M and I have been walking a lot. A LOT. In 11 days, we’ve done 18.44 miles. I don’t know where that falls in the grand scheme of things, but for us, that’s a whole friggin lot. If you factor in the day (or two… we can’t remember!) we didn’t walk, that’s an average of 2 miles a day. And depending on terrain, we’re doing it in about 40 minutes.

If you’re athletic, I already know what you’re gonna say. “Oh that’s nothing.” We’re not athletic. Matter of fact, we spent the past three years mostly sitting in our house and watching television. We didn’t have a car and we live on the nicer side of the ghetto. And cabs are flipping expensive. Hell, riding the bus is more expensive now than it was when we sold our truck. So we found ways to occupy ourselves around the house. Read: video games, books, cards, board games, television.

Since we got a car, though, we’ve been everywhere. The Catskills, the Adirondacks, the bike path, a little diner in Red Hook called An Apple a Day (which you should really pop into if you’re ever in Red Hook. The staff is awesome, the food even better. And you can cross the parking lot and get an iced latte from Dunkin Donuts when you’re done.) that we found completely by accident and weren’t even going to check out until M saw the sign that said “$13.95 Prime Rib”. We disregarded the fact that we were both dirty and sweaty and went inside to grab dinner.

Every day that we spend on the road has become the best day ever. We run up on battlefields we didn’t know existed that are filled with butterflies and discover waterfalls neither of us has ever seen. We saw an owl in the wild for the first time ever, and found a heron sitting quietly in the canal. Each new day has brought a new experience and we are both hungry for more.

Two days ago, we went to a nature preserve we walk quite frequently to see if it’s changed as much as everywhere else. We hadn’t been there since we got the new car, and the place we meant to go is hard to find when the sun’s on the horizon. We missed the turn because it’s a brown sign against a brown and green background all back lit by the sun. So on we drove to the next place we walk on that road.

When we got there, it was empty. It usually is. It’s only a mile and a half around and the slightest bit of rain makes the whole thing a swamp because a lot of the trails are at a lower elevation than the massive pond in the middle. But we had hats (By the way, I would be remiss if I didn’t tell you that M looks absolutely adorable in a ball cap. Another first for him. He bought it to help keep the bugs away from his face, but it just makes me fall in love with him all over again. He looks all boyish and cute. And I’ve talked him into letting me pick out more hats for him since this was such a huge success.) and bug spray ready. Oddly enough, we’ve had rather dry weather this summer, so the trails weren’t marshy at all. And M made fun of me for walking on the man-made bridges meant to keep your feet dry and mud free.

“You’re such a kid,” he says, and we both laughed. I know that’s part of the reason he loves me. I’m just what he needs to remind him that it’s okay to be a kid sometimes.

Somewhere in the middle of our walk, I said something smart. Nothing bad, mind. Just the kind of remark a parent would smack their kid for while trying not to laugh. And M swatted me on the shoulder. I giggled and said something else, and he grabbed me by the hair. It’s hard to watch the ground when your head’s being bent back, but I managed to stay upright. And he eventually let me go.

This continued around the trail. I’m petrified of falling, so every time he’d snatch up a fistful of hair, I’d get a little nervous. I realized later that he was careful about where he did it. Made sure the path was root and debris free.

We came to a section that runs along private property, and I laughed at the signs and rock wall separating the two lands.

“They probably can’t even see this part of their land. It makes me want to jump the wall and be all ‘Can you see me? I’m trespassing! Can you see me?’ ” I joked.

“Disrespectful little cunt. You’re pushing it.” M said as he slapped my shoulder. And I laughed again.

“You think it’s funny?!” He snatched me up by the hair and pulled me in close. “How’d you like it if someone did that to you?”

I couldn’t answer. I was too busy trying not to laugh.

We weren’t expecting to go as far as we did. The mile and a half circle put us around the three mile mark for that day. We weren’t even planning on doing a mile. So when we were finished, and we still weren’t tired, M asked, “What now?”

Naturally, I responded, “I think you should fuck me in the cemetery.”

He gasped and swatted me again. “You dirty little bitch. How would you like it if someone fucked on your grave?”

“What? I bet they like sex too! Well, the adults buried there anyway.”

“How do you know?”

“Well, most people like sex, don’t they?”

He didn’t answer me. We still had a few hundred feet to the parking lot, so we kept walking. And when we got to the fork, I took the side that lead to home. He grabbed my hair and yanked me the other direction.

“Move your ass to the graveyard.” he barked as he shoved me down the path, careful not to push too hard so neither of us ended up sprawled in the trail and killing the mood.

I couldn’t stop grinning. We were in the middle of another first: public play that was more than just sex. Granted, there was little chance of anyone happening upon us. But the possibility was still enough to light both our fires. When we got to the clearing, M shoved me to my knees on a gravestone. And he fucked me there before making me kneel before him with my mouth open so he could cum all over my face. Then he told me to make myself cum. And when we were finished, he said I could rub the cum in, or eat it off my face, but I was not allowed to wash. Another first.

Washing would have done little good anyway. There was no mistaking the cum stains on my shirt or the dirt smears on the knees of my khaki capris. He was, however, kind enough to take my hat off first. Though I think that was more because he wanted to make sure it hit my face.

Yeah… We’re definitely walking a new path. And I hope we stay on this one a good long time. It feels… right.

Last week I was invited to watch a gangbang. There’s a misconception in the general public, I think, that gangbangs [wherein the bangee is a woman and the bangers men] are for the sake of the men while the woman is merely there as a cum receptacle. Which is ridiculous considering she’s the one who gets multiple people focused on her! The reality is that, while obviously the men are getting something from it too, it’s the subject of a gangbang who gets to enjoy the most pleasure. So, in the interests of correcting that misconception and spreading the positive-sexual-experiences-makes-the-world-an-awesomer-place joy, here’s how it went:

I got to the hotel room about six. My fwb, M., who was organizing the whole thing, was already there prepping the room, setting up the bed with a rope under the mattress, and a little table with loads of condoms and lube and hand towels and such.

Then we got bored waiting for people to arrive, so we started to bone.

But then we were interrupted by the arrival of the gang bangee, and her husband soon after. So, we all sat around with a drink and had a good discussion about everything she was and wasn’t down with, and what to look out for, all that important stuff. And to make sure we rounded it up by about 10, because they had to get home to the kids. She mentioned she’d had a stressful week and was looking forward to being pampered for the next few hours.

So then! After everyone was satisfied this was all safe, sane, and consensual, she stripped off and laid down on the bed. M. blindfolded her and tied her wrists to the bed, and her husband set up the camera, while I chilled next to the table with a glass of wine, ready to be on condom hand outage duty.

And then! The ‘warm up’ dude arrived, heh. This was a guy who professed to be a lover of, and fantastic giver of, cunnilingus. He was not interested in boning, he just wanted to ‘please women’. He was pretty cute and looked very stereotypically Italian with an Italian accent, which I thought terribly cliche. He was pretty fantastic at first, being all sensual and shit, but was taking forever to get to her vayjayjay, and the gangbangers were due to arrive soon, so M. started tapping on the clock to him.

