Using words like grownups

It's sometimes surprising to me how much the cliche of "communication" in a relationship really is true, and really is  helpful.

Case in point:  Wednesday night, Jay and I were up until 4 in the morning (FOUR IN THE MORNING.  ON A WORK NIGHT) communicating.  On various levels.

It started out with a discussion of what we'd done recently that we'd liked, what hadn't worked so well, and so on.  Then it moved on to things we thought we'd like to do more of, things we liked but found scary, things we fantasized about, things we're pretty sure we'd like to do but maybe are better left as fantasies, etc.  Basically updating our kink checklists, without the formality of a written checklist, and checking in on where our relationship is.

It was pretty fucking hot.  I am continually reminded that I am extremely lucky to be married to a man with whom I am a matched fucking set.  And I do mean fucking in both senses it could be taken there.  Our kinks don't exactly overlap, but if there were a venn diagram of our kinks it would look pretty similar to this one:


see more Funny Graphs

(oh graphjam, I <3 u)

So again, pretty lucky.  We compliment each other fairly well.  But even with that, I like having these discussions.  One, kinks change and evolve as people change and evolve.  Two, even after ten years, there is still no way that I know everything about Jay, and vice versa.  There is always more to explore.  Three, it's a hell of a lot easier to please each other when we are clear on what the other wants.  Four, even if it's something the other isn't necessarily interested in, it's good to know that, and I find that for me, bringing it up in this context is a good way to get me thinking about it and possibly engaging in it.

Then after being up until 3 talking about kink and sex and kinky sex, naturally we were both just a bit turned on and had to engage in some.  I wound up on my knees at the side of the bed giving Jay a blowjob, with his hands in my hair, whereupon he gave me a choice.  I could finish the blowjob until he came, and we could go to sleep, or I could get back in bed, masturbate until I came, and at such time as I did come, he would then fuck me.  I tend to get extremely sensitive after orgasm (as in, don't even fucking touch me), so this was not the pure treat it sounded like.

I opted for door number two anyway.

It was a lot loud, and a lot intense - both for the circumstances as well as for the actual act - and we both passed the hell out shortly afterwards.  Work on Thursday bit, but whatever.

This whole communication thing really has done nothing but improve our relationship.  And not just in the form of better, more frequent, or more intense sex, which are all true.  It's given us a lot of intagibles as well.  We trust each other.  A lot.  We know each other well.  And honestly, having had the discussion, I'm a lot less stressed, and just generally feel closer to him.  Not that I didn't feel close before, but, you know.

So yeah, cliche, maybe, but damn are we fans of this whole "communication" thing.

Once again beaten

The intersection of feminism and kink has come up a lot this past week in the blogosphere - at least the parts I frequent - and naturally, someone has already posted and included a lot of the thoughts I have.

Not all of them, but a lot of them.

Anyway, I highly recommend that y'all read this over at Sugarbutch.

Things that bother me, version 6742

1. People who don't pay attention. Seriously. Unfortunately, I work with a lot of people who don't pay attention. Most often, it takes the form of asking me the same question multiple times. This is especially annoying when, before you could even ask the question, I sent you an email with documentation which, should you choose to read it and retain some information, will answer your question. I mean, I understand people forget. Hell, I do it all the time. But forget one week after I sent you that email? Pay. the fuck. attention. asshat.
   
   
   
   
   
2. Sanctimonious gestures. This came up from Manolo for the Brides, which is part of the superfantastic group of Manolo blogs, most of which I read obsessively regardless of actual relevance to my life. Anyway, I am firmly on the side of the blogger here - giving a donation to charity in lieu of favors - and then telling your guests that you did it - is a sanctimonious piece of show-offery and is, quite frankly, bullshit. Look dude, I don't care if you want to give to charity. That's your money, your business. I don't even care which charity or charities you support. But when you drag me in to it - whether my name was given to the charity or not - dude, now you're just a prick. I couldn't care less about favors. I do care about pharisaic gestures.
   
