Knockout

"Come over at 9:30pm. Let yourself in. Have your cock ready when you walk in my door."

That's all the text message said.


I can hear her footsteps echoing in the wooden stairwell next to my bedroom. My door swings open. She's got a nervous look in her eyes, but she plays it off well. "Hey baby. How're you?"

"Hi." I climb out of bed, in nothing but an oversized t-shirt and some cotton panties, and pull her into me roughly. I kiss her deeply and slide my hands down to her jeans, unbuttoning them and pulling her cock out. It's fast and smooth, all in one movement, and she pulls away a bit to assess what I'm doing.

"Sit down." I point to the chair in the corner of my room, a relic from a lifetime past, and I push her hips gently in that direction.

Now she looks really nervous. "What are you...?"

"You'll see." I pull out a coil of soft rope from underneath my bed, as she sits down.

"Put your palms together, and hold them out for me."

She's so obliging. I wrap the rope around and between her wrists, fastening them together. She's watching me with rapt attention, not sure what to expect. Holding the other thirteen feet of rope, I begin to wind it around her upper body and the chair back, restraining her neatly into the chair. She can breathe deeply and squirm a bit, but that's all the rope will allow her. I step back to admire my handiwork. Can't help it. There's something a bit sadistically beautiful about the way the light purple rope contrasts against her skin, across her dark blue t-shirt, and the way it pulls against the curves of her body.

Her fly is still unzipped; her dick is poking out, ready, waiting. I lean in to kiss her then get down to my knees, pushing her thighs apart. I start at her balls and run my tongue along her shaft, stopping at the head to slip her whole dick in my mouth.

That's all it takes. She melts into a mess. She's pulling against the ropes, moaning at the way I take her, almost sweetly, into the back of my throat. There's nothing that turns her on more than sticking whatever is available into my mouth.

I play with her a bit, licking the head of her cock, running my lips down her shaft, sucking her deep until I can't take it anymore. She'd come in my mouth in a heartbeat, if she could. But I'm not done with her yet.

I stand up, pulling the big t-shirt over my head. I reach down, pull my panties to the side, and remove the glass dildo from inside me. It's soaking wet; I've been clenching it so hard for the last fifteen minutes that the release is almost orgasmic.

"Oh you... how did you hide that from me?" She's been watching me in amazement.

I laugh and set the dildo on the shelf. "I still like to surprise you every once in awhile." I retrieve a condom from the dresser, tear it open, slide it on her. I climb over the chair, resting my thighs on the arms, and grip her cock, sliding it into the lips of my cunt. There's so much space between us that I can barely feet it against me, but the glass piece has left me so wound up that just the thought of her inside me is enough to make me drip.

Her nose touches mine, but she can't lean forward to kiss me. She wants to know what's coming next. What to expect. Where to go. As if she could go anywhere.

I kiss her, again and again until I'm too wet to play this game, and I stop to lean my lips into her ear.

"I'm going to untie you." She nods.

"You're going to take your jeans off. I'm going to get my bullet. I'm going to climb on the bed. Do you understand so far?"

"Yes, ma'm." Oh, so compliant.

"You're going to push me down on all fours. You're going to lube up your cock. And then you're going to slide inside of me and fuck me senseless. I want you to fuck me hard. Don't stop until I use my safeword. Can you do that?"

I lean back to look into her eyes. The edge of fear has been replaced by a desire, deep, rolling, an anticipation. She's so good at giving me exactly what I want. I pull the end of the rope, releasing the knot, and begin to unwind it and release her. With her wrists finally free, she slides her hands across my hips, pushing me deeper into her, and pulls my upper body forward to kiss her. I'm relinquishing physical control, and it feels amazing. She bites my neck, my earlobe, forcing the moans out of my lips.

"Yes, ma'm. I'll give you anything you want."

You Can Make It Feel So Real

"May I come?"

I pull back, disconnecting my lips from her labia, but leave both fingers inside her cunt.

"Excuse me?" My voice comes out low, hard.

"May I come?" She's moaning between questions. I'm enjoying making her wait.

"Aren't you missing something?"

"Please, ma'm? May I..."

I cut her off. "No. Wait."

She moans, almost whining. She swings her wrists down, but I catch the movement out of the corner of my eye, just as I'm about to dip my face back into her cunt.