It’s funny, since she was blindfolded, we all felt compelled to whisper and mime shit at each other instead of talk. Part of the sensory deprivation experience.

But then the cunnilingus dude got a bit weird and mimed back ‘nah I’m not doing that,’ so we were all a bit, lolwut? Turned out he only did hairless pussies, which she didn’t have.

I mean, I don’t begrudge anyone their preferences, but I would have thought if you set yourself up as the dude people call for cunnilingus service, you’d be the type who was all about a wide variety, but anywhoo.

So he left and M. went down on her instead. She, of course, had no idea any of this was going on or who was doing what.

And then! The gangbangers arrived! In the end, only three turned up, though she had wanted more. But it didn’t actually matter at all, because she couldn’t tell how many were there anyway, what with all the sensory deprivation. They were all pretty awesome. I had been a bit worried that they might be slightly lecherous, and that since they were going to be in a room full of men with only two women, one of whom was being gangbanged, they might assume I was up for that as well. But there was none of that at all, they were just totally normal dudes, and really respectful and understanding of boundaries and what was appropriate.

They hadn’t known about warm up dude, so the first half hour was just them tending to her basically. One at her neck, one her boobs and one going down on her. It was all rather sweet really. I got slightly jealous.

And then the banging began, and it was hot. One of the dudes was a bit shy and hung back while the other two did her, and he had to be invited to take his turn. It went on for quite a while with one fucking her, one being blown by her, and then they all switched it up. While her husband filmed it all, so she could later see it without the sensory deprivation.

Then at about the halfway point she said she had to go to the loo, which broke the silence and everyone got quite chatty after that. We had all been silent and miming whole conversations to each other up until then. While she was on the loo there was a five minute break, in which casual conversation was had. The dude who was the hottest had a British accent! I was definitely jealous then.

When she came back, the fucking resumed. This time she wasn’t restrained and so different positions were had. The British dude started dirty talking, and it was actually really sweet dirty talking, like the ‘oh you are such a good girl!’ type.

Then double penetration was had! I had always thought that this must be hard to achieve, rhythm wise and stuff, but it worked fine. Dude in the vayjajay just gently grinded, while dude in the ass jack hammered.

Also at this point M. checked in with her just to see if all was cool. It certainly looked like it was, but making sure is never a bad idea.

It went on for a while longer, with them switching it up every so often, and then eventually they left one by one.

And then M. and I boned, and it was good.

I am an exhibitionist. I’m sure I’ve said that before. It’s what drove me to begin writing about my sexcapades on the Internet and is what ultimately drew me to Internet Gor. I’m a writer, you see, and roleplaying on the Internet is an awesome exercise in one’s descriptive capabilities. And the perfect opportunity to show off one’s capacity for the art of written seduction. My exhibitionism often comes with a bit of trepidation. Mostly because…

I am also a submissive people pleaser. Some people consider being “submissive” and being a “people pleaser” one and the same, but they’re not. Not always. Dominant people can enjoy pleasing people, too. And not all submissive people enjoy pleasing people indiscriminately. I do. I’m funny that way. I love knowing I’ve made someone happy, or lifted their spirits, or helped them out somehow no matter who they are.

Well, okay. Let’s be honest here, and say there are at least four people I hope to never make life easier for.

Master enjoys showing me off. To us, regardless of our belief that there is nothing “wrong” with exhibitionism (or exhibitionists), the whole thing is still a bit dirty. Dirty in the “Jesus that’s hot. Come here, I want to fuck you.” way, though really, is there any other kind? So he occasionally takes pictures of me and posts them on the Internet. Or makes me post them, depending on how sadistic he’s feeling.

Not just your run-of-the-mill “This is Rayne walking down a trail.” photos (but those too!). More “This is Rayne getting beat.” and “This is Rayne being fucked with a dildo.” and “This is Rayne in a hood with cum dripping down her chin.” Most of the time, I don’t feel degraded by the things we get up to. The idea doesn’t even cross my mind to feel less of a person than the average joe because I enjoy my lover treating me the way that turns us both on. Until someone tells me I should.

There are a lot of people who have issues with exhibitionism. They think people who want or need confirmation from strangers they’ll most likely never meet that their naked form is desirable have issues for which they should seek help. Some consider it cheating if the person is in a relationship, and in some cases, even if the partner is involved. Their reasons for their beliefs* are, in most cases, understandable, and in some even acceptable.

I don’t begrudge people their right to an opinion. I just wish they’d stop trying to apply them to situations they know nothing about.

In many cases, and in my relationship right now, exhibitionism never goes beyond show and tell. There’s no desire for there to be anything more than someone seeing photographic evidence of my salacious desires. We’ve made friends along the way, and they’re awesome, but that was never the intent. And even if we did decide to swing back toward poly, the exhibitionism would still be about our sexuality, and not necessarily finding someone to play with.

I was raised to believe marriage was the end of the road as far as sex and relationships were concerned. For the rest of your life, you’d be bound sexually and emotionally to only one person and feeling that way toward another is a terrible offense. Not only against your partner, but also your higher power. Imagine how difficult a rule that must be to learn for someone who is also raised to love everyone equally.

I met a couple who were members of a swingers club when I was 19. I didn’t really understand it, and the fact that they wanted to swing with my ex and I was lost on me until I ran into them again when my ex was in prison. They invited me over then, too, but I still didn’t “get it” so I turned them down.

I knew I was an exhibitionist very young but I didn’t really understand the interest in including others until my owner came to me with his interest in owning another woman. I often found myself attracted to other women and trying to deny it because I was married. I would cry hysterically when Master would talk about letting others use me because I thought it was cheating. Actually fulfilling my fantasies of posting dirty pictures of myself on the internet seemed too close to giving someone something they aren’t entitled to. And not even someone we know and trust. Just anyone who happens upon the page!

I don’t know how many times he explained to me that it’s not cheating if everyone’s in agreement before I finally began to see his side. He’d ask me what cheating is, and I’d say being romantically or sexually involved with someone behind your partner’s back. I always qualified with “behind your partner’s back” so he asked why.

When it comes right down to it, who does it hurt? If all parties are in complete accord, and they’re not forcing anyone to look, who does it hurt?

Master and I both enjoy putting me on display. From naked pictures to personal thoughts to noteworthy accomplishments. Hell, I’m even, in most cases, required to discuss my bad behavior with the Internet. We each have our own reasons and probably neither of us knows all of the other’s. But we’re both happy and we’re not harming anyone. So how can it be “bad” or “wrong”?

*I understand that for some of you this is a religious issue. Please know that I mean no offense, I just don’t agree with your beliefs.

I use one of the many BDSM social sites to find events and keep track of my far flung friends. I also use it to talk to new people in my local area. We were all new to the lifestyle once, and I enjoy reaching out to answer questions or reassurance.

The thing I hear the most is that a lot of women, and men, are afraid to come out because, while they are interested in the lifestyle, are dying to find out more and want desperately to leave the security of their computer screens and join the party, they are afraid to because they do not have the typical body they see on the BDSM porn sites.

