Leavin’ this here for Penthouse. Because it’ll make him a happy camper.

So… I think that both Ivy and Penthouse are on my list of kink role models now.

thinkivykink:

Chained, Part Three

link

Followers,

I passed an absurd milestone while I was away visiting Penthouse and I just cannot even.

You’re all so wonderful.

For the new influx: Come say hi. It’s hard to keep track and sometimes I’m a bit late on the uptake on the cool stuff you’re doing.

For the ones who’ve stuck around: I sincerely appreciate that you all seem to think I have something worth saying.

<3, Ivy

predictably-plain:

Yup.

snarkysub:

390nm:

That feel when your favorite tumblette (is that the term? idk) likes a photo you posted:

I am ridiculous.

Same.

And then shit like this happens and I start blushing like a moron.

Also, thank you to blushingviolet for the incredibly encouraging response to my little rant last night. You all are so invaluable.

snarkysub:

390nm:

Ultraviolet Tells All, Except for the Things He Doesn’t

I started this blog because I am bad at kink. I am bad at accepting my desires. I am bad at articulating my desires. I am bad at listening and truly comprehending exactly what people are saying. I am also a naively trusting individual in a lot of ways, which has caused me a lot of problems. Basically, I’m pre-“self respect” Scott Pilgrim, but without the awesome video game fight sequences and Mary Elizabeth Winstead. I don’t even get Brie Larson as a consolation prize.

I wish I could press a button and have it make it so I’m cool with my identity, my desires, all that crap, but that button just doesn’t exist. And even on this mostly anonymous blog, I’m still self-censoring a lot of my kinks. Some of them I haven’t shared with any partner of mine, ever, and despite the fact that only one follower (I hope) even knows what state I’m in, and none of them know me IRL AFAIK, I haven’t said anything on here that past partners haven’t already known.

Goddamnit, Ivy, you make it look so easy.

Also same.

“Goddammit, Ivy, you make it look so easy.”

Except it’s not. I’m sorry to break it to you. It’s not easy. I guess I just fake it until it looks that way.

I was talking to Penthouse when this came across my dash and I told him about it. “You’re a hero,” he said.

“I’m a fumbling one,” I replied.

And so he clarified: “Not the hero Gotham dreams of. But the hero it needs. You’re the Batman, Poison Ivy. Not bad.”

In all seriousness, it’s not easy. I fumble all the time. I say the wrong thing or stuff gets awkward. There’s an example of it, a series of posts, chilling in my queue right now that will shed some light on that. Because I’m not some Kink Goddess. I’m figuring out stuff as I go along and I make a lot of mistakes. Sometimes I don’t articulate what I want and sometimes I don’t give myself the things I deserve.

I started this blog out of my own weakness and shame about the things I liked and the things I wanted. I never thought people would start asking me for advice or holding me up as some standard of kink-positivity. And while I am immensely flattered, I do need to clarify that I’m not always good at accepting my desires, I can be incredibly naive and trusting, and I’m not always 100% on self respect.

As I’m finishing up this post, Penthouse has texted me once more, adding that I should “go pose on top of a skyscraper at dusk. The city deserves to not see its hero in person.” So, uh, sorry for just getting super vulnerable there and doing exactly that.

But, I suppose I’d like to leave it at this: things are never going to be perfect, but there are going to be those moments where everything falls exactly where it should. And these are the moments to be treasured.

Rock on with your bad selves, kink like nobody’s business, and stay classy.

<3, Ivy

So, I actually have the sweetest followers.

I’ve been getting some really sweet feedback from all of you lately.

The always sexy and super squirmy-inducing whyexactly made a very sweet post in response to my story about getting ballgagged for the first time.

And the incredibly intelligent church-mouth really sweetly reblogged my whining about that guy from my frat with a command to follow me.

I so, so appreciate how kind and supportive all of you are. And your comments today were the absolute sweetest.

<3,

Ivy

Shucks, you guys.

Life may not be that simple, but I’ve been getting a lot of love for my fear lately.

Since being discovered by a classmate and making that post about Shame, I have received some really lovely messages from some really wonderful followers about my feelings, their feelings, and how they intersect. Moreover, I’ve gotten so much love and support that my heart is literally bursting. The kindness of strangers is unfathomable. But, then again, I suppose we’re not strangers.

I’ve been talking to my anonymous classmate and he’s actually a pretty chill person. I felt bad, he felt awful after I made that Shame post. It wasn’t directed at him, but I suppose he was concerned about the whole can of worms that got opened up.

This blog will not be shut down. Identity crises come and go, but the fact is this is the only journal I’ve ever been able to commit to, I’ve come into contact with so many beautiful and fascinating people through it, and I do not want to cut this outlet from my life. Because good ol’ Donnie Darko is right. Life isn’t that simple. I can’t let the fear overwhelm me and I can’t let the love make me cocky. I have to live within the entire spectrum of human experience.

