Month: August 2011

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So, I think I encountered a sadist in a real-world situation. It was interesting.

I got a wax today. It’s all gone and I literally cannot stop looking at it and touching it. Because I’m far too easy to please. And it’s so damn smooth.

Usually, I keep to a routine of every six weeks, but my recent two months abroad threw it off. For those of you who don’t know, if you don’t wax for a while, the hair comes in thick and it hurts much more than usual to have it waxed. 

I’ve had a sneaking suspicion for a while now that my esthetician had a sadistic streak. Not for the stereotypical “oh she rips off waxy paper from my vagina” reason. But more for her demeanor while she carries it out and the little comments she makes. This theory may have been confirmed today after the following exchange:

Her: I’m pacing myself. I’m trying not to torture you.

Me: Thanks.

Her: Because, you know, if I wanted to torture you, I’d just use a bigger strip and pull slowly. 

And then there was this happy little distant smile that was gone as soon as it came. 

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Mmmm, chocolate.

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“Maybe the first time you saw her you were ten. She was standing in the sun scratching her legs. Or tracing letters in the dirt with a stick. Her hair was being pulled. Or she was pulling someone’s hair. And a part of you was drawn to her, and a part of you resisted—wanting to ride off on your bicycle, kick a stone, remain uncomplicated. In the same breath you felt the strength of a man, and a self-pity that made you feel small and hurt. Part of you thought: Please don’t look at me. If you don’t, I can still turn away. And part of you thought: Look at me,“ Nicole Krauss, The History of Love

thrushbone:

by Anatoly Toor

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By pure coincidence, my tumblr girlfriend, Dacry, and I experienced the same sexual first the other night. We spent some time discussing the finer details of it, giggling over its drawbacks, and appreciating the fact that, without consulting each other, we’d both happened upon the same thing.

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I’m almost ashamed to admit that I have a “taken advantage of by hicks” fantasy. Almost.

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It’s this sort of tenderness amidst the violence. The calm in the eye of the storm. The sudden closeness from the cold distance. The unity in the hierarchy. That’s why I keep at this crazy game I play.

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There is passion in restraint. The kind that could keep me away from a bed and the same that could bind me to it. Though I’m not sure I’m going play with much more than words.

And so the plot thickens.

Ask me anything. Tell me anything.

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Because, well, I don’t know. I’ve got an awkward lull between plans and yeah. There’s a bunch of you who’ve started to follow me and I can’t keep up any other way.

Also, my gmail has decided to stop receiving emails from tumblr, so getting to know you has just gotten even harder.

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Poor baby. It must be so hard to pretend you’re not liking every second of it.

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I absolutely love breathplay. I love that swimmy little headspace you get into when your head starts to get light and things just border on a bit dangerous. I love the risk involved. I love the surrender. 

But, I feel terrible for my partners sometimes. It’s a terribly risky game to play and I see them trying to maintain some sort of happy medium between going too light and going too hard. I don’t mean in any way that they’ve wanted to strangle the living shit out of me, but it is hard to curb it once you really get started and it’s also very difficult to push yourself further without worrying about the police report.