I always laugh at that one. Nobody I know has the body seen on the kinky porn sites. I do not understand why it is that perfectly reasonable women and men who are well aware that the bodies they see in vanilla porn are not the bodies that they will see in their own sex lives–at least not normally–honestly believe that all kinky people must be built like porn stars.

I always rush to reassure people that that is not true. I tell them to look at the profiles of people that I know well, and that I know post very raw and real pictures of themselves, so that they can see that there is a lot of diversity in body types within the kinky community.

But mostly I encourage them to shut off the computer and come out. There are many ways to meet people in real time. There are munches (meetings at restaurants that serve the dual purpose of meeting the kinky folks and being vetted by them all at once), conferences and public dungeons that host all sorts of different events, often several times a month.

I hear a lot of questions when I say that. I hear, “But what will I wear, and what will I do, and mostly, but what if people think I am too big, skinny, tall, short, old, bald?” (Yes someone asked me that one once, too.)

My answer is always the same. Come out and meet us. And often they do. I have seen people walk into a dungeon with fear on their faces, their shoulders hunched over protectively, and their vulnerability out and on display. They are afraid that they will not fit in, until they look around and see the incredible array of bodies on display. Then everything changes.

It is amazing to watch a person look around themselves for the first time. It is an incredible thing to see them realize that they are not alone in being outside what the media portrays as beautiful, and to see them realize that it matters not at all. On the other side of that, as someone who once walked into a munch convinced nobody would think me pretty and walked out with compliments still buzzing in my ears, I can tell you it is both awesome and affirming to know that you fit somewhere, that there is no such thing as a person who has no niche.

BDSM is perhaps the most forgiving of all lifestyles. No, I will not say that no prejudices exist, that there are not people who are seeking their ideal of physical perfection and so on, but those people are the exception rather than the norm. I have been hurt by a man who first hit on me and then called me every name in the book from old, flapjacks for tits (yes, really) to trailer park trash, because I said no to his advances for many reasons, not the least of which is that I am a lesbian and proud of it, and did not think he could change that fact, although he insisted that he could. I am happy to say he was yanked out of the play space we were in and has never been allowed back in.

I am 42 years old and a size 13. I have been a size 22, and a size 5. I am happy where I am at. I am at peace in my body. I have a sexy little belly, thick thighs, muscular calves, and big tits that do not stand up like a historical romance heroine’s unless they are in a push-up bra or a corset. I have cellulite on the back of my thighs and ass. I am hardly the ideal beauty as set forth by the media, but I will strip naked in a play space in a flat second and feel not one ounce of shame.

I have scars and wrinkles. I have stretch marks and tattoos. My body tells a story. I have no idea, nor do I care what it might say to you. What it says to me is that I am at home in it. I live here within this envelope of flesh and bone and I love my home.

The most beautiful woman I know is in her late sixties. She looks forty, but that is hardly the reason why I find her so gorgeous. She is proud of every inch of her skin; she has such pride of ownership that it shines out of her very pores. In the dungeons there are many women and men her age, many bodies whose skin reminds me of lovely pleated silk, many whose hair has grayed, and yet there they are, walking proudly through the other bodies, and belonging.

In the lifestyle, we are perhaps more equipped to handle differences because of our sexual desires and impulses. I have often pondered if our willingness to simply not see anything wrong or bad in things like weight, or age, or the bodies of those who are in transition, is due to our being so different from, well, most of the world in what we want and need and find acceptable.

To people who consider marks pretty, and scars a badge of courage and beauty perhaps we simply do not care that people have blemishes and faults; it is the skin itself that is the canvas. Or maybe it is the fact that while my ass may be too big for me to buy jeans at many of the stores in NYC, in the dungeons that is not looked upon as a bad thing. In fact, my fat ass is a good thing, more canvas and cushion, you see.

It could be because so much of what we do is done mentally and emotionally. The terms headspace or sub and topspace get tossed about a lot, and anyone can look them up online, but until you have been there, until you have been taken completely out of your own skin and reduced to nothing more than nerves and need, you simply will not understand it. Our outer bodies have little to do with that side of it. When you get caught in your headspace, you literally forget that you have flesh. That feeling of weightlessness, of flying, is what we play for. Power is what we are interested in, not the false trappings of it. Beauty is not power, playing for the football team is not power, money and so on…not power. To us, power is the ability to control or to surrender control. BDSM is empowering for many people who cannot find acceptance in other places.

As a plus sized woman I went to many of the vanilla nightclubs and was ignored if not outright shunned. I lost one hundred pounds and everyone said hello, which taught me a hard lesson. In my community nobody spoke to me that had not spoken to me before unless it was simply because we had never met before that moment. My weight loss was not an issue or factor in who wanted to talk to me.

Could that be because while we do look at each other, our concept of what is hot and not is based more on imagery less understandable than just a nice pair of tits or a cute ass? In a dungeon, a man wearing a dress and kissing his Femdom’s feet is hot, but nobody is likely to give a porn star bodied woman a second glance, unless she is doing some really hot scene. In other words, it is the activity we find sexy, and the body is secondary to that at times.

I suppose it could be any of those reasons, it could be none of them. I imagine some would say that BDSM calls out to people who are already operating outside the norm by virtue of their bodies, but to tell the truth there are many people who have great bodies, by anyone’s standards, who happen to like rough sex, so that is likely not true, in and of itself, either.

I have wondered if it is due to our love of high theatre. We give ourselves ‘scene’ names, and dress up is not a game, it is an accepted way to exist. Steam punks hobnob with vampires, and leather is at home next to fishnets, and so on. We rarely look at things as being outrageous or over the top, even if they are.

What I know to be true is this: Body image in BDSM is rarely an issue. Most of us like our bodies, and those of us who don’t, find ways to change it. That might be through weight loss or scarification, tattoos or whatever else there is on offer these days. But most of us do like our bodies and do not want to change them. We are usually more focused on more important things, like what time the vending room will open because we lost our favorite flogger or cane or need a scalpel set.

Is there a perfect body for BDSM? Hell yes. Yours. Bring it on in here….

Going to your first strip club can be an exciting and scary experience. Believe me, I know – I just went to my first strip club yesterday. I loaded my boyfriend and sister (which, by the way, taking your sister to a strip club is a very awkward venture, and you may choose to forgo this step when you take your own adventure) into the car, and we went out to a strip club on the edge of town. The building was unmarked with no windows, and the only signage it had was “18+ SHOWGIRLS” on the outside, so we had absolutely nothing to go off of when we went to attend this strip club. You know what else is extra not-helpful? The internet.

Most strip clubs around here seem to be a bit too low-budget or too low-tech to actually have a website. Considering all we had to go off of was the odd banner on the outside of the building, we couldn’t figure out the name of the strip club to search it on the internet, either. Finally, with a Places application coming to the rescue, we found out only a little bit about the club – and what we found out was only due to user reviews. Unless you’re attending a top-of-the-line club, I’d be prepared for surprises, or the experience to be different from user reviews (after all, maybe they got themselves tossed out).