"What are you doing? Put your hands back over your head."

She gulps.

"Yes, ma'm." She shifts her handcuffed wrists back above her head.

"If you behave, I'll let you come. Do you understand?"

She nods. "Yes, ma'm"

I slide back down, curling both fingers into her g-spot before I lick her slowly, from the base of my fingers, across her labia, and over her clit. She shudders and cries out, again; it's obvious how hard she is holding it in. I twirl my tongue around her clit once more, clockwise.

"Now. You can come."

She gasps for a huge breath, moans, and I lick her, tongue flat across her clit, until she's writhing and dripping down my tongue, my lips, my chin. She quiets for a minute, breathing deeply. We're far from done. I begin to twirl my fingers inside of her, very, very slowly. She's so tight; I know she can feel every touch, every movement, to the tips of her fingers and toes. I adore how the energy coils in her body after she comes; there's another orgasm hiding, but it must be coaxed out. Usually this is a slow process, a dance, as I loosen her up until she's crying out on the verge again.

I lick her, gently, pulling her g-spot with the tips of my fingers in rhythm with my tongue. She thrashes a bit, and comes across my lips again.

She didn't ask first. She knows better. But I don't stop. I want to see how far this will go. I keep licking, fucking, pushing against her cunt in a slow rhythm.

She moans. "May I come, please?"

But she doesn't wait for my answer. She's trying to pretend like she isn't coming, but the way she tightens around my fingers gives her away. I let her finish, then lift my head up.

"I... I... I came without your permission."

Dead silence.

"Did you?"

"Yes." It comes out as a whisper.

"Excuse me?" My voice becomes harsher, sharper.

"Yes, ma'm. Twice."

I pull my fingers out so quickly she jumps. I climb up the bed, over her, straddle her waist. She looks up at me, hands above her head, where they should be.

"Are you going to punish me?" Her voice is so soft, I can barely hear it.

"Do you deserve to be punished?"

Pause.

"Yes."

"Yes, what?" Cut the bullshit.

"Yes, ma'm."

"Did I tell you I would punish you if you didn't ask before you came?"

Pause.

"Yes, ma'm."

I reach above her, pull the cuffs off, one by one. I'm contemplating her punishment, and I need a second. I consider a spanking, but I haven't hit her or spanked her yet. I'm not sure she's ready. I'd prefer something she doesn't know yet to fear, something that will cut psychologically, not physically.

She lies waiting quietly in anticipation. I say nothing, let her fear build. I get out of bed and move around the room, replacing the handcuffs in the drawer, giving us both a few moments.

Hm. This is going to be good.

I pull my Hitachi wand out of the drawer. I can feel her eyes following me in the faint light. I plug it in next to my bed.

"Get on your side of the bed." She shifts over, away from me, still on her back. Her eyes are huge. I can tell that she's extremely nervous.

I look directly into her eyes. "You disobeyed me."

Pause.

"Why did you disobey me?"

"I... I guess...I wanted to know what the consequences would be."

"You wanted to know if I would really punish you?" I'm astounded at this blatant disobedience.

"Yes.... ma'm." She knows she's in deep trouble now.

"So, you're telling me that not only did you disobey me, but you did it purposefully." I don't wait for her answer. "You're testing me. I don't appreciate it. You deserve to be punished. I don't threaten what I am not willing to carry out. Do you understand me?"

The fear is getting the better of her. "Yes, ma'm."

"Do you understand why you are being punished?"

She doesn't hesitate. "Yes, ma'm."

"Good." I lie down next to her, but several inches away. No part of my body is touching hers. I pull the Hitachi into my lap.

"I'm going to get off, and you're going to watch. Under no circumstances can you touch me. Do you understand?"

She whines, but it comes out almost as a moan. Holding me, touching me, as I masturbate is one of her favorite ways to have sex. It's probably her biggest fetish. And I'm about to turn it against her.

"Yes...."

I turn the Hitachi on, rub it against my clit, and begin to moan. It's almost theatre, putting this show on for her. I'm not sure if I'm more audience or performer. I can't see her, next to me in the dark, but I can feel her writhing, struggling physically and mentally with her punishment.

"Please? Please, can I touch you?"

"No." Punishments are not to be taken lightly.

