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.
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.
I don’t remember how I got the scar on my back. It is apparently a nice, slightly curved white line on my back, acquired sometime in the last few years. C noticed it about a year ago, and we then had a delightful conversation where she denied being the one to leave it, but I really cannot believe it was anyone else…
Since high school, I’ve frequently had rather large hickies on my neck. After breakups especially, the marks on my neck would garner lots of questions. I’m easy to mark. Only one person has ever managed to avoid marking my neck, and ironically that was unintentional. As much as S does leave marks on my neck, she tends not to leave them other places. That isn’t as true the other way around.
The jersey sheets are soft under my bare body, and sit facing S, her back to me. Her hands rest behind her at her ass, tied together at the wrist. Her hands rested right in front of my clit and would sometimes brush against me lightly. I was so turned on, so wet. She told me she was more submissive. She asked to be tied up, and at some point I slid into that place in my head, at some point I started to enter my dominant mode that night in a way that I hadn’t in months. It wasn’t that I wanted to top her, that I wanted control, it wasn’t want. It was simply there.
Her back had red lines from my nails. I drew them across again, both hands scratching at her back from top to bottom, side to side, crossing, sometimes a straight pattern, sometimes serpentine. Over and again, I scratched her back until the lines faded into a sea of red, texturized skin. My nails ran across her arms, her legs, her inner thighs, up her chest and to her neck. I wondered how much would be visible the next day. I wanted those marks to show when she wore her swimsuit the next day at the pool. My nails would return, again, to her back, feel the heat coming off of it. Sometimes I’d let my hands just gently run across her back, a soothing motion in contrast with my frequently quick scratches.
Her fingers would sometimes graze my inner lips, but never with confidence. I relished the hesitation. Each time my nails dragged across her skin, I could feel her skin resist, and occasionally break open to the next layer. My nails I know, know how to draw blood, avoid blood, know how to scrap, how to claw. My nails I know, it was her reactions I was learning. Her sighs, her quick intakes of breath, I’m learning her reactions. Each swipe of my nails across her skin, I controlled my actions and reveled in her responses, even in her silence.
She is a first. I have drawn my nails and painted red, raised lines all over backs before, but never did I scratch an entire back into a canvas of red skin. I have drawn blood before, but never felt a sense of control over my nails like that moment. I knew the instrument, I knew the recipient, and I knew my mind. More than anything S is the first to bring out the desire, almost a craving, to mark. I want to mark her.
So that the next day when she put on her swimsuit, there would be evidence of my nails for any to see.
Marking isn’t about ownership to me. It is about the power to leave the mark at all, about the reminder later of the moment, it is about the knowledge that the marks are there to see. Even when the marks are hidden under clothing, they is the potential for them to be revealed.
It wasn’t what S wanted that night, not really, and I knew that. But we need to find our own ways of playing with power with each other. I need to be comfortable, sure of myself, in what I’m doing to her in order to dom. So the first time I wield her cane or flogger, I am not sure. I need time to get used to a flogger, especially one of a very different weight than I’m used to. I need time to learn how to use a cane. So the first time, I’m not going to get into the right mindset. But my nails, I know my nails, and their effects on skin. We need to talk more, need to work with D/s, need to find our way into power play for ourselves. I need to learn how to get into my head without having to really know my tools, because I want to learn those tools.
Days later my fingers trace the raised marks, and again even about a week later. I smile and kiss her. I have to restrain myself, not drag my nails across her upper back, not down her spine, or tracing her shoulder blades, to make sure I don’t break open the healing, red lines. Days later I trace the raised marks and smile.
I did not know this. There is always so much going on in April, but I had never actually processed that this was one of them, though at some point I had heard. Sexual assault means a lot of things.
Last time I said I would write a story. This isn’t the one I had intended to write, which will show up later at some point. But this is my story.
It could be blatantly triggering, so with that in mind, consider for yourself whether you should be going forward.
The world has ceased, the lens of my mind has zoomed in on nothing but her hand, and existence is naught but that caress of my chest. Yet, silence must prevail because though my world has become her hand, I doubt the rest of the room would quite appreciate an awareness of our side of the couch. No existence but the caress of her hand, with Buffy playing in the background.
The other weekend (Feb. 6), I went to the KinkForAll Providence, and it was amazing. KinkForAll is an unconferance, which is where geeky people with an interest in sex and its interrelation to other things; meet people, talk and present. I got to listen to Sinclair Sexsmith speak on gender play and sex, got to ask someone who is a role model, someone i am frankly in awe of, got to ask friggin Sinclair Sexsmith, questions. I got to talk to Kristen, engage in a conversation with her, who i am equally in awe of. I got to listen to Emma’s stances on sensuality, taking things slower… drawing things out, and enjoying them, taking pleasure, having joy…
The room is freezing, and the carpet does little to protect from the hard floor, yet I had lost awareness of all that. I burned with cliché want, dispelling the room’s icy grip from my body, too lost in her grip on my nipple. Her body pressed against mine, my nails on her back, my hand grazing her skin, slow, drawn out, sensuality. I burned with cliché want, but not of more, not of farther, but of continuance. I couldn’t process more, just that I didn’t want it to end. The world was the fire of my chest, the ice of the air, the strength of her hand, the passion of my mind. Someone stumbled over us, and thought we were just asleep. The moment he was gone, the wider world ceased, and touch became existence again.