So, you used your browser to find all the information that you can, but that still includes a half-updated review about the cover fee that you recovered from fucktitties.com, which for some reason, doesn’t seem to be a very reliable source. Now what do you do? The movies always show the main characters giving dollar bills to the strippers. Is that something you should pick-up before you go, or are strip clubs advanced enough to have the technology to give you your ones while you’re there? In our case, when you decide you’re going out to a strip club at 8PM on a Saturday night when all the banks are closed, where do you go? Well, I can tell you where we went. To Wal-Mart. With a debit card. To withdraw lots of money in ones. Yes, mother-with-child behind me in the line, I did see that evil glare. Maybe I just really like soda machines; don’t be so judgmental.

So, now I have large bills for the cover fee and small ones for a tip. We drove our way over there in hopes that 10:00 at night would be late enough for people to be there. Thank god – it was. We walk in, and first impressions are not-so-good. The front desk consists of a guy smoking in a small, 3-foot by 3-foot room where the three of us barely fit. The kicker? The entire window in front of him is covered in metal bars and plexi-glass, aside from a small hole. Identification in hand, we give him our cover fee (which happens to be $10 for women and $15 for men) and walk through the very-heavy door where we are greeted by a large, scary-looking bouncer with chains blocking off the way in.

He kinda eyed up my sister awkwardly, used a flashlight to check her ID, and removed the chain to let her through, then he did the same with me (minus the eyeing portion). For the boyfriend, though, he checks the ID, and then he is patted down for any weapons or drugs. Their policy is to pat down all males who come through a door – even a small, 140 pound guy traveling with two women.

Let me explain the place: It’s pretty darn dark (don’t expect to be able to read your watch), but nothing looks too horribly unclean. There are little strobe lights everywhere, and there’s actually an ATM near the bouncer (but I’m not sure it would give out ones and never asked). There’s a large area toward the opposite end of the entrance where you can watch while the strippers get dressed and chat (loudly) with each other, and towards that end, there’s also a “private” room that has a see-through glass-panel side so the bouncers can moderate for icky activity. Toward the private room, there’s community-like seating where all of the chairs face the stage in a living-room like fashion. The stage is relatively large, with enough room for the stripper to easily use her pole and move around, but it wasn’t any bigger than ten feet. Toward a back corner of the store, was a small adult store which includes a bunch of jelly toys, lots of small-sized lingerie, and stripper platform heels.

This was our next dilemma. Where to sit? There’s the community-style area in the corner, the chairs next to the stage, and the rows of chairs that are further back from the stage. We didn’t know it at the time, but the community-style area is for guys to sit and watch the show from further back, and the not-dancing women will hit up the guys for private dances. The rows of chairs further back from the stage are for watching the dancing when you don’t want to tip, and again, women will flirt with you there to try to get you to pay for a private dance. We chose the chairs next to the stage which, as it turns out, wasn’t a bad place. In these places, the on-stage woman will dance on your lap or right in front of you to earn tips, and there’s a black “ledge” in front of you where you place your tip. The dancer will notice your tip and come over to you. So no, it’s not like the movies (at least in this club) where you place the money in their thongs.

Each girl would be on stage, starting in some lingerie (like what is sold at EdenFantasys). Each woman would dance to four songs, and during the songs, slip off clothing. During their dancing, some would come up and dance on your lap before you had placed a tip, but you got a much more thorough lap dance if you placed a tip. This is where the next awkward comes in: What, exactly, do you do when the person in the seat next to you is getting a lapdance – especially when it is your sister? There’s a naked woman on my sister’s lap grinding her breasts into my sister’s face; like, do you watch the stripper or what? If it’s something across the room, it’s fun to watch what the stripper is doing, but what are the rules of etiquette when it is your sister? You don’t want to stare and be rude about it, but there IS a naked woman next to you, so it’s a fine line. (Which, by the way, my sister adds that you should not wear a mini-skirt to the strip club if you expect to get a lapdance, as having pussy-stubble from a stranger rubbed on your thigh is an awkward experience.)

So you want to get a lapdance, right? Their lapdances mostly included grinding on your lap, pressing their breasts in your face, or sitting on the tip ledge and spread themselves for you. But, how much do you tip? I mean, I feel like a dollar is a bit cheap for the small lapdance that you get, but it’s impossible to tell how much others are tipping. We settled on a couple dollar bills for each tip, but we still never figured out how much you’re supposed to tip.

Really, though, that was about the gist of it. It was neat to see the women strip, and they all wore very sexy heels and moved with grace. Some of them did some very exotic and athletic stripper moves on the stripper pole (like climbing it), while others stuck to mostly floor work and dancing around the pole. There were bigger women, and there were also smaller, more athletic women who danced. When the women weren’t on-stage, it was normal for them to talk to some of the guys there and flirt with them. As this is a bring-your-own-beverage club, most of the middle-aged men who came brought a cooler or couple cans of beer with them to enjoy the show.

I think your experience will vary depending on the quality of the club you attend. We went to a small, rural-type strip club that wasn’t horribly low-class, but it wasn’t high-class either. Some of the women seemed like they really enjoyed it, while sadly, some of the women didn’t look like they were enjoying themselves. We stayed for about an hour an a half, and we did have a good time watching the girls and enjoying the music. Now, I hope you know a little better about what to prepare for when you hit up your local strip club!

I am a total Gemini.

There are two very different sides to me, and most people in my life only get to see one. As a matter of fact, I would venture to say that no one really knows both sides of me fully (with the possible exception of my best friend; she knows quite a bit about the “hidden” side of me, but there are still some things that even she doesn’t know.)

Most people see me as a sort-of quiet person; I remember pretty vividly that one online friend, after seeing a clip of me in a YouTube video, said that I seemed “shy”. That, I suppose, is one thing people might see if they didn’t know me very well. Those who know me a little better, though, know that I am, really, anything but shy. I don’t particularly have a problem with talking to people, and I certainly don’t have much of a problem telling them when I have a problem with something they’ve done or said.

That said, though, I can be somewhat reserved with people I don’t know very well. I suppose I like to stand back and take things in before I decide whether or not I want to share that part of myself with people I don’t know yet. So I guess, in one sense, that former reader hit upon one side of my Geminian nature. It’s just not the side that people who know me well are very familiar with.

If you walked into my dorm room, you would probably form a certain opinion of the person who lives there. You would look at the walls, plastered with pictures of children (my godson and the children of various cousins and friends), You would look at my bed, where along the headboard sit stuffed animals of various shapes, sizes and species, all arranged in a very specific manner. You would look at my bookcase and see various greeting cards from relatives and friends, standing all in a row in front of thick books on various aspects of history.

You would look at those things and you would form a specific opinion, of this I have absolutely no doubt. And you would not be entirely mistaken in the opinion you formed (at least, if you form the kind of opinion I assume you would.) But there are things you would be unable to see, things that would give you further insight into the dual nature of my personality. Things that would seem rather jarring against the visible items in this cubbyhole I call my temporary home.

There are well-worn copies of Cosmo and Playgirl stuffed in among my history tomes, issues that have been read over and over, articles that have been pored over scrupulously. Yes, I know that in many ways Cosmo is a laughable publication, and that much of the information contained within its pages is…well, suspect (or, at least, some of it is.) But it’s my guilty pleasure; when I’ve had enough of Ivan the Terrible, or the plight of native women during the height of the fur trade in pre-confederate Canada, nothing can perk me up quite like a dose of Cosmo. Ditto for my well-read volumes of erotica.

