It's Not Good

We're heavy breathing and hot fumbling on the bed and he's hard against me and I know we could fuck again and I would come and he would come and it would be so good, such intense pleasure, everything working like it should and suffusing us both with wonderful sensation and then lying there in warm drifting loving bliss.

So why do I want to make him angry? Why do I push him off me, sit up, casually make another drink, light another cigarette, just to try to make him force me to carry on? Why do I torment him and taunt him, clever nasty carefully-chosen words? Why does seeing his face troubled and twisted up like that make my stomach go hollow?

Our eyes catch each other's; there's a long tremulous moment. Shimmering possibilities. A blur of visions - blood and violence and rape and tears - but we both just sit there, and in the end it's me who cracks and looks down.

It's not good, you know, he says. It's not a game. It's horrible to feel like that. Anger and hatred and violence. I can't just snap out of it.

I know it's not good. It's not like my brain's wired up wrong, I say. Not like that, anyway. It's not that pain feels good. I can tell the difference between pleasure and pain: one hurts and one feels nice.

It's not about the pain as such. It's the structure of thought, the tangled mess of feeling, that I want at moments like this, not a cheery happy mutually-agreed spanking/biting/whipping session. I don't care what he does, as long as he's not ok with it, as long as he hates himself for doing it, and me for making him do it. Hurting me is just an easy way to make that happen.

We are young(ish) and healthy(ish) and there is love and lust and we have time and space and we know how to conjure up sweetness and glowing light. It's all there - it should all be there - it should be enough.

It's just that... when he looks at me like that and his eyes are bluest blue with blackest black tunnels in their centres, and I see the spectres before me, the possibilities, the visions of him grabbing me and slapping me and tearing at my flesh and hating, hating, angry, vicious, hot, cold... the room tilts around me and the world holds its breath.

Be Your Own Librarian

What is it that makes one fantasy (scenario/category of images/set of words) work one day, and not another? What is it about the real-life context that determines which particular thing it is that's going to send you over the edge this time?

Because it is, precisely, determined: in the sense of involuntary, unconscious, produced and constrained by factors that are outside your control. Except perhaps for those relatively rare times when I'm so insanely wound up that just about anything will make me come very quickly indeed, the process of masturbating to orgasm is a twofold journey. There's the physical journey, the feel of fingers on clit, of cock in cunt, of exploratory probing, which very soon fades from conscious awareness and kicks into autopilot. Meanwhile I'm deeply lost, absorbed, in the mental journey.

There's a library in my mind; the shelves are stacked with memories, with sounds, with ideas, with images from pornography which have been used and re-used so many times that they're almost unrecognisable from their original form. Worn smooth, stones at the edge of the sea. Rarely whole scenes, just something about the expression on a face, the look in someone's eyes, a snatch (nopunintended) of breathless speech, that grabs me for a reason I don't understand.

The mental journey to orgasm is a walk through this library, a survey of all the shelves and their strange overlapping classmarks. It's my own, it's idiosyncratic, stocked with all of the things that have worked for me over the years. But it's a diverse collection. Blood, pain, pissing, eggs, classrooms, laboratories, machines, animals, transsexuals, lesbians, furniture-fucking, exposure, humiliation...

At first, I browse tentatively, my attention ranging widely, picking up the occasional book and flicking through it to see what, if anything, grabs the attention. Playing the warmer - cooler - warmer - warmer - cooler - warmer - warmer - hot! hot! game. A rapid slideshow of images, people, juxtapositions, present themselves to the mind's eye, to see what works.

And the strange thing, to me, is the unpredictability of what does turn out to work. Something that seemed, last week, to be the absolute source and heart of my desire, is empty and flat today. It just doesn't fire. And then something else, that seemed absurd or even disgusting another time, seizes and hooks me. And I fall back against the library wall, breathless, every bit of my body heated up. It's this set of images, these words, this particular movement, that plays and replays and zooms in and repeats and intensifies until the moment where the physical and mental journeys reunite, where it all comes together, unbearable, transporting, all-powerful. A universe in a grain of sand.

Making Love

He said I understand for the first time why it's called 'making love'. Such a cheesy phrase, and yet...

He said when I feel those ripples, all those tiny tremors and squeezes, I understand what it means to be loved by your cunt.

He said, when we're fucking, and you hold my arm, or grab me, when you bite or kiss any bit of my skin that comes near your mouth, it's like being wrapped up in love.

He said it's beautiful.

He said I still want to do horrible things to you though.

I said good.

On (Not?) Being a Sub

I'm not at all sure about labelling myself 'a sub'. Calling myself a masochist seems straightforward, because I enjoy being hurt, but submissive? I dunno.

There's the old question of 'who's really in charge?'. And I think I may well be 'a reaction top' in the sense that I like to provoke and control the man who's supposedly dominating me, by torturing him with his own desire to hurt/fuck me.

Of course it's narcissistic: I'm very turned on by seeing someone else's unwilling desire for me, a desire they don't want to feel. And exploiting that desire to get them to do things they are intellectually or morally uncomfortable with. Like making me bleed, or cheating on their partners (I'm trying to be honest here, not to justify any of this).