   
   
   
   
3. Books that treat kink like a sickness. I admit, I read a lot of crap paperbacks. Whatever, they're cheap and very escapist. I happen to like Kay Hooper's SCU novels. A lot. But I really hate that in one of them, one of the murder victims has a pretty sweetly equipped dungeon in his basement, and it's referred to as "sick", "twisted", "perverted", etc. and so on. And how one of the other characters says "It's not something most women would enjoy." Okay, one, BDSM is not, in and of itself, sick. Please make the distinction between BDSM in general, and what this guy did in particular - which, given that he was 30-something and his partner was 12, is in fact pretty fucked up. What two consenting non-abusing adults do in their bedroom is not sick. Sex is not sick, toys are not sick, playing with sensations is not sick, for fuck's sake.
   
   And finally...
   
   
   
   
   
4. Making assumptions about what I like, just because I have tits. Just because I appear to be female, does not mean I like "what most women like". For example, I happen to like kink! In fact, after the Flea, I'm discovering that a lot of women happen to like kink, and a lot of my friends do, too. Surprise! I also don't like diamond rings, white dresses, dresses in general, and fancy luncheons. (Can you tell I've been reading a few books about the commercialization of American weddings lately? Fascinating how fucked-up it all is.) I don't like a lot of perfumes (I'm allergic to most of them), I don't like receiving "girly" gifts (please don't give me scented or otherwise fancy soaps or lotions; I won't use them, because I don't like how a lot of them smell), I really hate bachelorette parties (and no, bachelorette really is not a word), I really hate shopping, and quite honestly, I would rather shoot myself than do a lot of stereotypical female things. I like what I like, regardless of its traditional gender role. Please stop making assumptions about me, it gets really annoying.

On the nature of deals

I've been addicted to PostSecret for some time now; even bought a couple of the books. It's something between voyeurism and bonding with the rest of the human race.

There's a secret posted this week, and a reply - since they are only posted for one week, for posterity's sake, I'll record the text of both here, but if you see this before June 10th, I encourage you to head over to PostSecret and check them out:

Secret: I don't like BJ's. I hate how they assume all guys want one. Or even prefer them.

The text is pasted on an x-ray image of a girl with braces giving a guy a blowjob.

Email: Good to know, because I'm tired of giving them.

At first it was just the email that made me irritated and sad, and then once I sat and thought about it for a while, the postcard made me sad too.

The email got to me for a couple of reasons, mostly because the initial reading made the person come off as a selfish bint who was tired of doing something for someone else's pleasure. Yup, most guys I've met like blowjobs; Jay being one of them. But he likes them, and I KNOW that he likes them, so because of that, I like giving them to him (also, I would like giving them to him even if he didn't like them so much, because I <3 penis, but that's an entirely other story). Granted, I don't give him a blowjob every night or anything like that, but the Man's penis is in my mouth on a regular basis, okay? And there are times when I'm not particularly interested in giving a blowjob, but unless I have a serious objection, I will, for at least a little while, because I know it gives him a lot of pleasure. This was even before we decided that he got to be in charge. I just like doing nice things for people I happen to like, okay? It just really irritated me because there are people out there who are missing the entire point of sex. It becomes not about pleasures, but about duty. It becomes this negative thing to be avoided, and they are seriously missing out. Secondly, the email made me sad because I know there are guys out there who are just as selfish and demand blowjobs all the time. I am not talking about within a D/s context (and even then, I would say that demanding blowjobs all the time, while well within the rights of a Master, would be kind of assholish, but maybe that's just me), I am talking the guy who shoves a girl into his groin on every date, and doesn't do anything for her. Even for someone like me, who likes giving blowjobs, that would get real old, real quick. So I can understand being sick of giving blowjobs, and that is sad, that something sexual has become so not-pleasurable. The postcard makes me sad too because I think I would cry if I were with a partner who didn't take into account my preferences when it came to sex (okay, that's a lie; I'd dump they ass). And because there's a whole lot of young women out there who think that all guys want is blowjobs. And this person is either not communicating what they want, or when they do, their partner doesn't believe them because there have been a whole bunch of other guys who have persuaded her of the opposite (and she's not smart enough to realize that everyone is different and adjust for that). It's just... well, everyone is missing the point of the deal. You're both supposed to get pleasure. Not just one person. And it's supposed to be reciprocal and mutual. You should take into account what the other person likes, what you like, and compromise if necessary. And it's supposed to be enjoyable, goddammit, not some onerous chore that you have to get through so that you can get other benefits from the relationship.