Then, there is the headboard, the living space of the stuffed animals. Yes, there are various little stuffed creatures living on top of the headboard, but lurking within its depths are: a mini bullet vibrator, a bottle of Hathor organic lube, two jars of “Nipple Nibblers” (one strawberry, one mango), and a bottle of Shunga Secret Garden Orgasm-Enhancing Gel.

Moving along to my dresser drawers: these are, of course, filled with my clothes — as you would probably assume. But hidden hither and yon beneath my jeans, dress pants, skirts and other clothing-like items, scattered throughout like little prizes in a fucked-up Cracker Jack box, you would find two dildos (a bumpy, swirly glass “juicer” and an outrageously veined thing that looks like it’s just been to the gym…seriously), half a dozen vibrators, a set of anal beads, a packing dildo, and a pair of Smart Balls. In the medicine cabinet to the north of the dresser, you would find Tylenol, Pepto-Bismol, naproxen, facial cleanser….and a bottle of Durex Play Sensation Enhancing silicone lube (the kind that tingles delightfully).

And then there is the adorable little cosmetic bag that sits on my desk. Cream-coloured, with a picture of an impossibly cute kitten on the front. If you were to open it you would discover a veritable treasure trove of condoms. Not that, you know, I’ve had any opportunity to use them on an actual living, breathing male in a ridiculously long period of time (and that will be discussed further on in this post), but hey, they make toy cleanup a hell of a lot easier.

The point is, there is a major facet of my personality that very few people in my life are aware of. They look at me and they see a short, slightly (okay, fine, decidedly) overweight chick in her late twenties who is pretty quiet (except when provoked), who keeps to herself, who doesn’t party or go to the bars, who probably just sits in her room and reads in her free time (when she’s not studying frantically like the nerd she is, of course.) They figure, considering the work that I do on campus, and the way I’m perceived, that the bookmarks on my well-worn laptop consist of feminist links and historical information sites. They’d be right, but only partly, because buried among the links to the Russian Academic Information Institute and the Avalon Sexual Assault Centre, there are links to various adult blogs, sex shops and porn sites.

These people know of my “everyday” job — namely, my work with the Women’s Centre — but they don’t know that I used to work as a phone sex operator, or that I currently work as a sex toy reviewer. They know that I write — but they don’t know that I used to write erotica, good erotica, and get paid for it.

They don’t know that underneath my always conservative, never-revealing clothing, I am without underwear more often than not. They don’t know that I love anything sexual, that although I look like a bit of a schoolmarm (how appropriate, considering my choice of career!) I am, in actuality, a bit of a wannabe slut. I want a tattoo. I want to get my nipples pierced, along with my clit, and connect them all by a silver chain — then put on my conservative clothes (sans panties) and go through my day, all the while harbouring my own dirty little secret.

Now, when I say I am “a bit of a wannabe slut”, I have a very specific “sluttiness” in mind. I don’t really agree with the traditional definition of the word “slut” anyway — I really abhor the idea that a woman who enjoys sex and sexuality, who revels in her own sensuality, is labelled a slut, especially when she is utterly unapologetic about it all. When I say I am a bit of a wannabe slut, I don’t mean that I would want to be with various, anonymous men in a series of furtive hookups after an encounter in a bar. I know that there are people in the world (many people) for whom casual sex is a way of life, and I say more power to them. Because I can definitely see the attraction in no-strings-attached sex, the idea of simply getting your rocks off and then parting ways with no expectations of future attachments. But the thing is, casual sex isn’t….it’s not for me. It’s not. I know that. I will admit right here and now that I have only had two sex partners, that the sex with them was decidedly vanilla, and that I can actually count on both hands the number of times I have actually had sex.

So the type of “sluttiness” that I have in mind is different from the “traditional” definition (which I think is rather stupid anyway.) No, what I want, frankly, is to be a slut for someone. I know that I have written in here before about my relationship woes, that I’ve waxed maudlin in here on more than one occasion about the fact that, oh woe is me, I haven’t got a man. Most of the time, you know, I don’t really even miss the absence of a man in my life, because, well, frankly, at this point in my life, if I want an orgasm, I’m perfectly capable of providing one for myself, and if I want a penis-shaped aid to add to the experience, well hell, I’ve got a drawer full of the fuckers.

But what I have been missing, what has been missing in my relationships so far (paltry in number as they have been) is that slut role that I have been longing to play. In my everyday life, I am anything but submissive. I am, in fact, seen as rather dominant, rather forward, rather…shall I say….bitchy. I know what I want, and for the most part I know exactly how to get it.

I long, though, to submit. To be controlled. To be taken, to be had, to be totally under another’s control. I want to be someone’s slut, to be told those words, to have them breathed, hissed, growled in my ear. I want to be spread wide, to be completely vulnerable, to be taken without mercy. I want to be spanked, slapped, to have someone put their hand around my throat while they use my body for their own pleasure. I want to be someone’s personal sex toy.

The proviso to this, though, is that I think for me this would require a great deal of trust. There is a difference, I believe, between hurting and harming. I think there is a difference between hurting someone during sex — by using a flogger on them, for example — and actually doing harm to someone. I want a man who will treat me like a slut in the bedroom and a queen everywhere else. In short, I want a man who will understand, accept, and absolutely adore both sides of my personality.

Sometimes I wish that I felt the freedom to let my “other side” out. And then there are times when I think to myself that I like having this little secret to keep from the world.

Second life is a vast game, with many different places to explore. It is used for fun, recreation, and even for educational purposes. I remember for one of my classes, I had to build a virtual Harlem. It was a very fun, exciting experience to build something that other people from my university would experience. Yet, my own personal favorite is role playing.

One of the largest role playing themes on SL (Second Life) is Gor. Gor was written by John Norman, and is a world based in fantasy. A world ruled by men. There are free men, and free women, slaves, also known as kajira (female), kajirus (male), bondmaids (female slaves of Torvaldsland, Gor’s equivalent to Scandinavia), thralls, and beasts. There are also the wild women of the forests, the Panther girls, and the brave Taluna of the jungles.

Unfortunately, Gor receives very bad reviews because of SL. Many Gorean sims that claim to be role playing sims are in reality, lifestyle sims. Often people in these sims, have no respect for the players of the characters. They don’t respect player limits, and often spill in character things that are out of character. People also do not understand what the meaning of Gor is. Looking at the real world subjectively, elements of Gor can be seen in different world societies.

For instance, looking at the veiled free women of Southern Gor, and then the veiled free women of the Middle East. Both live under strict rules, and are not allowed to show their face to anyone but their husbands. However, in Northern Gor, free women are not required to cover their faces. They have a bit more leeway in their actions and dress, but they are still required to fully cover their bodies. They hold jobs that pertain to women, sewing and the like, and have bairn (children). They are the Lady of their house, but they are still second to their husbands. Sounds a little like the early 1900s. Doesn’t it?

