Bonds of Love

Remember when my ass was blue?

While Charlie was prancing around Vienna with supermodels and gay movie stars for the annual Lifeball aids benefit, I went to a Chemistry party in Brooklyn. Like I said in a previous post, it had been a long time since I attended a sex party by myself. It was the perfect time to go, with Charlie out of town surrounded by hot models. I gave him freedom to seize any sexual opportunity that came up in Vienna, and he in turn gave me his blessing to go to Chemistry and “have a great time.” I must admit it’s far easier to handle his solo sexcapades when I have an equally exciting distraction.

The Chemistry people used to host sex parties in a grand loft way out in Brooklyn, but they lost that space due to legal complications or rent or something similarly unpleasant. The party I attended recently was the inaugural event at their new location, which also happens to be way out in Brooklyn (though in a different neighborhood). After a long, irritating commute via the L train, a shuttle bus (because the L train was mechanically challenged that night), the G train and a sketchy walk along deserted garbage-lined streets, I finally arrived at the unmarked metal door that opened to Chemistry.

The first thing I saw after climbing the dank, concrete staircase was a set of prison-like bars separating the foyer from the main space. How appropriate for the theme Caged Heat. Those bars were the most interesting piece of décor in the place, which had, at first glance, the damp, rotting appearance of a basement dungeon. Directly in front of the entrance was a red-painted room with mattresses on the floor where I could see a few couples in the heat of sensual play. The other guests were sprawled out in the main area, standing, dancing, talking, or on their way somewhere with drinks in hand, just like at any ordinary party…although by the looks of their outfits, any half-aware person who walked in would’ve guessed that this was no ordinary party.

I went straight to the bathroom to change into my Caged Heat costume: a tight pink and black leopard teddy with garters, black fishnet stockings, a cat tail, cat mask, and knee-high black leather boots. The bathroom was a hole in the wall that barely locked with a hook and string, but like Clark Kent in a telephone booth, I transformed from my understated stylish self to Super Sexy Cat Woman.

From the bathroom I made a beeline for the snack table and filled myself with pita chips as I observed the scene. I recognized a few people, but most of the faces I had never seen before. Looking exclusively for female prospects, I saw no one who made my tail twitch with desire. Although nothing exciting was happening in that room, I recognized an acquaintance standing near the bars, twiddling a flogger. I had seen him tie up women at other events and I knew he was good--highly skilled and experienced in the art of ropes and BDSM. I said hi and told him I might ask him to tie me up later. I said “later” because I had just arrived and needed to warm up. I wanted to scope out the rest of the premises to see if I might come across anyone worth a mingling. So I went up the creaky wooden staircase lit by a single bulb hanging from a dusty beam on the ceiling, to a narrow second floor where a bar was set up. I got a drink from a cute bartendress then stepped out onto the roof--cracked, dismal, with not much of a view, to check out the tent set up for outdoor play. One mattress filled the tent, but no one was inside.

I slinked back inside and down the stairs. A few female faces caught my eye, but not enough to inspire me to talk to them. Instead I fell into a conversation with a guy who asked me if I was bisexual. Yes…and was I there by myself? Yes…and might I be interested in playing with his girlfriend? "Where’s your girlfriend?" I asked. She’s over there, the blonde one, he said, pointing her out. She looked okay, but I couldn’t see her face. Possibly, I said. As I usually don’t like being propositioned by men looking for threesomes, I let the conversation meander into more neutral territory. So we talked about what we did for a living and sex parties in general. Had you been to Chemistry before? Yes, several times…you? Talking began to feel extraneous. I was far more interested in my friend over by the bars. No women were stirring my juices. Now was the time to stir my own.

I excused myself, saying, “I’m going to get myself tied up.”

I walked over to my friend and said, “I’d like you to tie me up now.”

“How do you want to be tied up?” He asked.

Just hearing that question turned me on. Having seen him in action before, I trusted him completely. Trust turns me on. He was attractive and familiar--that turned me on. His cool and steady voice turned me on. His professionalism turned me on. From the moment I put myself in his hands, totally at his mercy yet completely in control, I was turned on.