So, thank you, followers, for your love, support and empathy as I process the shame and all the yucky stuff. You are the best readers a gal could ask for.

Shame

I didn’t like Shame when I saw it. To be honest, I didn’t really give it a fighting chance. I got together with friends and watched it with a ton of booze and we drank every time someone did something creepy and sexual. We couldn’t get the volume up high enough, we got wasted pretty fast and we just started making fun of all of it.

But, damn, the title was perfect for a movie of that nature. I don’t think I’m a sex addict, but I certainly have a lot of sexual secrets I carry around. And the dominant emotion surrounding them since I started becoming sexual is shame.

I felt shame when I was discovered by another student from Ivy University the other day. While he was totally friendly and promised to keep my secret safe, I still feel a little sick when I think about it. Part of me wishes he hadn’t contacted me, but part of me is sort of glad he did because it brought the issue of discovery to my attention. Because it could have been a lot worse.

I told my therapist about my blog tonight. Her face kind of dropped and when I pointed it out, she smiled and replied, “no, I’m not judging you. I’m just concerned. You know this is very dangerous.” The issues, she says, that I need to deal with here are whether or not I’m comfortable with being identified with the blog and why I actually have it in the first place.

Why is a matter of catharsis and exhibitionism. That’s easy. The first question is the harder one. And a lot of it is rooted in shame. The fact is that I’m ashamed of myself and the things I’m into. I’m ashamed of some of the things I’ve mentioned on here. While writing here has made me feel less ashamed behind the veil of anonymity, being associated with this writing would only make me even more ashamed.

There’s a part in Shame where Sassy Fassy is at his computer and his obviously named sister Sissy comes over and opens it. Maybe the sequence of events here is wrong, she may have opened it herself, but either way she sees just this stream of unavoidable porn and Michael Fassbender literally freaks out. He’s not angry about her finding the porn, I don’t think, so much as he is humiliated that he’s there, that is secret life has been accessed. It’s the reason why the movie is called Shame, in my now-sober opinion. While he’s completely unashamed at telling some guy that he’s ready to fuck the guy’s girlfriend, he’s ashamed of his sexual secrets only when those close to him find them.

When I told my therapist how many people followed this blog, her eyes widened. I realize I’m totally unashamed to tell hundreds of random strangers about my sex life and proclivities. I don’t even think twice about it because I guess I’m just anonymous, like Michael Fassbender’s character in the bar when he told someone he was going to fuck their girlfriend. He was, to that guy, a nobody. Here, on tumblr, I like to pretend I’m pretty much no one. I get messages from people, even couples, saying that they read my blog, that they relate to me, that this and that. And it’s strange to me because I feel like a stranger, so I feel unashamed.

To have someone pull part of my real self into this tumblr brought out a ton of my shame. Because I’m not just no one anymore. And I don’t want to have to be associated with this tumblr because, yeah, unfortunately, I am still ashamed of my sexuality. I don’t know how it would honestly get in the way of my life goals, but I don’t want my family finding out or acquaintances or anybody else. On the ride home from therapy, I considered what it would mean to be the person who was unashamed of all of my kinks. I’ve never been into munches or fetish clubs or public displays of kinkiness, but I tried to consider myself as one of those public sexperts or whatever.

And, honestly, I couldn’t. I’m not ready to be that person. So, as this blog nears a thousand followers, I’m debating what that really means. I used statcounter and was alarmed by the amount of hits this place gets a day. While it’s a great stroke to the ego, it’s also pretty terrifying. I don’t want to be outed, I don’t want to be discovered, I don’t want to be Think Ivy Kink aside from on this blog.

I’ve just got a lot of thinking to do. I know I don’t want to take this blog down, but, gosh, tumblr’s too small of a world. Discovery is terrifying. Shame is crippling.

Well, it happened.

I received an ask yesterday from somebody from Ivy University. Who identified that I, too, was from Ivy University.

I read the email about it while on break and just about had a panic attack. I felt nauseous. I used the email in the ask to send the person a message and the whole time wondered if I would have to close up shop.

I have always, always been worried about this tumblr being discovered. Being the worrier I am, I assumed this person might be one of my friends, or – much worse – one of the people I mention on my tumblr.

Fortunately, after some correspondence, we have concluded that we don’t run in the same social circles at all, aren’t in the same year and most likely don’t know each other. Which is, yeah, sort of a relief. Naturally, I’m still a reasonable amount concerned about things. And, it’s a little strange to bridge the gap between tumblr persona and real life self. While we don’t know each other’s names, it’s still odd.

Bottom line: Ivy thought her greatest fear of being discovered had been realized and had a panic attack, but things aren’t so bad after all.

The issue with my future roommate has nothing to do with Switch. He and I are not in a relationship, we are not monogamous. Last night was actually basically my last night with him before he departs for the real world for his grown up job.

The problem is in the fact that I will be living with her and that there is this sexual tension there.

So, yes, nothing to do with Switch. He’s not my boyfriend.