Many people will judge things by appearances, instead of looking for deeper meanings. I had a professor that taught us one day, that appearances are not always what they seem. We entered class, and went through a small presentation. Several men and women entered. The women were barefoot, and the men were not. The women knelt on the floor and hand fed the men. For all intents and purposes, it would appear that women in the presentation were regarded almost as slaves. The presentation was over, and many of us were very upset and confused. We told our professor that we felt that the women in the presentation were considered low in society, and almost as slaves. He then quickly corrected all of us by telling us that in the society that we just saw, women were actually the most important. That the society believed in Gaia, Mother Earth. Since women gave birth, they were highly regarded, just as Mother Earth gave birth to man and woman. They knelt to be closer to Gaia, for this same reason, they were also barefoot. The women hand fed the men because the men were unfit to touch the food Gaia gave them. This truly has little to do with Gor. However, it serves the purpose of explaining why one should not judge things by appearances.

I cannot speak much for the kajirae of the south. However, with the bondmaids of the north, I have to say that even though they are slaves, they actually can find true freedom within a collar. A little crazy, isn’t it? Being a slave, but being truly free? Yes. Bondmaids are indeed subjected to being the servants of men and women, filling their every need. However, bondmaids are fully expected not to be afraid of their sexuality. They are very sexual creatures. They are also not required to hide their emotions as Free women are. They are not to be ashamed of seeing another naked body.

Others will believe that Gor is all about sex. While sex is, indeed, a part of Gor, it was more about the fight and trials of the characters who were trying to survive in a very harsh world. By the Book, Gor is in no way a Disneyland playground. A simple wish would be for people to understand what the world John Norman wrote was about, before making harsh decisions. It was to accent the evils of our own society. But instead of simply writing about them, he took them and put them into a fantasy world, with fantasy characters. It was to make people think deeper about what the meanings behind the positions the people of Gor held, instead of just glancing at it and saying it was a sexist world.

As I mentioned, many Gorean sims are not “by the book”. They tend to go with whatever they wish, or what makes sense to them. However, I am very happy to have been brought to the sim I play in, by a long time friend of mine, Branwyn. She created the sim to be a “by the book” true Gorean sim. She named it Ironhall, a “Land in Northern Gor”. The sim is heavily based off the Marauders book, and they often refer to it to explain things within the world. I loved the sim the moment I saw it. It is magnificent, nine-sims wide, with a very original Gorean shape and design. I was even more thrilled to meet the people there. Even though the men, or “Jarls”, are hard-asses in RP, they are very nice, respectful people out of character. It really is a lot different than other sims. If there are any problems, Branwyn handles them very swiftly. She always does her best to be fair to all parties involved. With that said, when a severe problem arises, she is always the first to take the harsh road to protect the parties involved. I have known her for three years, from another role playing game she ran, and was very happy to find that she was running another game.

My first day in Ironhall as a bond was rather interesting. I have rped in Gor for four years, the majority of that time playing a Panthergirl, one of the wild, bow-weilding women of the Northern Forest. To my surprise, I ran into one of the old people I had role played with years ago. They battled wits back and forth for a time, and it ended with my character saying something along the lines of “If I was still the Panther you used to know, you wouldn’t be breathing right now.” Needless to say, it ended with my character being whipped.

Ironhall uses the “Nutr-Life System”, or NLS. This system gives a hud attatchement that allows for storage of items that can be made or cooked. It also has a health and hunger meter. It makes the sim more realistic because you can do things that you would normally do in real life. Milking a bosk (a cow like creature), gathering corn, making flower, cooking food, the whole nine yards. It really is a lot of fun.

Once a week, they hold an OOC dance that has random themes. It gives everyone a chance to kick back and relax, and a chance to wear something other than Gorean clothing. It is a great amount of fun, and Branwyn always contracts a great DJ for it. There are also many OOC classes that help in learning about Gor, and a book reading every week. Did I mention the book reading? Yes, I did. The man who does the book reading every week has a really hot accent.

I was able to sit down with Branwyn and ask questions about the sim. My first question was, “What is Gor to you, Branwyn? Everyone seems to have their own idea of what it is about … What are your personal feelings on it?”

She responded, “To answer that question, I have to answer it in context. What is Gor to me in Second Life, is a very different question than what is Gor from a philosophical stand point as a person who has been a lifestyler. Gor, to me in the context of Second Life, is a relatively decent fiction that can be enacted for role-play enjoyment. I do not involve myself in the lifestyle aspect of Gor on Second Life, I do not think Second Life is a safe enough environment to engage in lifestyle activities. I don’t think any online community is, to those who are lifestylers, I think it should be part of our first life, not our second. However with that said … As a fiction, that has a wonderful wide range of cultures and interaction, depth and creativity, it is one of the best “world fictions’ that can be implemented to act as a foundation for creativity. Exactly what role-players are looking for. Gor as a fiction has it all; conflict, kinship, politics, brother-hood, clearly defined roles, variations in religion and belief, but even more so … it offers an option for EPIC role-play that is not restricted to the single ‘hero’ of a story, like Tolkien does.”

I really enjoyed her response. My next statement and question was, “That was very lovely, Branwyn. It seems you feel very passionately about Gor roleplay. What inspired you to make Ironhall, and have it be a Northern village?”

Branwyn responded, “I have always been drawn to two different cultures in fantasy and historic role-play, they are Arabic/Bedouin and Viking/Celtic. I have been playing these two cultures for the better part of 20 years, and enjoy them equally. Interestingly, I find them to have some of the same core philosophies that ‘turn me on’ about role-play. Unity of clan or tribe, deep tradition, strength of
personality, and a deep sense of individual honor. I tried to do a Tahari (Arabic Gor) group, but the interest for it is simply not there. And role-players WANT an audience, and that means drawing enough players to keep them interested. Consequently, when the Tahari group did not get off the ground, moving to Torvaldsland (Viking Gor) was the logical choice for me. Southern (or I should say Middle) Gor is too ‘roman’, too ‘city’ for the kind of close knit community I want to be a part of. For me, it is not just enough to have a tight OOC (out of character) community of friends, but also that the role-play overtones be about kinship and brotherhood. I believe this is one of the great -hearts- of good role-play communities, the kind of place that draws like minded individuals to, to be a part of something greater and larger than themselves. We as humans on earth, are becoming more and more disconnected from our families and villages, I think many of us hunger for that connection. To do this, to offer that kind of home to people, I needed to select a fiction that had this already integral to the world.”

“That’s a very wonderful reason to create a sim like this. I am very happy that you did. I know I personally enjoy it there very thoroughly. With you having said that, what do you believe sets Ironhall apart from other Gorean sims?” I inquired.

Branwyn thought a few moments, before responding, “It would be sheer arrogance to assume that we are so different than other sims in some important way that I could ‘claim’ to have the secret to, so I must then simply mention the various things that I think attribute to the differences. First, I would suggest that Bane and I (the sim owners) come from a strong role-play background outside of Gor. We cut our teeth running role-play communities of very different fictions and precepts. We are, role-players at heart, and while we enjoy some of the philosophical aspects of Gor in our real lives, to us, we approach Gor in Second Life from the point of view of a role-player. That means focusing on ‘Respect’ between role-players, encouraging sportsmanship over ‘winning’. It means treating all of our players equally, regardless of their role in the world of Gor. It means fostering a friendly OOC environment, that encompasses new players who want to learn. Patience and support ooc, combined with brotherhood and unity IC, is what I believe has made Ironhall a place that other role-players wish to be apart of.”