Even BDSM. Nobody does that because they don't like it, I think. And there are certainly things that aren't fun, per se, and perhaps even a bit of a chore. But, it's negotiated, and I'd argue that everyone involved gets pleasure out of it.

People are just really fucked up when it comes to sex sometimes (and hey, even I have some of my own hang-ups), and it really gets to me.

Made of these

Okay so the entire point of my posting was not to talk about food, but instead to talk about the fact that somehow this weekend Jay finally Figured It Out.

It gets capitals because it's important.

From Thursday evening til today, he managed to strike the perfect balance between Dom and NotDom. See, I don't like it to be Dom all the time. I, I, cannot handle a 24/7 relationship, because I either start laughing because I lose what for me is a required suspension of disbelief, or I get really uppity and bitchy that I have no control. I'm just a wee bit of a control freak about some times. Just a little. It's really only mild OCD.

But... I like a healthy dose of being NOT in charge on a regular basis. I am such a picky, high-maintenance bitch sometimes. Over this weekend, I got the requisite healthy dose, but not an overwhelming or smothering one. He wasn't Dom-y all the time, but he was enough of the time that I was kept on my toes and always reminded that, oh, right, I am not always in charge. Oh, right, and I kind of like that.

Some of it was subtle, like not letting me get away with being a smart-ass nearly as much as usual at dinner on Friday night - giving me That Look, you know. Some of it was much more overt, like deciding on Thursday that he was going to throw me on the bed and have His way with me about ten seconds after he walked in the door. Some of it was downright blatant, like how he woke me up on Sunday night since He had decided He was going to cause Pain in His Tits, and that I was going to take it, and I was not going to get sex out of the deal. And it was all really, ridiculously hot, and I spent a good portion of today unspeakably distracted.

It's still early, but since the hotness involved me not getting much sleep last night, I think I'm going to water my plants, clean up the remnants of my dinner, and curl up in bed and dream sweet, torturous dreams. Mother of god, I am one grateful slut right now.

Who says you can't go home?

In other news, I am an uncultured git, as I have never been to the opera.

But I feel awesome because my sister went, said she saw something in German, and I guessed Die Fledermaus and I was right.

So I was reading over on kaya's blog about TPE relationships and what does and does not constitute one and meltdowns, etc. and so on. (PS, I feel like I'm joining a club. "Hey look! I'm blogging about kaya's blog!" That club.) Someone anonymously (don't they always?) made a comment that said, more or less, that, well, you can always just pick up and walk out, so clearly, your relationship is a sham and there is no such thing as TPE.

I might be exaggerating the sham part, but the packing up and leaving part was in there. For about three seconds I sat there and looked at it, bugged, until I figured out that, well, no wonder it bugs me, 'cause it ain't true.

Now, bear in mind, I'm talking about consensual relationships, okay? No one is being abused or otherwise mistreated. And the other caveat I have is that I am not just talking about physically leaving. That's easy to do.

But it is not always an option to leave a relationship, and I know this, because I damn well tried. Twice (I'm stubborn). I lived without him, I did other things, I saw other people, and told myself over and over that I wasn't going back and it sucked. ass. The goal was definitely for it to be more like sucking balls, and I miserably failed.

So this time around, walking out and leaving the relationship is not an option. And rather than feeling trapped or caged in, I feel... well, confident. I have decreed that this relationship is going to work, therefore, it will, whether it likes it or not. For those of you who have not yet run across my will in cases like this, well... you know, I can't even come up with a good metaphor, so you are stuck just taking me at face value. Leaving isn't an option, so the only one left is making it work.