Because then they're angry with me. They want me - but they also want to punish me for making them want me. And that's when they push me down or grab me by the hair and fuck me harder, too hard. And I have a sort of sense of triumph.

I'm not sure that submission is an accurate description of this. I like to be hurt and dominated, but I don't see myself as submitting to that domination. What I want is to be forcibly overpowered, not to consent to it.

Ever since I was a child, I've liked arm-wrestling men: women too, but especially men. I've almost always lost, but I never, ever, let them win, and (in any context) I'm furious if I feel like someone's doing that to me. Where's the satisfaction in winning if it isn't real?

I like the idea of real wrestling, tumbling and struggling, heavy breathing: halfway between fighting and fucking. And ultimately being restrained, a hand over my mouth, being held down by one or more blokes as they use me. The idea that there is, in the end, nothing I can do about it - and I know because I tried.

Yahoo 1: Icing on the Vanilla Cake

[17:45] you've got an interesting twist on sub dom
[17:45] you're very into causing reactions
[17:45] yeah
[17:46] bloody laughter woman was talking about being a reaction top
[17:47] I think i'm more into being made to react, as i'm a bit reserved normally
[17:47] a reaction top, hmm interesting
[17:47] (or unable to react)
[17:47] yeah i definitely want to MAKE them do stuff to me . to provoke
[17:47] funny what you said in that comment about scars
[17:48] when we were staying at D's last weekend, when we were very drunk, B got all upset and emotional about my scars
[17:48] "oh it's so sad you did that to yourself" that kind of crap
[17:49] and i was thinking, imagine getting him to the point where he'd do that to me.. it would go so much against everything he thinks about himself
[17:49] god, that's hot, you bitch
[17:49] ha ha
[17:49] yeah i think so
[17:49] it's also horribly against "safe sane consensual"
[17:49] but that's where it gets interesting
[17:49] otherwise it's just icing on the vanilla cake

Green = Fluence
Purple = Me

The Chamber of Horrors

Growing up in London, there were certain places we went to regularly - London Zoo, the National Gallery, the Science Museum, etc. One of my favourites was Madame Tussauds. From an adult perspective, it's a cheesy, overpriced, overcrowded tourist trap, and when I was 16 and obnoxious I used to take great pleasure in strolling down Baker Street past the queues of American and Japanese tourists and blowing cigarette smoke in their faces. But as a little kid, I loved it purely because of the Chamber of Horrors.

I remember the almost unbearable excitement of approaching and entering the dark, ghoulishly lit underground room, which rang with distant screams and the rattle of chains. And within were a series of figures that left me breathless and thrilled. I can't find many pictures online (and probably the waxworks from the eighties are long gone) but I can still recollect them in detail. Some of the highlights were:

The man being garrotted. This one is the most vivid in my mind. I can visualise all the details: his hands helplessly clawing at the solid metal band; the expression of agony on his face, gritted teeth, eyes squeezed shut, tendons standing out; the impassive face of the man standing behind him, studiously tightening it around his neck.

Death masks. Possibly of Louis XVI, Marie Antoinette, Robespierre, etc. But the historical aspect wasn't important to me at the age of 6 (funnily enough). It was their green, dead faces, the bloodied mouths, and their streaming hair.



Bride in the bath. I think she was a victim of George Joseph Smith. It was her agonised face and naked body that enthralled me.

Although, in fact, none of that is quite as creepy as this picture of Tussaud's storeroom which I just found online:


Other similarly gruesome attractions that I loved as a child included the Torture Museum in Carcassonne. Among its fascinating exhibits was a chair which had hundreds of sharp metal spikes sticking inwards:



I also have strong memories of a Chinese torture instrument made up of interconnecting metal bars that locked your wrists and ankles together and kept you in an agonising, hunched position. And medieval engravings of a woman being pulled to pieces by four horses (quartered, I suppose), and of a man hung upside down naked, legs apart, being sawn in half.

Another favourite haunt was Mountfitchet Castle, a reconstructed Norman castle/village which we often visited in the school holidays. Gory highlights here included a man on a surgeon's table, his mouth wide open in agony, his torso split open with blood pouring out, and decapitated heads stuck on spikes over the entrance, complete with bloodied neck stumps.

I have photographs of all of these somewhere, and will come back and add them when I have time to dig them out. In the meantime I just wanted to post some happy reminiscences of my bloodthirsty, torturephilic childhood.

My Weekend

R and I drive a long way to visit D. It's been nearly a year since we saw him. B is coming too, from a different city. I don't allow myself to believe that he'll turn up: I don't want to be disappointed. But there he is, looking strangely smart and unlikely in his work clothes.

When B and I first reunite on Friday we are polite and keep our distance, physically and emotionally. He kisses me chastely on the cheek. He buys disgusting shots in the pub and we walk back with our arms around each other. I hold his hand where it rests on my shoulder. We keep it light and friendly. We drink bottles of beer and we all make each other laugh a lot.

On Friday night we sleep close to each other, him on the sofa while R and I are sleeping together on the floor. When I open my eyes he is looking right at me. He looks away quickly. Much much later, close to dawn on Sunday morning, when we are sitting outside curled up together with our fifteenth cups of gin and tonic, he tells me that he was watching me sleep.