Overall, I was very surprised, pleasantly surprised even, to find Ironhall. It does give a much better prospect and atmosphere to role play in. I do agree fully with Branwyn when she states that Second Life, or any online venue, is not a safe place to practice being a “lifestyler”. However, there is no harm in role playing, and it can even be a lot of fun. Just as you do with anything in real life, online, people must protect themselves, and ensure that they are safe from harm.

My back is arched as I come, whimpering, lost in the sensations and in watching the fireworks going off.  And no, that’s not an euphemism. I see fireworks when I orgasm…my world turns into bright white flashes that are cut through with primary reds, yellows, and blues. I have synesthesia, and it’s amazing.

Synesthesia “is a neurologically-based condition in which stimulation of one sensory or cognitive pathway leads to automatic, involuntary experiences in a second sensory or cognitive pathway.” What that translates to, is that people will see/feel/taste vivid scents, colours, mental images from anything from numbers, to colours (Lime green leaves me with an odd aftertaste in my mouth), or even songs. Ever wonder what Beethoven’s ‘Moonlight Sonata’ tastes like? I have a friend who is a fellow synesthete who swears she tastes baklava every time she hears it played.

My particular version of synesthesia seems to revolve almost exclusively around sensation. I first started noticing it when I was about 8. Stubbed toes left after-colours in my head that lasted longer than the pain did. Having my baby sister pet my bare skin, left gorgeous ripples of yellow on me. Swimming in the lake at nighttime, gave me such an overwhelming feeling/mental image of moving through piles of velvet that I was always shocked when I actually got wet as I dove in.

I never brought it up to my family, because I didn’t want to seem ‘weird’ or be accused of making it up for attention. I wasn’t diagnosed as having synesthesia until I was 15 and had broken a bone in my foot. I was describing the pain as being a ‘throbby orange mixed with olive green’, which is when I noticed my doctor was looking at me oddly. Oops. Right, pain generally isn’t a colour. She asked how long I’d been seeing colours, and if there was any other unusual sensations/tastes, and explained to me what synesthesia was. Having a doctor who didn’t act like I was crazy or making things up was really wonderful. I have never been made to feel as though the crossed wires in my brain are something to be ashamed of or hidden. Because, really, it isn’t. I consider it a gift, and a gorgeous one at that.

The first time I had sex, I thought I was going to cry from how beautiful it all was. Kisses, touches…everything had it’s own colour, occasionally a taste to go along with it. Deep kisses that feel like your partner is trying to devour you, taste of black cherries. Oral sex…dear gods, oral sex is gorgeous when it’s done well. It’s blue. Blue waves that twist and spiral over me, then fade into white as I come.

I discovered the wonderful world of kink and BDSM at 19, and my little technicoloured world was stood on it’s head. So many new sensations to explore…I felt, and still feel like a kid in a candy story. I want to try *everything*. Now. Over and over again, until I’ve discovered what each type of sensation feels/looks/tastes/smells like.

To me, being flogged ‘looks’ like ripples of deep greens and blues. The first strike of a paddle on my ass is a deep blue/black, that fades out into lighter shades of blue/grey as the initial sting eases. Knives against my flesh leave behind ribbons of bright arterial-blood-red, while needles placed under my skin bloom into flowers of deeper reds and golds. Rope digs into my skin in negative-image lines of peacock-green and gold, flashing bright behind my eyes. It pushes me down into subspace, where there’s nothing but blackness and faint ripples of colours and sensations around the edges.

I love being a synesthete. My world is brighter than most, and while it’s occasionally odd (vanilla ice cream should *not* feel orange! Ever! It’s just wrong), I wouldn’t trade it for anything.

What does it take to be a phone sex operator? Recently I found myself delving into this question.

My interest was sparked by a Carlin Ross podcast in which she shared some stories of clients she’d had when she was working as a phone sex operator herself. The tales ranged from hilarious and entertaining, to sexy, to dark and disturbing and back again. I was amazed at the myriad of fetishes out there. Who knew that behind people’s cool exteriors could be such a vivid array of erotic fantasies? And the anonymity of telling a complete stranger your deepest darkest secrets sounded alarming and alluring at the same time.

I’ve always been someone who listens, and someone who can offer a fresh point of view on a situation. At the time, I was also a person looking for work, and phone sex does promise to be an easy way to make money. First off, though, I did have to deal with the fact that phone sex is sex work. Sure, you have a higher level of personal safety when working the phone lines rather than the Johns. You are an unknown voice at the other end of the telephone, utterly safe from STDs, unwanted pregnancy, and getting stuck in dangerous situations. If you’re having a conversation that you don’t want to be part of, disconnection is just a click away.

Still, though, the emotional investment in phone sex work is real. I did my research about it by reading the help sections of websites that offered employment, checking out message boards made by and for phone sex workers, and listening to podcasts made by online domes. From this I learned that this job is more than just moaning on the other side of the telephone. Often phone sex workers negotiate with their clients about what kinds of scenarios they desire. Sometimes this means having to coax the client into telling more about their fantasies.

What really struck my interest was the stories of ladies who’d gotten calls from men who would confide in them. Some people use phone sex lines to indulge fantasies that they do not want to share with their loved ones or anyone else they know in real life. They fear being judged, so they turn to the anonymity of phone sex lines and chat rooms to express themselves.

I came across descriptions of the strange and bizarre–rape fantasies, incest, and scat, to name a few. This is the darker sides of the sexual mind. Some would say it’s better to keep the dark side away. Deny that vision of being fucked by someone in your immediate family or being in a non-consensual situation. There’s also a desire that seems more mundane from where I’m sitting, but which, for some, cause a great amount of turmoil: homosexuality.

My issue with repressing desires and imagination is this: I think that when we deny parts of ourselves and push them away it does several things. One, it makes that desire more powerful, because more tension is built up around it from pushing it away. It’s like a spring–the more we press it away, the more it’s liable to spring back and slap us in the face. Which brings me to my second point. When we become consciously aware of something inside ourselves, but deny and try to forget about it, it’s still inside us. And by not addressing it consciously, it gets pressed back into the unconscious. It then can express itself suddenly in ways that can be more damaging and chaotic than if we dealt with it when it first came up. It’s a lot like when people get angry in their day-to-day lives, but don’t express it. Then over time, all those small angers get built up inside and they might lash out in a violent act that is much more extreme than a few small outbursts would have been.

So clearly this is a part of the human condition that I am fascinated with. One of my main interests in phone sex work was to help some people address these hidden fantasies that they weren’t able, for whatever reason, to work out with people in their home life. I think that a few exchanged words and an attentive ear can do a lot for people who are in a mysterious or upsetting situation.

For better of for worse, however, I never did find a gig. Being in Canada, my options are limited, and I was only interested in working for a reputable company with few string attached. Looking back though, I don’t think this search was in vain. Some of my assumptions about the phone sex industry changed. Even more than that, I was privy to a glimpse of human sexuality that I had not had before. I’ve been sparked with curiosity about the secrets we only allow ourselves to whisper in the dark.