Clearly, that depends on the people in the relationship. If it weren't Jay, hell, I might very well be able to leave. In fact, I've done THAT before, too. It also rests on the assumption that neither He nor I will magically overnight radically change our personalities. But even if he suddenly went off the deep end (because clearly, it could never happen to me, as the less sane one in the relationship), I still couldn't leave. Just wouldn't work. Leaving would only make the situation worse - for the both of us.

So yup, you can always physically walk out. That doesn't make it leaving, because it's a lot more than your body involved in the leaving.

I don't remember signing up for this

If you'd asked me, even recently, as to how I would describe myself, you'd probably be able to work the term "thrill-seeker" out of me. I would then follow it with a lot of qualifications, but it's there.

I loves me a good roller-coaster ride. I like to drive fast, feel the wind in my hair. A part of me wants to try sky-diving and bungee-jumping. I like to climb trees and go exploring, see what's out there. I like to ski fast (but not in trees, oh god, not in the trees). I would totally do most of the physical stunts on Fear Factor, like walking between two speeding semis and crashing cars and stuff.

But there's a limit to my thrills. I have to be assured of a reasonable amount of safety, whether guaranteed by myself or others. Roller-coasters, are safe. Trees and rocks and hiking and crap, are safe. Skiing, is safe. Stuff on Fear Factor, is safe. In all cases, either I am in control - and have enough faith in my abilities for that control to mean something - or there are considerable regulations and safety precautions and professionals around that even though I myself can't guarantee safety, they can come pretty darned close to it.

What I would not say, is that I like fear. I don't even particularly like horror movies - partly because half of them don't scare me, and partly because half of them do. Actually, I don't like movies much at all. Either I get too emotionally involved and completely overwrought, or I couldn't give two shits about what's going on and thus the experience isn't enjoyable, either. I hate being spooked by people. I hate driving sometimes, because for some reason my car is invisible to other people and there are days when I really don't understand how I didn't get t-boned or something on my way home. Fire and I are not friends, regardless of whether it's contained or not. If there were ever someone in my house that didn't belong, I like to think I'd be one tough bitch, but I'd probably lose my shit in one fear-stained instant. Oh, and the gross Fear Factor stuff, or anything that involves me being buried in slime or bugs or snakes or eating disgusting things? Thumbs way, way down.

But by the same token, I don't necessarily feel fear where other people do. I don't get scared walking alone at night. I didn't get scared waiting for buses after dark in the less-than-savory neighborhood I used to have to go through to get to and from work. I don't freak out when there's odd noises in my house (it's old, I have landlords upstairs, and I'm half-convinced there's a resident ghost, as well). Storms excite me (except for tornados, fuck that). The oceans (and other large bodies of water) are fucking awesome. Being lost is just an excuse to wander around until you find something. And I have been, I have been, to Cabrini Green (and a bunch of other unsavory big-city neighborhoods - my father has singular views on important places to take the kids; a story for another time). And I love the scarier parts of "ropes courses" - I will go all the way up on the highest slingshot you can find, oh yes I will, and I will hang upside down while riding it.

So I wouldn't say that I'm a fan of fear. But apparently, I've signed up for regular, sometimes extremely healthy doses of it. Jay really, really likes finding all of those places in me where I try to warn people off, and am somewhat irrational. Hands on my neck. Things on my face. Getting anywhere near doing anything to my ass other than smacking it. Various implements of torture. Informing me that yes, I have to be the one to throw another log on the fire. Taking all control away from me. Shit like that. I'm not living my life in fear, I'm not being abused, blah blah blah all that reassuring crap. Because it's all true. But he really, really likes pushing the limits.

And it's not quite the same as either a thrill or a fear. It's a kind of fucked-up chimera of the two. I'm feeling fear, but not "I am going to DIE, fuck me" fear. Not the kind of fear that comes from a truly scary situation. But it's not a thrill either, because I'm generally not willingly experiencing it, and I certainly don't have a huge grin on my face.