I turn my head and moan near her ear. She whimpers a bit, quiets down. I'm so very much enjoying this. I come, my moans reaching a crescendo, cut the power of the Hitachi, and lie in the bed, letting my body reverberate from the powerful vibrations. I can feel her still writhing, getting upset with me.

"May I... may I touch you now?"

"Did you forget something, again?"

"Please?"

"No. You may not touch me."

I drop the Hitachi on the floor, and turn toward her, propping up on my side to look down on her.

"How does it feel to be punished?"

She gasps, still wanting to touch me. My body is so very close to hers, and I can feel the magnetism between us. I want to touch her, too. I want to cradle her, hold her, nuzzle her, kiss her. But I hold back. I want her to know that I'm serious, that a threat results in action. I want her to understand she isn't going to get away with disobeying me.

"It... it was... torture." She shivers. "To hear you, to see you next to me, and not to touch you. That was really mean."

"How did it make you feel?"

She thinks for a second. "Angry. I'm kind of mad at you."

I digest this for a minute. "Did you disobey me?"

"Yes."

"Did you know that if you did not ask before you came, I would punish you? Was I clear in explaining the consequences?"

"Yes."

"Did you decide to test me by purposefully disobeying?"

She's becoming petulant with my pushing. "Yes."

"Then you do understand that you brought this on yourself?"

"......yes."

"You don't have any right to be angry with me. You made a choice. You chose to disobey, knowing full and well that there would be consequences. You had the agency here. I responded to your actions. I think you need to reconsider who your anger should be aimed at."

She seethes a bit in the dark, but I can tell the wheels are turning.

"But that punishment was really mean."

"Yes. But you wanted to test me, and you chose to disobey me." I take a breath. "I think we should end this scene. Is that ok?"

"Yes, please."

I kiss her, softly, on the lips. I put my arm around her, pull her head into my chest, and cradle her body into mine. She shutters, breathes deeply, and curls into me.

a Kinkster is Born

The overhead fan is beating through the heavy summer heat, but it doesn’t make much of a difference. My room is stifling. The afternoon sun glaring on my windows isn’t helping – but neither are we. I’ve got her down on my bed, my hips holding her captive. She slides her hands under the oversized men’s cotton polo shirt I’m wearing; her fingers feel cool against the heat of my skin.

I stop kissing her, pull away. “Will you take your jeans off?”

I’m making her nervous. I can tell. I’m always a bit surprised when this happens, especially when I know for a fact that I’m younger, less experienced. But I suppose everyone isn’t quite so brash, completely sober and determined to get laid in the middle of the afternoon.

“I don’t know…”

“Please?” I keep pushing, foolishly, because I’m young and aggressive.

But she clearly isn’t going to oblige. I flip around, climbing off her, and fall into the bed next to her. She pulls up on her side, leaning over me, pulling me under her.

“Yes?” I’m not trying to be rude, but my response comes off as a cocky question.

“I want to fuck you.”

I look directly into her eyes, unfazed. “You already have. I want to fuck you.”

“Not today, not now.” She’s insistent.

“That’s not fair. I don’t want you to keep fucking me and not let me touch you.” In my head, I rationalize not wanting to start this – whatever this is – as anything but reciprocal.

“Just for today.”

I’m clearly not getting anywhere, and there's a time to stop pushing. I relax and pull her into me. She leans in to kiss me. She wants to get me off. We fucked the day before, and I didn’t come. I had gotten close – so close, then my body shut off at the last moment. It’s not abnormal. Bodies are fickle, unpredictable, changing. An orgasm, or lack of one, doesn’t mean or prove anything, at least, not in my eyes.

We’re still kissing, but I’m pondering the next move. My choices are to let her fuck me or get out of bed. This isn’t a difficult decision. She begins to unbutton my shirt from the bottom, and I follow her lead, unbuttoning it from the top. She slides off the only other article of clothing I’m wearing – a pair of cotton panties – and runs her hands across my body.

She swings her body across mine, holding herself up over me, and pulls the down comforter up and over our bodies. She’s stripped down from three shirts to one by this point, and I’ve got her bra off, even if she’s still holding on to her t-shirt and jeans. She sits up, hips holding me down, and catches both my wrists with her hands, pulling them above my head. I don't expect this, at all, and my body tenses reflexively. But I don't have any time to react. The weight of her body is pushing me deeper into the bed; I can't move. She leans in, lips grazing my ear. 


