Another memory, because for some reason the words on today aren’t flowing. So, past-times it is.
They had a cigarette, and I remember staring. Watching the cherry light up as it went to their lips, remembering the taste of strawberries. I had quit, but one couldn’t hurt, right? They offered me the cigarette and I took it. Cloves, can’t buy them anymore. Not in the USA at least. But cloves linger on your lips, like strawberries.
It was surprisingly cold that night. We huddled together for warmth. I don’t remember why we were outside anymore. Waiting to get a ride, maybe it was for the cigarette. They smoked when they wanted, so we were outside, away from eyes. They handed me a cigarette, and I took it, breathing in the deadly smoke, and watching the swirls spiral from the end of the cigarette itself, I felt at peace. I know why they offered, why they handed it to me. It’s hell to kiss a smoker if you aren’t one. They knew it too.
I remember sitting there on the stone, the smoke gone but strawberries lingering on my lips, and one of us made a move. I saw it coming, huddling for warmth, I remember thinking we’d kiss that night on sitting on that cold stone. Which one of us did it? I dont’ know. I do remember their lips on mine, the strawberry taste fading fast from both of us. We sat there, kissing, unsure of where was okay to touch. My binder, their binder… we didn’t know what the rules were, so we just sat on the cold stone and kissed until the strawberries were forgotten.
If one was to count each time I’ve quit smoking, there is a minimum of four times. And now, I call myself quit, but I do allow myself two cigarettes a year. I invented that rule eventually. Each year, two cigarettes. So far, it has come down to having one due to excess stress, like completely a true hell week for a theater production or getting dumped, and one for rather unfathomable reasons. Each year since that rule was made, one for stress, one for ‘other’ reasons. I haven’t had one yet this year. If I make it through February without having one of those two, it’ll be a new accomplishment.
As much as I miss the taste of strawberries on my lips, all the memories of them are really bittersweet. I’m rather glad that even if I do smoke, that it wouldn’t be cloves again. And besides, rose hookah does taste a whole lot better than any kind of cigarette ever did.
For some reason I’m not succeeding in writing about current things in my life, little though there may be, so I shall write a memory. Sure, it may be filled in here or there, but I never claimed to have a good memory. But it is rather ingrained in my mind…
It was one of those nights where it was cold-though-not-exactly-winter. Maybe it was a February thaw, maybe it was a cold night in march. We walked, hand in hand, except when our hands broke for a grope, a kiss, a shove, a scratch… anything really. Our hands were all over each other. We walked to the playground, just to be outside, without parents. To not fuck in the car, again. We walked to the plastic playground, lit by the moon and a yellow street lamp casting shadows of trees.
Under the jungle gym, she shoved me up against the plastic tic-tac-toe, and quickly reached under my shirt. She kissed me, hard, as she twisted my nipple, hard. She didn’t do things by halves. She leaned in again, this time going for my neck, biting down and adding to my bruises there. My hands found their way under her jacket and shirt, my nails leaving red trails across her back.
But mostly I remember the moon, and her hand unzipping my jeans and without pulling them down, finding their way under my underwear and sliding inside me. I mostly remember the moon, and the feel as her other hand slid around my neck and began to squeeze.
I stopped breathing. I stopped trying to breathe. I could have still, I think, but I didn’t even try to find out.
She let go for a moment, and I took a few breaths, nodding to her to put her hand back. She squeezed harder that second time, and longer. I closed my eyes, closed myself off from the world. No sight, no breath, and everything began to fade to white as I got off.
I don’t remember the feel of her fingers inside me that night. I don’t remember how she sucked and bit my neck, or how she twisted my nipple, just that she did. I remember how her hand felt, that first time someone took my breath out of the equation.
The next day at school, no one noticed the bruises from her hand mixed in among the hickies. And that was the way I wanted it.
In high school, I was damn sure I was submissive. I remember wandering around with a friend, just hanging out, talking about how she actually had confidence, but failed at seeming confident, whereas I was good at seeming confident without actually having any. I didn’t want to have to be confident, I wanted to submit.
In college, I realized I was a switch. Pretty early on in fact, because by the end of my freshman year I was identifying as a switch, though usually with bottom tendencies. Somewhere along the way I started getting more comfortable being dominant, being toppy.
There are times when I think maybe I’m just one or the other. I’m pretty sure life enjoys reminding me exactly why that is completely false just at those moments. Any time I’m starting to wonder if I’m just one or the other, something happens. For instance, cuddling on a couch with a very scary top, who pulls my hair, controlling my head, and for those moments at last I’m finally out of my head. The relief washes over me of not deciding, not being responsible, not being careful, of not having to pay that kind of attention. Instead, I get to push through pain, through challenge, and show my strength in giving up that control… and it is a relief to let go and submit. Because I’m not any one thing and I need breaks from whichever roles I chose to take on.
But until more recently I really hadn’t much bottomed (with regards to pain) in a long while. T has dramatically altered not just how I process pain, but the physical sensations. Pain feels different. It is really hard to describe. I’m more jumpy, though less sensitive technically. I don’t know my physical limits as well, I want to push those boundaries more and more because I like not liking the sensations. The first real time I pushed past the pain I liked into the pain I seemed to not like in a consensual, trusting manner got me incredibly turned on… and left me with wonderful bite marks all across my skin for quite some time. In a way, I really hated those bites. Because, dammit, they hurt. I told her more, not to inflict harm but to feel that hurt. I was nowhere near harm, and the pain wasn’t bad for me, it got me wetter than I had been in a long time. But that was before T. So, now bites send me writhing, whining, and twitching far more than before. I don’t know how to process this new sensation, but damn am I enjoying learning.