But it is exciting - I can't deny that, even if I try - if only because my pussy - oh, I'm sorry, HIS pussy (we're apparently on a Dom-ly kick) - gives me away. And I think the reason that it is exciting is that there's that level of trust underneath that, even though I know he's trying to provoke fear, he's not really going to go too far, so I can be assured that needles and flaming things will not actually be touching me at any point. I really can't see myself signing up for that, and he knows that if he tries, the fact that he is in charge is completely irrelevant because I will kill him - or at the very least, maim. Severely. I can't really be responsible for when my limits are completely broken, now can I?

But like I said, I don't remember signing up for this either. "But french!" you say. "You're not in a TPE! You're a strong, independent woman! You can tell him to stop!"

Well sure, I CAN, but two things: 1, he'd probably ignore me, overall, and B, it kind of defeats the purpose of any sort of power exchanges if I get to make all the rules. Me making the rules is reserved for when we are not in the bedroom, and for on those occasions that we switch. And even the first, it's not 100% - like I said, we're apparently on a Dom-ly kick. This is not the boy I met nearly 8 years ago, who would do whatever people I told him to. He has far too many definite opinions and stubborn streaks (he's been hanging around me too long :D). So while he might stop in the moment if I made clear to him that he went too far in pushing a limit, that's still a might - he reserves some judgment on when he's done - and he wouldn't stop pushing limits, he'd just find a different one for a while.

And the whole point of it is, I don't want to make all the rules. I want him to make some, goddammit. So apparently, I kind of did sign myself up for this. But I didn't sign up for gleefully liking it, ha ha.

Now why is that a bit of a hollow laugh? Oh right, because at the end of the day, if I really didn't like what was going on, it would end. Right.

Man, I hate me sometimes.

On boundaries

Jay has told me repeatedly that he likes to push my limits when he's playing with me. And for the most part, I'm okay with that.

Three weekends ago, he'd brought over his flashlight to use in concert with the metal speculum he'd bought me. We both have a passing fancy for aspects of medical fetishism, and as he said, "I like to check out my pussy once in a while." Silly man, doesn't he know I have professionals to do that?

We wound up not playing at all that weekend - I don't think we even had sex. So he informed me Sunday night that he was bringing the flashlight again the next weekend, and that I and the toys had best be ready.

Being the dutiful sort - sometimes - I prepared the toys as best I could, and Jay came over Friday night.

We wound up not playing until Saturday night, which in retrospect was a bad plan. It was after I'd worked extra late, and was tired, and short on sleep. Oops. I knew he wanted to use the speculum on me though, and I didn't think I was too tired to handle it. It might not be as good as it could be, but it wouldn't be bad, was more or less how my thought went.

And it wasn't bad, not really. Sure, I wasn't overly in to it, but it was nice, you know. I laid back and let the man amuse himself with his flashlight, and with moving the speculum around, etc. and so on, just sort of not really thinking, but aware of the fact that I was staring at the ceiling and kind of rolling my eyes.

Where it all started to go sour was after he'd given me one orgasm, and I was starting to drift off to sleep (oops). I felt him shift the speculum again, and suddenly he is brushing his finger down the very stretched sidewall of my vagina. SO WEIRD. It definitely made me squirm. It was one of those weird "I am so not used to having anything touch me there" kind of feelings, but it was okay - mostly.

Then he shifts it again, and he is examining every inch of the bottom wall of my vagina, like he is trying to actually get through to what is happening in my rectum, and I freak my shit out. What is going on in other parts of my body at this time is so not even close to his business. I flip out, kick his hand out, and then I think he's trying to put it back in, so I kick again. But I'm not wearing my glasses, so instead I completely miss his arm and hit him in the cock. Oops. He's then pissed and takes the speculum out without closing it, and I curl up in a ball, cry, and refuse to let him touch me for a few hours.

It wasn't pushing a limit at that point, it was violating a boundary. I'm not entirely sold on ass play on the best of days, and when I'm tired and letting you play with my pussy to be nice, you definitely don't get to push things like that. Stop trying to see if I have to poop, you bastard, I won't tell you because it's none of your business.

