffer from the lazies at one point or another, but if you want to speak to me, at least put in SOME effort to write a sentence or two about yourself and upload a goddamned photo. (Note: A photo of your cock doesn’t count.)

• The Older, Married, Submissive Wife who has been Instructed to Recruit Another Sub

There’s this thing that happens where submissive wives get ‘encouraged’ by their dominant husbands to explore their bisexual, switch sides. (Which is usually just a way for the dude to con his wife into having a threesome – while sneakily tricking her into thinking it was her idea, and that it’s all about her own desires, not his).

Having been in a D/s relationship where my master kept telling me I was bisexual (and then guilting me into having threesomes to prove my love for him), I am particularly cynical about this kind of thing.

It’s especially yucky if the couple is a good twenty years older than I am.

So, no.

*****

From now on, in answer to any poorly-worded romantic query via Fetlife, I will provide the sage words of Jack White (from the end of a very rocking album called Get Behind Me Satan):

I’m lonely (but I ain’t that lonely yet).