"I'm going to let go of your wrists. But you're not going to move. Do you understand?"


I'm gulping for air. Between breaths, I nod. 


"Don't say anything. I don't want to hear a peep from you. I don't want you to move a muscle. Understood?"


I'm nodding.


"Say 'yes' so I know you understand."


"Yes," I whisper. 


"If you move, I'll won't touch you." Every muscle in my body is frozen. 


She releases my wrists and moves down my body, slowly, kissing across my breasts, my stomach, my hip bones, the inside of my thighs. It's taking every ounce of my concentration to  focus on not moving, not twitching. She spreads my legs wide; they feel like jello -- I have no control. Her tongue finds my swollen clit, and a moan falls out of my lips. I tense, hoping she didn't hear me. 


She stops. Fuck. "Did I just hear you moan?"


I shake my head back and forth.


"Answer me."


"No. Yes. I'm sorry."


"Don't do it again."


She puts her mouth back to my clit, wraps both arms under and around my thighs until she's gripping me so tight I'm tensing against her. 


I don't have time to think, to process this totally new sensation in my body. I come so fucking fast that it scares me. I couldn't hold back if I wanted to. 

She's an 8 Ball

As she walks up the steps, I pull open the front door, revealing my dining room cloaked in darkness. She leans down to kiss me, and I shift up on my toes, pulling her face down to mine. Connecting in. I like starting in a comfortable place, a calm place. She drops her backpack at my feet, and I let her grasp me around the waste, her lips still reaching for mine.

I pull away from her with a left ball change, and my body stiffens. She reaches for me again, leans toward me, but this time I rock back again slowly, cautiously. It's subtle, but she doesn't miss it. She stops, midway. Reaches for me with her hand, questioningly, but my body fluidly moves backward out of her reach.

"May I?" her voice is strong, not demanding, but confident.

I lean in to kiss her, but stop an inch from her lips. She comes back quickly, but I retract. She bites her bottom lip, cocks her head to the side, stares hungrily. I love the power in her stare. I love pushing her down, holding her there, watching her eyes as she gives way into yearning. The power is still there when she begs me. But there's something else, too -- a touch of fear mingled with the raw need for submission.

I move toward her once more, stop before she can reach for me to kiss me. She can't have me. She can't touch me, she can't kiss me. I lean it, catch her bottom lip, and bite it softly. She hesitates before kissing me back. She hesitates again, leans in to touch me. I pull away, ending the kiss.

"May I touch you?"

"No." Low and soft, I find my voice. It has the feeling of a familiar weapon, the handle of a old knife I haven't palmed in a long time. "I don't think so."

I can feel a shift in her. My voice takes her aback. I'm not sure when, but I know it has hit her that the room is dark. All the lights are off, which is unusual -- I always leave one or two on, click them off in a row on my way up to bed.

"Follow me." I take her arm, lead her though the dark rooms, into the stairwell. She doesn't know what to expect, and I'm going to thoroughly enjoy toying with her.

I stop in front of the stairs, midway into the house. "Kiss me," I order her. We dance for a minute, again, as I pull back from her kisses and she reaches in for more. I find pleasure in training her to follow my movements. She's intelligent, catches on fast. It's a mind game at this point, a psychological power play.

I find her hands in the darkness, put them on the waist of my jeans. "Take my pants off."

She giggles nervously. "But you'll be cold..." It's half question, half statement.

"Did I ask for your opinion?" I pause and lean in, my lips right next to her ear. "I told you to take my pants off."

"Yes, ma'm," she whispers.

"I'm glad you're listening." I don't have time for bullshit.

She undoes the button on my jeans carefully, slowly pulling the legs of my jeans down my thighs. I have the feeling she wants to touch me, but I haven't given her permission to. She knows better.

She stands back up and waits for my next command, nervously.

"What can I do for you?" she asks. It's one of her favorite questions. She's pulling what she knows, trying to apply it to the situation to make it more familiar, more comfortable.

"Whatever I tell you."

She giggles again, and a part of me wants to reach out to her as she navigates this space outside her comfort zone. But I haven't pushed her into anything she can't handle.

"Take off my panties."

"Here?"

"Don't question me." She moves slowly, carefully, working down my body. Her face is inches from my cunt.

"Stand up."