I turned to face the bars and clasped my hands around the cool metal as he began to slide rope around my body. He asked me exactly how I wanted it, talking through every step. As he looped the rope around my torso, knotting and tightening along the way, my muscles tensed and relaxed in complete submission to the process, and yet I felt powerful holding onto the bars, as though I were offering myself in a sacrificial ritual. As the rope encircled my breasts, I wondered if it would’ve been better if I had removed my teddy, but I like maintaining some modesty in an exhibitionist scene. Besides, the swish sound of rope gliding along satin was erotic music to my ears. Ropes slipped between my legs, one on either side of my unexposed labia, and found their ends in a knot somewhere along my back. It was exciting to feel the tightening, the pulling, the gliding, without seeing exactly what they were doing. (Yes, they! I sensed that more than two hands were creating this web of submission; Mr. Ropes had an assistant.) Even if I had removed my mask, I wouldn’t have been able to follow every movement with my eyes. Part of the pleasure of confinement is surrendering oneself to mystery.

After most of my upper body was confined in an intricate web, Mr. Ropes asked me how I wanted to be tied to the bars. I requested both wrists and legs. When all was secure, he picked up the flogger and lightly swished it on my ass…smooth, graceful, silky thrashes that warmed my blood. There was no pain at this stage, just sensations washing over me like a warm bath or prickly grass or a Swedish massage in the sun. I don’t know how many minutes passed before I felt pain. The swishing gradually intensified…faster, harder, more concentrated. Warming became burning became pain became pleasure. The pain dissolved into pleasure with the aid of a large vibrator rolling over my body and…what’s that? Are those hands? Vibrating hands? I looked down and saw a gloved hand gliding over my body with just the right amount of pressure. How surreal. Where did it come from? Did I ask for that? It didn’t matter now. I had asked for the vibrator. With all these sensations blurring together I was beyond permission. Although I am a stickler for permission when playing with strangers at parties, there is a point in SM play when submission takes over my brain. As long as no one is hurting me more than I can tolerate, as long as no one is touching my sexual parts with bare hands, as long as no one is attempting to penetrate me without asking, I’m okay. I trusted my handlers. They were good. They knew what they were doing. And they knew what I wanted.

They knew I wanted to be punished, but they also knew I wanted to come. “Make me come with the vibrator,” I said.

I peered through the bars and saw Charlie watching me. Though he was thousands of miles away, I saw him there, stroking his cock. Several people entered and looked at me. I lifted my cat mask so I could see better, not so they could see my face. No one stayed and stared. They smiled and nodded and moved on. Even when a friend of mine showed up in a sexy cop uniform, she stopped only briefly to speak some naughty disciplinary words before she was on her way. I’m glad she didn’t stay. She was too familiar. I wanted the illusion of Charlie in front of me. I wanted the trance of sensation out of time. I wanted the soft lips of a perfumed stranger…

So many hands and sensations, so much stroking and burning, that I didn’t realize when she started touching me. I noticed a shift in caressing. At first I thought that my handlers had lightened their touch and traveled up toward my neck. But this new touch was softer, more earnest. I thought maybe it was a female I knew, maybe my sexy cop friend. Then suddenly she was kissing me. No, I don’t know these lips. My mask was back over my eyes and I was kissing these lovely lips and I couldn’t even see her face. I didn’t even know her name.

I lifted my mask. She was delicate and dark. Pretty, yet androgynous. Asian, I think. It was hard to tell with her flesh inches from my face. “Who?” I stuttered. “Whose hands…was that y—” She covered my mouth with her hand before I finished.

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” she said.

I surrendered to her lips for a few more moments. Then she was gone.

Meanwhile, the vibrator was steady between my legs. It had been there for a while, but they kept missing the spot. Adjusting was a challenge. I didn’t have much space to move. My joints were starting to ache. But I had to come. I just had to!

“You can stop flogging me now…continue lightly…then stop,” I said.

Now that I was feeling more pain than pleasure from the beatings, I knew it was time to stop. At this point it occurred to me that I might have some bruises. But that was of no immediate concern. My immediate concern was to make the conditions ideal for me to achieve an orgasm.

Through my peripheral vision, I saw a woman watching me with great focus. She was pretty and femme, and she stared at me with lusty eyes. I beckoned her to come closer. She came, and without any introduction, we kissed. Slowly we leaned in. Sensually our lips pressed together. Her lips tasted sweet, like an artificially flavored cocktail.

