Here’s a little warning for family and friends of mine who want to stay in the dark about my sexlife: you don’t want to read this one. Really.
So about a year ago this time of year I began what I’ve come to term Slutfest 2004. Most essentially, I gave myself the blank cheque to experience whatever I wanted sexually. I even made a list, whose items included the following: sex with a chick; threesome, girl/boy/girl; threesome, boy/girl/boy; anonymous sex; finding a Dom and serious D/s play.
Some of these things I’d done previously; others I had not. Whatever the case, I went into the summer with the decision that I wanted to try sex acts I hadn’t, sex acts I had, and sex acts I’d been fantasizing about, whether actually experienced or only imagined. I also went into the whole thing knowing that I’d make mistakes, that I would have moments of feeling badly interspersing my moments of feeling good, and that I accepted the risks of feeling like crap.
I won't tell you about the whole summer’s roster of activities.Yet. It would be a very long blog, and it would, metaphorically, shoot my wad for those times when I want to blog about those moments individually. You’ll just have to wait patiently for me to dole these sluttish moments out like candy into your warm, grubby hands.
It should be worth it.
One of the things on my list I was most interested in was finding a Dom.
I had exited my relationship with Tyler with the realization that I enjoyed being bound and blindfolded, fucked hard, told what and what not to do. Intellectually, I found that I enjoyed the intrinsic paradox of dominance and submission: the dyadic play between pleasure and pain, boundary and freedom, power and vulnerability, masculinity and femininity—you know, just to sound like the freakin’ egghead I am.
Emotionally, I liked the apparent simplicity of it. Rules were voiced and agreed upon. Roles were assumed with seduction and fornication aforethought. Play was organized in a narrative manner. And emotions were limned by the above agreements. It all felt very clean, very pure, very intelligible, and given how spun I was at the moment by all that I thought I had a clue about in relationships, and how I realized I was totally clue-free, this intelligibility was extremely appealing.
Physically, I found a kind of freedom in D/s play. Being submissive, I got to be the wanton slut I wanted to be. This whorish behavior was not merely cool, it was expected. I had to be a slut. I felt as if giving myself as a submissive to a man who was my Dom in turn gave me a huge pile of OK to enjoy myself, and this all felt really good.
Plus I'd read The Story of O at a really impressionable age and it had made, uh, an impression.
I mean, here’s the naked ass truth: it’s tough to be a girl and enjoy sex. I found myself chastised for my enjoyment. And you would think that being a stripper would make me enjoy sex more. Nope. In fact, the opposite outcome occurred: I enjoyed it less. Probably because I had to ransom that libidinal part of me to keep a roof over my head, put food on my table and lattes in my cup. So I spent a fair amount of time while stripping--and after--denying my desires.
Hence Slutfest 2004. I should have made a t-shirt.
So yeah, a Dom. I thought this would be relatively easy to accomplish; I was wrong. I found in my summer’s meanderings a lot of men calling themselves Master who were just really bad in bed who masked their selfish ineptitude in the clumsy guise of presumed dominance.
They wore their dominance like a cheap, pilling suit. And it didn't even fool me, an abject and willingly supplicant novice.
Because the thing is, to be a really good Dom, I mean a really good Dom, you have to have the passion for the mindfuck. You have to know that the best submission comes from the head, not the pussy, and that means you need to know your sub well enough to know what makes her go all gooshy.
At the beginning of the summer I found two men who seemed to get the importance of mental lubrication. And I had some hot hot phone domming. The first one, Whitey, was a tiny overly well-groomed man with a tremendous number of Asian friends. He had me do a number of fun daytime activities like spend the day naked in my apartment but for a makeshift collar of white rope and high heels.
Because I’d spent the day mostly bare assed naked, it made me all tingly to walk around dressed, aware of my clothes. And let me tell you, I’m hell in a collar and heels. Whitey had me write him fantasies, meet him in a sexy dress and deliver a pair of panties to him that I had masturbated in a requisite number of times, that sort of thing.
And it was fun. It was all fun. It was a heady delicious fantasy and it made me feel very alive, electric, and totally, constantly, consistently aware that I had a pussy. And that it was wet.
Ultimately, though, there was no pay-off. Whitey wouldn’tcouldn’t meet me to have full girl on boy flank spanking fun.
So I started two-timing him with another Dom.
I never did get those panties back.
Dom #2, MenudoMan, had improbably hot pictures. I mean, this man was fucking jaw-droppingly beautiful. If these were indeed his photos—did I not mention this fun was brought to me by the letter D, the letter s and an unnamed online service with a sleaze corner? Oh, yeah. It’s digital, baby, and it’s hot streaming running boy/girl girl/girl boy/boy/girl/boy/girl action.
So MenudoMan was gorgeous. He was smart, funny, cultured. And he did good mindfuck. While Whitey was a bit too young, and, I think, perhaps a bit too gay for me, MenudoMan seemed like a big masculine popsicle I was ready to unwrap and suck.
He, this #2 Dom, spoke to me for hours on the phone, finding out what I thought about this and that, and only then he’d idly, leisurely, nonchalantly turn the conversation to my submission. As if over a civilized dinner I found a hand subtly winding its way up my short skirt to diddle my pantiless pussy.
He had me masturbate for an hour with my fingers but also with a buttplug in place, directing me not to come for that hour. Masturbating for an hour is dull as fuck. You really have to work hard to not let your mind wander. I found myself drifting off and then coming back, coming close to coming, and then having to back off from that orgasm again and again and again.
Finally, the phone rang.
“Did you come?” he asked.
No, I told him breathlessly.
“Good girl.” He said. “Come for me now.”
O god. Richter scale orgasm.
MenudoMan was good. And I never met him either. He always blew me off at the last moment, and between him and the ghosty Whitey, I was ready to burst.
After he blows me off the second time, I give up on MenudoMan. Take him off my AIM friends list. About a month after the last time we were to get together, he IMs me and we have a conversation, which leads to another and another and another supposed meeting.
One evening I see him online, and I IM him.
“Who is this?” the cursor blinks.
Chelsea. Duh, you dork, I write.
“How do you know him?” it asks.
Turns out MenudoMan is engaged. I tell Mrs. Menudo-to-be that I’ve never met the man, that we’d had an online relationship, that there was nothing else to it.
She tells me that he has a small dick. Whatevs. I have no interest in any other woman’s man, and mostly I felt badly for her. Betrayal sucks crack, and not in a good way.
These men were not who they said they were, and ultimately neither of them really upheld the promise that they had extended me. But it doesn’t really matter, actually, because I learned much from the experiences I had with them. And they gave me pleasure. They probably gave me more pleasure in absentia than they would have had we pressed our sweaty flesh and fucked.
They made me a virtual slut, And it was good.
But not good enough.