Jay wasn't entirely sure what was going on. I think the not letting him touch me part was the worst of it, for him. But I couldn't let him touch me at that point - he'd just violated me, in a very real, albeit mostly emotional and mental sense, so why the hell would I want him touching me?

It took me a bit to eventually calm down, and I went to sleep. But I was outwardly calm. Inside I was a damn wreck.

The next morning I woke up early, or at least, more than an hour before I had to be at work. Jay woke up when I did, and I could tell by the look on his face that he knew that I wasn't alright. It took me most of that hour to work up to tell him what was wrong, and when I did, I fucking bawled my damn eyes out. At that point, it wasn't just the boundary issue, it was also the feeling that he'd punished me for essentially safewording, which just made the situation worse.

He let me soak his damn chest, and apologized. And just held me there until I felt a little bit better. After getting everything out, I did feel better. I was still shaky, but I wasn't carrying around this awful painful feeling in my chest anymore, and that was pretty rockin'.

I went to work, which irritated me for entirely other reasons, and came home to pizza and sleep, and lo, it was good.

Panic!

I'm getting ready for my second interview about this job I desperately want, and it reminded me of the post I made. I don't have the time to fully flesh this out, but I wanted to get something down (oh god, I'm placeholding on my blog. This is sad.)

I am very. dominant. in my non-bedroom life. All of my friends assume that I wear the pants in my relationship with Jay. I'm a supervisor in my current position. I frequently get asked to take charge of things. I handle the bills in my apartment. My friends defer to me on a number of matters. I am in charge, people, and that is just the way I like it.

Except in bed. I want nothing to do with being in charge in bed.

So essentially, Jay and I switch, every single day.

On that note, time to put on my high heels. Mmmm, I heart high heels. I just bought this fabulous pair of red suede ones... MUST GET DRESSED oh god I am going to interview.

On kink

In my racism class, for grad school, part of our "getting to know you!" introductory exercises had us think about labels and what we identify as, individually.

The list of usual suspects was on there - sex, age, race, ethnicity, economic class, etc. I added gender identity and sexual orientation, because I think about those a lot in the course of my work. I got to add them because there was an "other" category, for anything we wanted.

I got home tonight and was thinking about all the things I could put there, but didn't, and first on the list was my identity as kinky, sexually speaking. I would have completely forgotten about the exercise, except for the fact that we were talking about deviance this week, and how it's very easy to classify someone as deviant, and what that means.

The important thing I gleaned was that deviance is all in the eye of the beholder. Therefore, if the beholder is "American society as a whole", I, as a kinky person, am deviant. Highly deviant, if you want to get particular.

But anywhere else, I'm not so deviant. I'm an independent, mid-twenties, white, well-educated woman. I'm not dependent on anyone, or the government for that matter (except for student loans, but those are socially acceptable forms of dependence). In fact, I work to help make other people less deviant, in my field.

It also got me thinking about socially acceptable forms of deviance. It's okay to be gay (more or less), okay to be a working woman, okay to be anti-Bush, okay to be on Medicare or Medicaid (as an elderly or disabled person). In fact, we applaud people who are honest about these things - at least in the circles I run in; I realize that the "red states" might feel differently about them. But while I wouldn't have a problem describing myself as bi or lesbian or even trans in that "other" category, I still wouldn't feel comfortable coming out as kinky. Society as a whole would still classify me as deviant, and would try to stigmatize me for that deviance.

Hell, some days I do it to myself, for all of my liberal and sex-positive attitudes.

I guess what I'm trying to get at is that it sucks that kinkiness is still so largely stigmatized (as is sex as a whole, really), and that it's really hard to like yourself when the messages you get tell you not to, even over something as minor as one aspect of your identity. Not that identity is minor, but there are so many other things that I am that I don't think I should be condemned on one of them - one of them that really is quite fulfilling, thank you very much.

Queen of...

Talked to Vinnie last night, long-distance for now. Words cannot adequately express how happy we both are that he's moving back up here to live with me (and by extension, Jay - but mostly with me).

See, Vinnie is my Primary Fag. He knows this. I know this. I am Queen of the Fag Hags, because I know and befriend gay men like it's going out of style, and Vinnie is my First Knight of Gay Men.