“I would like you to make me come with the vibrator,” I purred into her ear.

I alerted my handlers. They handed it over to her and she placed it on my pussy. She would surely make me come, I thought. When it comes to vibrators, women know best. We kissed passionately as she moved the vibrating ball around my clit. I surrendered to her, but I wasn’t close to coming. Whenever I approached the first stage of ascent, the vibrator moved and I was back at square one. As hot as she was, after several minutes of this, I decided that I had to take control of this instrument.

They untied my arms and she remained my muse. I didn’t want this to end without climax. Whenever a doubt popped into my head, I pulled myself back to the buzzing, to the idea of inevitable apex, to her lips.

But kissing her was not bringing me any closer to coming. I had to put all my focus, all my energy into the instrument in my hands. Ironically, the more I focused on my goal, the more I surrendered to her in the moment. I ran my free hand through her hair, pressed my lips against her chest, now drenched in sweat. I pressed my cheek against her chest and pulled her close to me as I exploded a million miniscule beads of ecstasy into the universe.

When it was over, I kissed her and looked into her eyes. “Thank you for staying with me,” I said. She smiled.

They untied my legs and released me from the web. The untying was just as submissively arousing as the tying, but it was a different kind of surrender. I surrendered to reality. I caved in to the relief of allowing my body to return to its natural state.

Although I was still buzzing and almost bowlegged, I couldn’t have been more satisfied. I walked over to the middle of the room and chatted with a friend about the 1920s porn being screened on the wall. A girlish woman tittered with excitement while watching her friend fuck a moustached man on a picnic blanket. The fast motion and giddiness made it seem silly, but I found the scenes erotic. The naturalism of it turned me on—the big bushes, the real breasts, the scraggly clothes, and stockings, oh the stockings. Yes, I was turned on, but more in my head than in my body. Now that the pleasant burning sensation in my ass was fading, and I had no other sensations or movements to distract me, it started to hurt. I rubbed my bottom and it was tender to the touch.

I hobbled over to a ratty couch and sat. Ouch. Suddenly I felt like an old woman with arthritis. God, am I going to be blue, I thought.

The pain lasted two days. Sitting was a bitch. It throbbed and throbbed all that night and the following day. When Charlie came home on Sunday, I pulled down my pants and showed him my welts without saying a word. Then, as we made love, I narrated my experience to him. I told him how he was on the other side of the bars the entire time. I told him how the women mysteriously appeared, and that once I was released from my prison, they were gone. As if they were fantasies. I related every detail, every feeling, every sensation. Then he told me about the two glittery gold-painted models he smooched and the gay celebrity who wanted to get into his pants. I felt as if I was there. I was in two places at once. So was he. As we plunged into each other’s memories, we bonded on another plane where our separate experiences became one. Later, as Charlie rubbed arnica on my poor, blue ass, I couldn’t have been more grateful for the pain.

Encouraging Words

Dear Readers,

Sorry I've been away for a while! I've been traveling a lot this summer, adventuring in Japan for two weeks and now finishing up a week in Utah before heading back to the sexy city...I'll start posting again next week. Meanwhile, I would like to share with you a kind letter from a fan.

"I hope you don't mind this "fan letter." I've been an avid reader and supporter of your work since your first New York Press pieces. It was important to me to write this because I know from your essays and blog posts how sensitive you are to the kind of criticism that has been coming at you lately. I find it astonishing that people could think for a second that you are arrogant when you respond so thoughtfully to words obviously intended to be hurtful written by someone without the basic courage to reveal his or her identity. To be honest, in a similar situation I would have responded in kind, with the literary equivalent of a raised middle finger. You were decidedly more classy and composed.

I could praise your work a lot more, but you don't need it. Your writing makes it clear that you know your own worth. What's truly sad is that these anonymous hecklers spend their time attempting to tear you down for supposed "arrogance" instead of investigating the source of their own unhappiness. Honesty is what we all need most, and from the very beginning you have always delivered that to your readers.

Thank you for always sharing yourself so honestly."

--Darcy F.

Thank you Darcy! Stay tuned for upcoming stories on exhibitionist bondage and Part 2 of Sunday in the Park with Charlie. Also mark your calendars for a Sex Debate on Sept 28 starring yours truly. And watch The Fold!