"You look strange when you sleep."
"Ugly?"
"No, you look pretty. But you frown. You don't look like you're ... in repose. You look more relaxed when you're awake."
"You were looking right at me when I woke up."
"I had a massive erection," he says. "I was wondering if there was any polite way of asking you to help me with it."

But at the time, on Saturday morning, I have no idea if he still wants me at all. He likes my hair a lot: "bewitching Oriental waves" he said once. He touches it as often as he can. On Saturday morning the excuse is that he wants to feel whether it's going dread-y. He puts his hand underneath my hair, on my neck, and tangles his fingers in it. Twists them around. For a long time. And this in front of D, our mutual friend.

"Thanks for that," I say, keeping it light. B is too sleepy (or pretending to be) to restrain himself.

Later, in the pub, I argue with him about the distinction between andros and anthropos. I borrow R's pen and scribble Greek words messily on the back of a receipt. I am fired up and at that articulate stage of drunkenness. Impulsively B kisses my cheek, fast and hard, in front of D and R. The kiss is chaste enough but I wonder if it seems strange to the others.

By the time we are in the almost empty club, he is kissing my face, my hands, my neck: anywhere but the mouth. Every moment the two of us are alone (the smoking ban helps this - it's obligatory to divide the group every few minutes to go off, in pairs, for a fag) he is talking to me, holding me, looking at me in a way that makes me melt. He puts his arms around me and pulls me close to him. Tangles his hands up in my hair and says my name, over and over. Buries his face where my neck meets my shoulder.

I dance to punk remixes and try unsuccessfully to get off with a girl in the club. She's flirting but ultimately says no. I am very frustrated and drunk and horny. The four of us stumble home at 3.30am. B and I walk behind the others with our arms round each other. Back at D's flat, we stand outside smoking. I ask B if he wants to feel something. He says yes. I take his hand and guide it inside my jeans, inside my knickers, til his fingers brush against my deep, damp, desiring cunt. "Fuck, you're so wet," he says.

D and R fall asleep. B and I stay up, refilling our g&ts and smoking whole packets of Marlboro. We sit against the wall, limbs tangled up together, trying to talk it all out. We make each other laugh and tell each other that it's like communicating with yourself, almost - our connection is so transparent and uncensored.

He tells me that he had to leave the room earlier to masturbate because of what I was saying. "I came almost instantly," he says.

I ask him why he hardly ever makes eye contact with me.

"Because then I'd have to kiss you," he says.

I kiss him a few times. He switches rapidly, repeatedly, between resistance and desire. He talks about the stars we can see. I think this is cheesy.

He tells me he was worried I was falling in love with him. That he loves his girlfriend and that he has had enough of turmoil and passion and it always ends badly. That yes, he and I have something unique, but so do he and his girlfriend. And so do me and R. He has difficulty reconciling his different selves.

Eventually we go inside. The sky is already light around the edges. In the hallway we kiss again, briefly. I try to tempt him further but he refuses.

Inside, R is asleep on the floor. B sits on the sofa and pulls me down next to him. He holds me more tightly and for longer than I can remember being held. Eventually his breathing deepens and I realise he's asleep, head on my breast, arms locked around me. I disentangle myself and change into sleeping clothes. I take his shoes off with a maternal ache inside. Then a struggle to wake him up and convince him to take his jeans and jumper off and to get into his sleeping bag. I am ready to go to sleep on the floor but, barely conscious, he puts his arms around me and pulls me into him. We lie pressed close together, my legs sandwiched between his, my head on his shoulder. I can feel his cock throbbing against my leg. Barely awake myself, I let my hand stray there and (finally!) hold it through his boxers. He moans quietly. His hand finds its way to my breast and he strokes my nipple, slides the bar back and forth, circles it with his thumb. All the while I have his cock in my hand, I'm holding him gently but firmly. Lying like this, we drift off into sleep.

I wake up some time later. It's light and R is still asleep on the floor only a few feet away. Reality knocks, distantly. This is dangerous. I readjust my clothes and try to get up, but deep in inebriated sleep, B tightens his arms around me. Eventually I extricate myself and fall asleep where I should be, next to R.

In the morning R is horny and I am still drunk and still hot. To ward off the hangover I swig gin and tonic and suck his cock inside the sleeping bag. B is asleep - I think. But I like the possibility of him seeing us, hearing us. I know he thinks about me doing it to him; he's told me. R fucks me with his fingers and I let myself moan and wriggle, just a little. It's inconclusive though, and we both fall back asleep.

We spend Sunday trying to ease our way back into reality. D and R don't drink. B and I keep knocking back the gin, the vodka, the beer, and holding each other whenever we get the chance. He says he doesn't remember much of what happened after we went to bed. I half-believe him.

We decide we are very grown up and have dealt with this in a mature way and we're not going to agonise over it any more. I half-believe this.

We part ways on Sunday evening with a quick hard kiss on the mouth and then he's gone, and R and I are driving home through end-of-weekend motorway rain, listening to The Streets and bracing for the rude shock of real life.