Also, stingy pain got a lot different, and a lot more intense.
Yet, even while I’m relearning my reactions to pain, even while part of me is seeking out chances to bottom, I pull out The New Topping Book to read. I seek out new opportunities to top, to dom, to control. After years of relationships trying to throw off the politics of owning another person, I’ve come to find how much I want someone else to be “mine” (which, me being me, has absolutely nothing to do with monogamy. Just because something would be “mine” does not mean exclusive rights…) Unless I actually feel my more submissive side reacting to someone, another person’s attempts to dominate me lead to entertaining times of wrestling and me biting them a lot. Probably biting them very hard. A certain puppy learned this the hard way. Or maybe I should say the fun way.
Hmmm… One of these days I should get a picture of someone’s bruises from my bite. They can be really pretty.
Sophomore year of high school I remember winter break in texas. I hated and loved my haircut. It was short, too short in fact. Though years later I would ask for it shorter than it was, it just looked bad. Thus, the hate. But, it helped me pass, helped my very closeted 16 year old self pass around my family, non of whom knew about me being trans. Actually, some of them didn’t even know I was queer.
I kept getting called “Sir.” I wore a tight black tee-shirt (which actually still fit me until I started transition) and guy’s jeans, had short hair and wore my wonderful new cowboy hat. I kept getting called “Sir” and was very confused, rather pleased, and incredibly frustrated with my family. Confused because said tight black tee-shirt did absolutely nothing to hide my chest, which though not huge was blatantly there. Pleased, because it meant that hey, maybe I could do that whole transition thing I’d been quietly dreaming about. And incredibly frustrated with my family for assuming it was an insult, for not understanding that I might prefer being called sir, for correcting everyone around me, but mostly for telling me how insulting it was that people kept doing this, and putting all of their insecurities about it onto me.
That more than anything began my relationship with the word.
Airports are many of my most strong memories of the word. Cashiers as I grab terrible airport food saying “Have a good day, sir.” Or the airline employees checking my boarding pass as I head down the jetway to the plane saying “Have a nice flight, sir,” then glancing at my ticket, seeing my legal name and shouting after me “Sorry, ma’am!”
Oddly, that last one never endeared me to that airline.
I felt mostly apathetic about the word. Despite my interest in power play and other such delightful BDSM activities, I never really connected it to that. To me, it was the constant assumptions about gender that left me feeling, well… not much. It was tedious. It was formalized. It bored me. It was pretty much anything but sexy.
After years of reading about power play and the dominance/submission aspects of BDSM, and connecting the dots to my own life, I never quite connected to the word “sir.” I never called anyone it, my fondest submissive memories are usually involving me being practically silent. When I dom, well, “sir” just never seemed like me. For mostly the above reasons, because it wasn’t sexualized, it wasn’t connected in my head to power, it was tedious and boring. tedious and boring are not what I want when I’m fucking.
So, when S asked permission to call me Sir while she was subbing to me, I said sure presuming that it would be good for her headspace, and do little to me. Not that I expected it to be negative, but that it wouldn’t do anything. I was wrong. Very wrong.
The moment she called me Sir, I felt it throughout my whole body. Words have a lot of power with me, and the power this one had for me took me by complete surprise. I did not expect to enjoy it so much. Hitting her I knew I’d enjoy, I’ve known I’m a sadist for a long while, it just took me a bit before I could bring myself to hit her. But I always knew I would enjoy it once I worked through stuff in my head about hitting the girl I was dating (consensually of course.) I knew calling her “my girl” would ring well in my head, and body. I did not expect to enjoy being called Sir.
I love certain kinds of surprises. Less the, someone else springing something on me surprise, but rather the kind of realizing something that I hadn’t before. Discovering that a former trigger has resolved into a rare occurence, discovering boundaries have loosened, that there is further to go. And that was one of those surprises.
My mind shivered at the feel of the rope in my hands. Sliding it through to get the right length for tying her hands together; nothing elaborate I have to remind myself. My mind shivered, but I could not let her see, instead I smirked keeping control.
After over a week’s aftercare being done in one shot that same day, I agreed to play on one condition: we kept it light.
If you want me to dom, then submit. You have to be willing to give up that control… and as I moved her head, turning it however I would, I saw surrender in her eyes and I thought “I love her.” So, I leaned in and bit her hard, digging deep into her muscle, her traps, loving the feel of her between my teeth, of her tensing, then slowly relaxing into me, submitting. I pull back and look at the mark before slowly licking around those enticing indentations…
I had her pinned down, ropes laying across her chest held by my hands, enough pressure for her to know there was no point in fighting me. Black rope, blue sheets, white skin, light from the windows reflected into an ambient glow by the white walls, she glowed under the rope. I pulled back to watch, pinning her down with the rope pressed into her skin. Keep it light, just some rope, just some power, add a dash of teeth…
Curled around her after, aftercare was no issue this time. We had talked about the last two times, finally talked, and she was trusting me again. Wrapped around her, I let go. I let myself open up in return. It wasn’t make up sex from the night before, it wasn’t “just” anything, because no matter how “light” it seemed it reached both of us as we needed it too. I don’t know quite what opened up for me the last few times… but I want to keep finding out.