Lust Always,
Stephanie

On Attractiveness

Recent criticism from an anonymous reader inspired me to ponder the nature of attractiveness and ego. This is not the first time I received commentary accusing me of self-absorption and / or arrogance, particularly when I write about the topic of attractiveness. Some people seem to think that because I describe unattractive people at sex parties and acknowledge my own attractiveness, that I’m an egotistical snob. I can be a snob about certain things. I’m not going to deny that. I’m especially a snob about style, art, and culture. And grammar. Don’t I have impeccable grammar? As for the ego—it exists in everyone. So why not embrace it?

Ego is a problem when it blinds one to others; one becomes obsessed with oneself to the point where others don’t exist as more than mirrors to that person’s ego. A truly egotistical person is obsessed with proving one’s talents and abilities to others, and is so wrapped up in this mission that she is incapable of seeing people for who they are (this, too, is subjective; I mean the egotist is incapable of seeing others more objectively, without the self projecting “What can I do to make this person worship me? Me? And Me?”), making it impossible for her to give anything out of compassion or selflessness. The egotist is incapable of genuine generosity. The egotist is unattractive.

When I describe my attractiveness, I feel like I am outside of myself. I step outside of my ego and observe the effect I have on others. If people are drawn to me for whatever reason, I am attracting them. Therefore I am attractive. They may be attracted to my looks, my personality, my energy. It doesn’t matter what it is. If I were famous, I would attract certain people solely for that reason. If I brought drugs to a party, I would attract others for that reason alone. The point is that attractiveness boils down to either an innate quality or something you possess. People either want you or they want something you have. Simple logic. That’s one level of attractiveness.

The other level is subjectivity. Beauty is in the eye of the beholder. That’s the most wonderful cliché in the world. It means you could be the ugliest person in the universe and someone will find you beautiful. But if you’re ugly and mean, the chances are slim. Unless you run into a masochist. But the masochist may be attracted for egocentric reasons; only the most disgusting people turn him on because deep, deep down he hates himself. When I say someone is unattractive, that means the person is unattractive to me. Why is it arrogant to admit that? And why is it arrogant to acknowledge one’s own attractiveness? This seems to offend a lot of people. It’s such a taboo to say, “I’m hot and I know it.” Yet it’s okay for women to gripe about their weight or say, “I’m ugly” because it inspires compassion in others. You want to say, “No you’re not. You have a lot of attractive qualities…” You feel sorry for them. How sad! Such victims of society’s high standards of beauty! You want to be the Mother Theresa of American pageantry, reach out and say, “That’s not true. You’re not ugly unless you say you are. Beauty is in the eye of the beholder.” But when someone, especially a woman, acknowledges her beauty, how quick people are to tear her down and scream, “How dare you! How self-absorbed! That makes people who are less attractive than you feel bad!” Do you think I’m so one-dimensional that I must boast of my beauty to prove something? The embracing of one’s finer qualities is not always a reflection of conceit. The nature of the self and attractiveness is fascinating to me and it gives me pleasure to observe these elements of human nature at play, in others as well as in myself.

So now you think I’m a bitch for knocking women who complain about their looks. As an honest writer, I must anticipate such reactions. And I feel compelled to point out that attractiveness has more to do with energy and personality than appearance. But to deny the importance of appearance is inauthentic. Not to mention ridiculous. Naturally, I’m attracted to beautiful faces and gorgeous bodies. But not every beauty is beautiful. Out of all the people I’ve dated, only a few have been physical beauties. I’ve had sexual encounters with men many women would call unattractive. Older men. Flabby men. Men with bad teeth. But there was something, or several things I found attractive about them, and therefore deemed them worthy of my sexual generosity.

