a story with no purpose

A Story with No Purpose, Part V

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“So what are we doing?” he asks. It’s the last day of the con. Breakfast is thinning out when he plops down across from me with his legal pad.

“Huh?” I stare stupidly.

With mild impatience: “We’re teaching a class in an hour. We should talk about what we’re doing.” Ah, right. That. I’m bottoming for his class. I’d assisted for this one before, but he wanted to quickly discuss which trance techniques he’d be demonstrating.

While I watch, he clicks the lead into his mechanical pencil and writes something on the pad. I focus on the place where pencil meets paper. My breathing shifts. I lick my lips slightly.

He notices. Hypnotists always notice. Thinking for a beat, then rolling his eyes, “Ah, this is feeding your weird experimentation thing.“ Ah. Right.

We move on, finishing our negotiations, but my wetness lingers. The legal pad, the pencil, the notes, the wide expanse of table between us, his dismissive tone, my unshakable sense of smallness. Eureka.

A Story with No Purpose, Part IV

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She walked into the room we’d be sharing and exclaimed, “Thank God, another woman of color.” My feeling of lightness was instantaneous: the feeling of sinking into a warm bath.

I hadn’t interacted with a brown person since exchanging hair compliments with a black man at the airport. It had been twenty-four hours of rooms filled with white people. That morning, as a stopgap, I’d danced outside alone to Angel Haze, on repeat, feeling desperate.

We would have several conversations about marginalization during the white-filled, kink-fueled weekend, each heavier than the last.

Heavy can be good. Heavy keeps you grounded.

A Story with No Purpose, Part III

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When he approaches me, I am already spacey and sad. I’m watching to make sure my friend doesn’t get kidnapped from the play party. It’s her first public scene, and we’ve decided it’s best she be tied up and beaten to tears with a coal shovel where I can see her. For safety’s sake.

The first time he approached, I made eye contact. He wants me to top him, and I turn him down in the regretful tones that women use to avoid being murdered. Ever helpful, he offers to come by again later.

Later arrives, and I don’t even look up from her scene to reject him. He lingers, making conversation with himself. “Black pussy tastes so much better than white pussy,” he says, as though it’s a compliment. He leaves shortly afterward. He does not give his comment a second thought.

I will think about this exchange every time I consider topping.

A Story with No Purpose, Part II

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Last week, I attend a workshop. I’m acquainted with the volunteer who is signing me in: a bit of a brat, enjoys villain play and chocolate, orgasms adorably. None of these details hold any relevance, but the intimacies exist.

I doubt they know my name. And at the moment, they need my membership card.

Before I can provide it, three people hug me from behind. We’re acquainted. Each has used their cock on me in the past, and even now–long after–they’re smiling at me. It’s been a pleasure. We exchange greetings, promptly followed by rushed negotiations. It’s been a pleasure.

I am wearing too much lipstick. It is the best lipstick I have ever done. Later, I kiss it off in front of everyone in attendance. A pleasure.

A Story with No Purpose, Part I

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I went to my first kink event over two years ago: an introductory flogging workshop. I went with a close friend. Each flogger was described and passed around the room. As we held them, testing the sensations against our own thighs and arms, we repeatedly made eye contact.

Yes, I said wordlessly. I have not been pretending.
This is me.