I'm sure most of you have heard the expression "a gay man is a woman's best friend", and gods, it's true. I usually befriend men easier than women anyway, but gay men are better than straight men for a few reasons: they like cock as much as I do, we can discuss men's asses and no one gets uncomfortable, and they understand my obsession with Target, Bed Bath & Beyond, Payless Shoe Store, Williams-Sonoma, and Yankee Candle, among others. On the rare occasions I have to explain why I want to buy something, they comprehend quickly. I love Jay, but sometimes he just doesn't understand why I need that specific pair of black high heels with the ankle straps, when I have a perfectly serviceable pair of black classic pumps, even if I try to explain for two hours straight. Vinnie, on the other hand, when we found that they weren't in stock at my usual shoe store, immediately asked for directions to the store that had them and whipped out the keys. How could a girl not love him?

Vinnie's probably the closest out of my three closest friends right now. I talk to him the most often, and we talk about a wider variety of things than many others. I've had hints in the past that he knows a bit more about kink and BDSM than most would expect, and last night I got a definite indicator.

M, his new boyfriend - who is also a friend of Jay and myself - is staying with him this week, to escape the boring condemnation of living with his family for the summer before he goes back to college in the fall. Vinnie of course is giddy, and after we'd discussed his plans for the impending move I got to hear all about how wonderful M is, and how much fabulous sex they have, and how cute M looks in a collar, and how he needs to learn that when Vinnie pulls on the collar, his head has to follow.

Oh, well hello.

I laughed and offered to have a talk with M about that, to which Vinnie replied "that sounds like a pretty good idea." I get the impression that he thinks I'm the top, like he is. Little does he know, mwahahaha. Sure, I switch. Sometimes. About once for every six times that I'm the submissive. Maybe.

Anyway, for the rest of the conversation I had a little thought process in the back of my mind that was saying "Hmm, M just came out of the closet... he and Vinnie have been dating for about a week - although talked extensively before that - I assume he lost his virginity to Vinnie... does he really know what he's getting in to?"

Then I reminded myself that a collar means one thing to some people, but it doesn't mean it to all people - didn't I just write a huge thing about that? Oh wait, I did. Plus, M is above the age of consent and I have to admit, he's no slouch in the intellect department. I have to assume that everything they do is completely consensual, just from knowing the parties in question. It'll be fun to watch when they're both up here though!

So now I feel like I have this great responsibility to explain the world of BDSM to M when I talk to him later this week. I'm a little bit tweaked; I don't know what, if anything, I should explain about D/s, if I should just explain the BD aspect of it, the play aspect... I just don't know. I suppose I'll do what I usually do, which is play it by ear, and listen to what he says about it first, and then just answer whatever questions he might have. That way I don't overwhelm the poor boy, and he finds out what he really wants (and, perhaps, needs) to know.

I do have a reputation among the group of friends from which M hails as being particularly knowledgeable about, shall we say, "alternative sexual practices". None of them, though, have had any solid indicators about the status of my relationship with Jay - except that we've been together for four years and most of the time are pretty damned delirious about each other. I've jokingly called him "sir" in public before, but it was obviously a joke, given our expressions and the context. Otherwise, we're as vanilla as Madagascar beans.

My problem, then, is two-fold: what do I say to M (if anything), and do I really want to come out of the kink closet? I know for sure I don't want my parents, or anyone from my hometown knowing. But my friends and associates out here are a bit more cosmopolitan, and more likely to take such revelations in stride. To my knowledge, M's revelation didn't faze any of them - mostly because the majority of us knew anyway, so it wasn't a surprise. This, I think, would be a surprise to most of them, Vinnie probably excluded. I'm just not sure how they'd take it.

Sure, sure, "if they're really your friends", and I do consider them that. It's just easier to keep my mouth shut and not disturb the pond when I don't have to - not make demands on the friendship unless it's necessary.

The subject will probably come up in this apartment anyway, given who is going to be living here. I guess this is just one of those things I'll have to deal with when it comes up. Joy.