I can feel the cold air hitting my body. I guide her hand to the desk next to me, where my robe sits. She picks it up. "Put the robe on me."

"Yes, ma'm." She gingerly sets it on me. I lean in and bite her neck, bit her lip. Run my hands across her chest. She's bound, tight, but I find her nipples anyway. I want to pinch them, but that's not possible. She groans softly when I touch her.

"May I touch you?" I let this question sink in.

"What do you want?" My response is low, cold.

"May I touch you, please?" God, how I love to hear her beg.

"No."

She is accustomed to my consent. "Please?" But my body is stiff and cold as my voice.

"No. Follow me."

I lead her through the curtain, into the kitchen. The only light is a street lamp glinting through the window over the sink. In the middle of the kitchen I pull her into me roughly, nails digging into her neck, and kiss her. Her uncertainty is almost tangible.

I snatch her shirt in my fist, back up into the counter top, and pull her into me. Her hands rest on the counter.

"Do you know what I want?"

She shakes her head.

"Answer me."

"No." Her voice is so small, awkward.

"Do you feel this countertop?"

"Yes."

"Yes, what." It's not a question.

"Yes, ma'm."

"Lift me onto it." She cups her hands under my ass, and I pull my body up as she lifts me. I lock my thighs around her waist, bend over her, and kiss her. Her hand touches my thigh, cautiously. I pull away sharply from her lips.

"Did I say you could touch me?"

She hangs her head. "No."

"No, what?"

"No, ma'm."

"Then why are you touching me?"

"I..." She's stuttering. "I wanted to feel you."

"Don't touch me unless I tell you to. Do you understand me?"

"Yes... ma'm."

"Good. I made that pretty fucking clear."

I wrap my hands around her cheeks, pull her in close to me. I can't see her eyes in the dark, though I want to.

I shift my legs open, spread wide across the kitchen counter. "Do you know what I want?"

She shifts nervously but doesn't answer.

"I'm going to tell you what you're going to do. You're going to lick me until I come all over your tongue. Do you understand me?"

"Yes, ma'm."

I push her head down roughly between my thighs, lean back, and let her cup her hands under my ass and lift me to her face.

A Rose is a Rose is a Rose

"Which is why there are only eleven [long-stemmed roses] in the vase this morning; the 12th was dragged all over her body after I stripped her clothes off, the soft petals tickling her nipples and hips and inner thighs and cunt, then the long stem used as a makeshift cane on her inner thighs.


It didn’t last that long—it broke in two places before I could really get her warmed up and start delivering some harder swats. I don’t think I left any marks from the rose, but some gentle welts on her inner thighs were a bit raised last night. And this morning I noticed a couple handprint-shaped bruises on the backs of her thighs."


What a beautiful image, Sinclair. I can't think of a better way to make use of a long-stemmed rose. Check out the rest of his piece here. (Also, I wish there was a picture of the butternut squash ravioli! That's one of my favorite dishes. I had it at the Biltmore Estate in Asheville, and I still crave it when the breezes hit in the fall.)

Closer

“It’s been quite a while since I’ve been topped…”

Her voice comes soft, breathless, so close to my ear. I have my hips squarely between the inside of her thighs, legs spread open, pushing her up into my headboard, two fingers inside her cunt, so tight I can barely move them. I have long ago lost count of how many times she had come, if I was ever keeping track at all. We are almost still; I’m catching my breath, enjoying the heat between our bodies, barely stroking her g-spot.

I moan deep, almost guttural, the sound I make when puzzling through my thoughts. “I don’t quite see it that way.” I try the word on for size, hesitantly. “Topping...”

“Tell me more about that.”

My thoughts race. It’s a word that didn't enter my vocabulary until I moved to New Orleans, a foreign concept I had equated up until that point only with gay men. I hadn’t come of age in a lesbian culture – I didn’t grow up in the bars, didn’t grow up with elders, didn’t become initiated into an established community. This was new for me, to meet women who identified as tops and bottoms. I had always experienced queer sex as fluid, without roles. It didn’t help that my introduction to the terms, the idea, was not born out of sex-positivity or identity. Instead, these words came to me encased in the crude language of competition and pride, masculinity and femininity, where “to top” was a status of pride and strength, and “to bottom” was an act of submission, a put down, a source of embarrassment and shame. I rejected the terms, outright and immediately, because I didn’t like what that binary implied. Not until I met people who embraced those identities and actions as a source of equal strength, as a yin and yang, did I begin to accept where those words, those identities, could fit.