On the other hand, sex parties are playgrounds where people explore their sexual fantasies. You may be in love with a plain Jane or Joe, but the characters in your fantasy look more like Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt. (Neither of whom I find very attractive, by the way. Maybe it’s due to media overexposure. Or because their aura of perfection is boring to me. Anyway, that says something about the relativity of physical attractiveness.) So you and Jane go to this party and are naturally drawn to the guests who look most like your fantasy couple. Do you bother to get to know the pock-faced girl and her pot-bellied date? Most likely not. In other contexts you might make the effort, and after getting to know them, find them attractive. But not at first glance. At sex parties, there isn’t time to get to know people and develop crushes based on extended interactions that allow their attractiveness to expand and grow on you. So why waste time on getting to know people at a sex party? Of course I want to feel some kind of connection and feel safe with the people I choose to play with, but the point is to find people who appeal to my fantasies. Because I’m not there to look for a mate. Unless I’m among friends, I’m there to seek pleasure without any expectations to see these partners again.

Even after acknowledging the superficial nature of orgies, I feel I am open to people who don’t physically fall into my usual standards of attractiveness. The usual, for me, includes dark haired, dark complexioned handsome men with gorgeous dark eyes, men who mysteriously straddle the fine line between hyper-masculinity and feminineness. I don’t have a height preference—anywhere between 5’4’’and 6’ appeals to me. I like men who are in shape, lean and toned but not super-buff. With women I’m generally attracted to super-femme beauties that exude masculine energy as well as tomboys and butch dykes with pretty and/or cute faces. Androgeny is hot, regardless of gender. I like petite women with small breasts, but I’m also drawn to larger, voluptuous women with big natural breasts because they are such a contrast to me. I’m far more tolerant of body fat in women than in men; large women can be sexy, whereas large men are simply large. In both sexes, clear skin, nice teeth, great smiles, and balanced features are constant winners. Those are my physical preferences. There are always exceptions.

Sometimes it surprises me who I end up offering myself to. Since I desire connection and I want to feel safe at parties, after evaluating physical attributes I move on to the following: hygiene, energy, and attitude. Within a few minutes of interaction I have a pretty good idea whether someone is open or prude, honest or inauthentic, intelligent or vacuous, respectful or rude. And it doesn’t take more than ten seconds to determine whether the subject has washed his ass at least once in the past two days. Are you relatively secure with yourself? Do you know what you want? Do you have integrity? Are you interesting? Are you sane? If so, there’s a good chance I’ll overlook your less than stellar physique, your bald spot, your crooked nose. In exchange, you may find substance behind my pretty face. But if you want to fuck me for my looks, I don’t blame you. That’s what fantasies are for.

Did I say I was pretty? How dare I! I must be self-absorbed. When I shared my concerns with a fellow artist, he said, “That’s a criticism? I would take it as a compliment!” After further discussion, I came to the conclusion that any artist who creates from the well of personal experience is bound to some degree of self-absorption. Oscar Wilde said, “…the realization of oneself is the prime aim of life, and to realize oneself through pleasure is finer than to do so through pain”. He also said, “To become a spectator of one’s own life is to escape the suffering of life.” There is nothing objective about being human. So I look at myself “objectively” through the eyes of others. My intention is not to escape suffering, but invariably when I step out of my narrow self-perception, I feel more open and connected to the universe.

Unfortunately, I also happen to be sensitive to criticism (especially when it’s an attack on my character), so I obsessed about the anonymous critic who wrote these comments. Is it someone I know? Maybe it’s someone I met recently, possibly a writer I met at Yaddo (because the comments were so well-written). My fellow artist suggested that this commentator is probably female, because how often do men complain about women who shamelessly acknowledge their attractiveness, especially one who writes openly about her sex life? And if this commentator is a female, she’s probably insecure or jealous or envious or all of the above, and projecting her ideas about self-image onto my writing. Then again, maybe the person is a dirty old man getting back at me for snubbing him five years ago.

Whoever you are, I’m glad my Club Tantra experience got you so riled up. That means I’m doing something interesting with this blog. But arrogant! Please. Maybe if you knew how ugly I felt for years, that I didn’t have a boyfriend until I was eighteen, and that at my high-school reunion, a guy said snidely, “Since when did you become gorgeous?” you would read my words differently. Maybe now that I’ve revealed these secrets, you will understand why I embrace my attractiveness. And it’s not because I’m beautiful, dammit! It’s because I’ve learned to accept myself.

One more thing: any reader who chooses to call me arrogant and self-absorbed and doesn’t have the dignity to identify herself (or if she knows me personally, doesn’t have the balls to speak to my face) deserves to be spanked. I’ll gladly do the honor and hope she enjoys it.