I had managed to get through 43 years of life with pretty clear sexual labels.

Then middle age had to go and fuck it all up.

Mind you, I’m not complaining, really. Middle age for my wife and me has brought a sexual reawakening the likes of which I never would have imagined, with us reaching a common ground that has allowed her to truly blossom and embrace her kinks (and discover many new ones), and for me to finally express my kinks openly and comfortably (and also discover new ones). By simply putting the missing pieces of the puzzle into place with our sexual lifestyles, we’ve gone from recently wondering if we need to part ways to suddenly not being able to get enough of each other and having a stronger relationship than ever.

But again, the labels. Dear God, I never knew there were so many labels for sexual identities, and I’ve been a kink-meister for a long, long time. Even if I couldn’t explore most of them personally, I’ve known more about most of them than I probably should.

I guess where I’m feeling adrift lately is in the explosion of some relatively new terms on the scene like polyamory, heteroflexible and homoflexible. And those would stick in my mind because the first two impact directly on my life but also confuse it greatly—and the third is a kissing cousin (so to speak) to number two in the list.

You see, my big sexual thing through most of my life has been the smoking fetish. That’s pretty simple and basic. There are many subsets of the fetish, and very niche areas that various people enjoy, but the basic gist is that if you have the fetish, you find smoking sexy. Simple. So too with my WAM (wet and messy) fetish, which ranks number two. There are many subsets, from wet jeans to mudplay to foodplay and more, but the overall theme is that you like things wet and/or messy. My liking of latex and leather, too, is easily and simply defined, and exists as a subset of both the clothing fetish arena and the dominance/submission arena.

Most fetishes and kinks I’ve known about in life follow a similar rule. Many variations, but the basic definition is clear. In terms of sexual lifestyles, too, I thought things were pretty cut-and-dried. For example, you were either straight, gay/lesbian, or bisexual. You either liked the other gender, you liked your own, or you liked both.

Then came heteroflexible and homoflexible, which I thought might add clarity, but only added more confusion, it seems. I hadn’t encountered these terms until my wife and I started getting on alternative dating sites and such, thanks to our pursuit of polyamory or something like it (more on that in a moment, because that’s messing with my damn mind, too). I have to assume the terms are fairly recently minted, because I’m pretty up-to-date with most sexual terms and hadn’t run across them.

Once I sorted out that homoflexible meant you generally like your own gender but sometimes go for the opposite one, and heteroflexible was the opposite (you have to admit, it could go either way etymologically speaking, so I don’t think I was wrong to be confused), I thought the labels would be a godsend for me. How wrong I was. Thing is, my wife would like to see me with another man. I’m not into guys, but I’m willing to do this for her, and am not freaked out by the possibility, nor do I resent the idea of doing it to make her aroused.

So, while I may not sexually desire other guys, I could see playing with one lightly or heavily if it made my wife hot (and/or the other guy). I figured, “Hey, perfect! I can identify as heteroflexible instead of bisexual, since I’m not technically bi.”

Oh how frickin’ wrong I was. I’ve ended up just labeling myself in profiles as hetero or straight ultimately, and explaining my potential for playing with guys if my wife was involved, because I quickly realized that there are several interpretations of what heteroflexible means, and I felt like I’d be a fraud…or just be unclear to some folks…if I called myself that.

I mean, to some it means essentially the same thing as bisexual, except that you trend much more strongly toward the opposite gender. To others, it means you’re situationally bisexual (that would be me), where certain circumstances must apply to bring out your bisexuality. Still others say it just means that if you bump up against a guy in a threesome, foursome or moresome, you don’t freak out and you go with the flow, and if something happens, like you “accidentally” suck his cock, that’s OK (but you won’t talk about it afterward and it will never happen again).

I’m sure there are other definitions, too, but in those three, I’m already confused enough and convinced that someone should have copyrighted the damn term and enforced their own definition for clarity’s sake.

And in the end, the only reason I felt a need to consider the use of heteroflexible was because my wife proposed we explore polyamory (my agreement to which is the genesis of all the great sex she and I are having recently, which ironically leaves us no time for extra partners right now). And so the added irony is that polyamory itself is a loaded term that invites plenty of debate, and sometimes bitter argument, over what it means and whether it has any relation to swinging. Which is probably why someone had to come up with the super long and awkward term “consensual non-monogamy” to serve as an umbrella for polyamory, polyfidelity, polygamy, polygyny, polyandry, open relationships, swinging, cuckolding and any other close relations.

I have to admit I’m not sure why there is such a territorial feeling around the term “polyamory” needing to literally mean (as some insist) “many loves.” I mean, I get it intellectually. I’m a writer; I comprehend the Latin roots. But when someone is “amorous” that doesn’t literally mean they’re in love with the other person in most cases. Latin roots certainly don’t get taken literally in all sexual contexts—for example, “pedophile” is a little misleading since it should probably just be “liking” kids, much like Francophiles simply like all things French. No one’s pushing for “pedoamory” as far as I know (not that I care to follow the exploits of NAMBLA and their ilk), or even really giving attention to the existing term “pederasty” much.

But getting back to my orignal point: Personally, it seems to me “polyamory” should be the umbrella term, as polyfidelity or some similar term could handle the role of letting people know you are committed to multiple partners and not simply fucking around with whomever, whenever.

Then again, no one asked me.

But again, it leaves me wanting. My wife and I are not, according to the definitions of polyamory purists, polyamorous. For one thing, we aren’t, and never have been, in a poly relationship yet. More to the point, neither of us is sure we even have the time or energy to truly and fully commit to a total relationship with one or more other people besides each other, even though we see immense value in having one or two other people in our lives. Hell, we can’t even find the time to date anyone else but each other. So, from that standpoint, we aren’t “seeking” love and commitment with multiple partners. We’re open to it, but we’re not chasing after it.

At the same time, we’re not sure we’re swingers either, because we’re not just hot and heavy into the idea of spouse-swapping or jumping into the sack with random humans both together and independently. We’d like to have some connection and some sense of friendship perhaps, before we start going at it between the sheets, or atop the counter, or amid the unfolded laundry.

Yet we’ve gone to a swinger event recently and found it to be far less debauched than we thought it might be, and very friendly and without pressure, in fact. And so, given our time constraints, we’ll probably attend more such events, in the hopes of getting to know people better, and possibly sleeping with them once we have a connection to them on a friendly basis. And maybe such a relationship, or relationships, could develop into something more loving in a literal polyamorous manner.

But still, it leaves us perplexed. We’re not really into swinging, and we’re not really committed to polyamory—whatever polyamory really is, if there is indeed a consensus. So, what are we?

Again, I’m not complaining, as such. These two areas of heteroflexibility (or something like it) and polyamory (or maybe swinging) represent explorations that have led to fantastic sex with my wife and a renewed strength of commitment and purpose between us, so I guess I can live with the confusion given the payoff.

But still, I do wish I knew what the hell to call myself before I accidentally attract a homoflexible, neo-Mormon, plural marriage proponent.