I try hard to pull myself out of my head, back to the moment, before I get lost and leave her underneath me, waiting.

“I don’t know. I…” I stumble for words, for a way to express what the hell I was trying to say. I find myself burying my head in her neck. “It’s not about putting you down, or asking you to submit. It’s not about…power? Hm. Don’t get me wrong, the power is great. It’s a trip to be in this position, and I enjoy the hell out of it. But… it’s about my wanting to please you. It’s about letting go. It’s born out of a place of deep respect, because I know how hard it is to just let go. But I don’t see it as dominating you, I see it as playing with you, fucking with you.”

It’s a nightmare to navigate those emotional barriers, at times. It’s difficult, if not impossible, to leave control, to leave fear, to leave my own socialization and understanding of gender roles, of strength and weakness, at the bedroom door. I like to dominate, and I like to submit, but, for me, the latter takes significantly more emotional work. To lay out my body, my strength, and let her take me for everything I am worth requires a lot of trust.  To dominate comes almost as a default. Control is heady, easy, disconnected. But I want to approach her differently. I wanted to connect in, to work through this process with her as I work through it myself. I want to give, I want to enjoy receiving, and I want respect and consent and pleasure to guide us instead of letting our own fears and preconceptions hold us back.

I still struggle with my words. I don’t feel like I conveyed what I wanted to say, only touched the tip of the iceberg. Of course, power and submission and domination is a part of this. But those words, outside the context of kink circles, tend to imply strength and weakness, oppression and victimization. I come from a sociology background, so for me, these are buzzwords into analyzing social stratification, hierarchies, and social capital. But I’m in bed, and here, these words imply something different – consent, agency, respect. Asking for what I want, and getting it from someone who earnestly wants to give it... who might even give it to me by denying it, by not allowing me to ask.

“I trust you,” she whispers.

I skip a beat, mentally, emotionally, physically. I lay my head down on her chest, for just a moment, listening to the pacing of her heartbeat, taking in every inch of her body. And then I begin to rock her, slowly, pulling her hips deeper into mine. I love to listen, to pay attention to the very subtle ways her body responds. To feel each contraction of her cunt, to hear each breath, to feel the heat spread slowly across her skin. She reaches up, curling her body tighter around me. With my left hand, I push her back down, deep into the bed, kneeding my other hand deeper and harder into her. She moans, half in mock protest and half in genuine pleasure. I have her pinned to the bed now, arms spread across the pillows.

“Relax, and just let me fuck you.” She takes a long breath, arches her back one last time, and sinks deeper and deeper into me, into the bed, until I can feel her focusing on nothing but herself. 

Wound Tight

At one of the many wine-fueled living room discussions from my old apartment, I remember one of the girls asking whether we thought giving or receiving sex was more intimate. We debated this topic out, and there were mixed responses in the room. My answer didn’t take much thought. For me, receiving has always been more intimate, and, at times, more challenging.

I can bury my mouth or fingers in someone else all day. Seriously. But it’s another level to let someone else pull open the layers of my body and mind and fuck me senseless.

When I first became sexually active, I was always very dominant with men. I liked the feeling of turning someone else on until they lost control, using my own body and mind to elicit an involuntary response. That kind of power was a rush. It’s an undeniably terrifying lesson to learn at such a young age. I have often used my body, my voice, my mind, to push the people around me. Only as an adult has it become increasingly important for me to control my own tendencies to dominate. I try to fall more gracefully now, to reign that urge into becoming a healthy response, not an overwhelming one. I fail sometimes. It’s an ongoing process.

Even at a young age, being on top, being in control, was about more than power. Dominance was a protective measure. Dominance left me with the illusion that I had more agency, more control over how much of my own body and mind I was opening up to someone else. It was a false prophet, leading me to believe I could protect myself.

My attitude and actions changed drastically when I started dating my first girlfriend. For the first time in my life, I felt like I was on even ground with someone. I had nothing to prove, no role to fill – because there wasn’t a prescript for how two women in a relationship thought, acted, fucked. Or at least, I felt like there wasn’t a prescript because I had not yet been socialized into a queer community. I learned much more about giving and taking sexually. More importantly, I learned to let my guard down and expose myself to pleasure, to heartbreak, to infinite possibilities.