I presented, and got off topic. I really should use notes when I get up to speak in front of people. Somehow, I managed to be engaging enough to spark questions and interest. It isn’t that I disagree with taking medicine, with institutionalization, with ‘fixing,’ with transition… and sure that last is obvious. It’s that I disagree with forced medication, institutionalization… and yes, forced transition, as many doctors force onto intersex children at birth. Much as Kate Bornstein expresses the need for the psychological/psychiatric community to recognize that it isn’t GID, it isn’t about being a man or a woman, but self-comfort and confidence, nor is the issue that psychiatric treatment is inherently bad but that the use of them, especially the forced use of them, destroys so much.
Had to stay quiet. Had to keep relatively still. Occasionally the door would open, spilling bright light across our blanket wrapped forms. Clothes on, quiet, unmoving, who would guess? Thoughts of the frigid air evaporated as I dared to go under her shirt, biting…
We were in a lot of the presentations together, the brief 20 minute insights into other worlds, ideas, versions of life. Sometimes our own. We were in a lot of things together, when I finally told her this blog existed, or rather the address. The memories of sitting in freezing halls listening to Maymay’s dichotomies, both false and true, of listening to Zac’s insistence of artisanship, and of nervously sitting there, wondering what she would think when she saw the other side of what I wrote of her.
Maymay’s discussion of dichotomies was fascinating. The fact that false dichotomies are useful tools, that the problems stem from how they are used, etc. Men with active, top, dominant, giving; women with passive, bottom, submissive, taking… Or as I later thought about, the dichotomies between public and private, appropriate and inappropriate, platonic and sexual, distant and intimate. The breakdown becomes: public, appropriate, platonic, distant versus private, inappropriate, sexual, intimate. Exhibitionism pushes those dichotomies, those assumptions, and enters the uncomfortable space of inappropriate public space… But that isn’t how the mind actually works, the conference, the weekend, is completely intertwined with the night before, of her touch, of her skin, of that freezing room where desire was the only thing that held off shivering…
Her gasp was covered by the breaking of bones on screen, my quiet groan by the saving of the world. Again. Eventually, her hand left my chest, my nails no longer dragged across her back, we dared no more bites, and we curled together for warmth.
It was a strange night, and a rather strange party. My housemates, some friends, and I all in a circle playing spin the bottle, and damn was I drunk. Running around in my binder with my shirt off is pretty much the definition of “bombed” for me. Playing spin the bottle is as well. Except it wasn’t a bottle, it was a cell phone, because we were drinking hard liquor and mixers that night. Except it wasn’t just housemates and some friends, it was also some people who I didn’t even know…
Attraction is a funny thing.
So there the group of us were, playing spin the bottle with a cell phone, and at some point I ended up on the other side of the circle than expected, and next to one of those people I didn’t know. Wearing no shirt, just my binder. We flirt, but those details are lost to time. What is clear is the scraping nails across arms, our quiet way of saying we each wanted more; more pain, more action, more passion, more than making out. Our nails blazed red trails, even when just sitting there, waiting for our turn in the game. Her arms were red, her friend noticed. Somehow, he missed that it was me.
That drunken night did more for my confidence than most of my relationships…
Sitting in my living room, just her, my housemate, and myself, we cheer as a hookup pair finally leaves the bathroom and the housemate walks the other to the door and bids her a goodnight, and returns upstairs. The three of us remain, and sit there, my housemate and I in a silent contest. Who gets the one-night stand? Who gets the out of town guest? It never occurred to us to have a threesome. It never occurred to us to speak up, to question, just remain silent, until my housemate declares this to be too awkward and returns to her room, and I go to mine, but I am not alone.
She tops me, a rare occurrence. She takes the lead, takes the control, and has my pants off quick. She has me pinned, has me taking… but she’s the one with the back laced with nails dragging, fiery lines crossing her back, while my back remains clear, as I am bound. She has my pants off, her warm wet breath tracing up and down my thighs, her tongue flicks across my clit, and my binder remains on. She doesn’t want reciprocation, she just wants to get me off, and she leaves my binder on. I didn’t really understand why, but with an attractive person going down on me while I was drunk, I wasn’t in much of a position to process the issue.
She was good, and it was hot.
Only later did it occur to me that she left my binder on out of respect. Respect for my identity, respect for not being a woman, respect that I might well not want someone to play with my chest. It was a first. She had my pants off, and I was still not a woman in her eyes. Maybe it was because she had gender discrepancies of her own. Not that I wouldn’t have wanted her to touch my chest, but that she didn’t lead me to new thoughts, new realizations. More than anything, it lead me to new confidence of having that chest at all.