But the reality is, I still have a lot of deep-burnt issues about control and agency, consent and release. These concepts are so interwoven that it’s hard to imagine picking them apart.




On most cars, there’s a kill switch that kicks in when you accelerate to 100mph. Sometimes 120mph. Your car can, indeed, go faster. But manufacturers place a safety limit, so that an engine literally will not accelerate more after reaching that speed.

I’m learning that I, too, have a safety kill switch. When I’m fucking someone new for the first time, I often can’t come. The sex can be spectacular. My body can be totally aroused, and I can get so close. But, as if there’s an internal switch I can’t control, I’ll lose my orgasm just as I’m getting there. It’s incredibly frustrating, and often leaves me feeling so many things – guilty, confused, and out of touch with my body. It’s difficult to explain to a partner that it’s not her, it’s me. Really.

I’ve encountered this before, years ago, but the truth is, I had forgotten about it in the four years I was in a relationship. In retrospect, I never could come to full orgasm with a guy. It wasn't not about sexual orientation, because I was attracted to the guys I dated and screwed around with. But I wasn’t comfortable letting go of myself and my body. I faced the same issue with later sex partners (and girls before we dated), but usually I could overcome it. In my memory, this became a few separate incidents, not a pattern. But I'm obviously wrong. It is a pattern.

I’ve met quite a number of girls in my life who’ve experienced the same thing, though often in a slightly different context. Many of them have expressed that they’ve never reached orgasm ever, or never reached orgasm with a partner. I’m not in that boat. But I think there could be correlations.

I definitely think it’s deeply psychological, and it’s a remnant of protection – a way for my body to close off, to keep from sharing my own intimacy. While I love to receive, to submit, there’s a lot of trust required there. Any consensual sexual act requires trust – trust that your partner will respect your choices and request, trust that your partner will listen to your body and your words, trust that you’ll be treated the way you want to be, trust that you’ll be safe from being harmed.

Problem is, this happens even when I'm consciously consenting, even when I trust my partner completely.

But.

(Always a but.)

My body apparently feels differently.

I don’t know if it’s a remnant of being sexually assaulted. I don’t know if it’s the reason many women I know can’t orgasm. But I suspect it has something to do with letting go. I suspect it’s an internal fear – do I look ok? Does my partner judge my body? Is she/he enjoying it? Or even a more deep set, less obvious fear – one of relinquishing control of your body, your reactions. I’ve met many women who were embarrassed by the sounds or the faces they make during orgasm, the way their right leg shakes, the fact that they ejaculate, the chance that they might queef, or really, any involuntary bodily response.


Sex is messy and personal. These things are going to happen! And while I’ve apologized for many of my own reactions at different points with different partners, the truth is, those fears hold us back.

But even when I’m not caught up with these thoughts consciously, my body still cuts off. I can be completely committed and engaged in sex... and yet, nothing. This ridiculously frustrating motor kill switch is holding me back, not really protecting me. It’s hurting my ability to enjoy sex and my ability to respond to a partner. It’s fucking with my sex life, and it’s got to go.

So while I don’t really have an answer yet on how I’m going to overcome whatever is holding me back in this situation – hell, I don’t even really know for certain what or why my body responds like this – I do hope that naming the problem is step one.

In truth, I love to have my boundaries challenged. I still love to be dominant, but I equally love to submit, to be restrained, to be pushed to a grey area between pleasure and pain. I like to play with power in consensual ways, and I like to have my ideas of agency and control discussed and challenged. Sex can be as psychological as it can be physical, and I like to fuck with both – pardon the pun.

I'd even go so far as to say that at times, my own protective instinct closes me off to the point of being borderline stone -- open and willing to fuck someone else, but not to be fucked. The truth is, I don't like it there. I like to be fucked. I like my layers and complexities to be picked apart until I'm engaged in every part of sex, even the most raw and intimate and scary acts of exposing myself to someone else. That, in itself, is a turn on. Protective shields don't protect me -- they limit me from experience, exposure, opportunity.

But right now, my body is really fucking with me, in a not-so-fun way. I’m hoping this is something I can work on in Albany, as it’s definitely something I want to get to the bottom of soon.