Predator

The first time she felt his blade wasn’t during a scene. They were standing around, talking and he saw his knife on the table. He picked it up and pointed it at her. She didn’t flinch. Taking a step toward her, he pressed it against the side of her arm, near her shoulder.

She barely registered the sensation of cool metal against her soft skin. What she did feel was the pull of submission as her mind was cleared of whatever it had been she was saying.

He cocked his head to the side and moved the blade up to her chest, tracing a light line across it. She held her head back and just maintained eye contact with him.

“Does it scare you?” he asked.

“No,” she responded quietly.

He moved the blade up and pressed the edge two inches below her left earlobe. “This knife against your throat doesn’t scare you?” His eyes were focused on hers.

“You don’t scare me.” She held his gaze, holding very still.

Satisfied, he retrieved the knife and set it back down on the table.

“Interesting,” he said.


She was laying flat on the bed, naked from the waist up. He was crouched over her, with one knee on the mattress, dragging his blade across her breast. Slowly, methodically, he grazed different areas on her arms, chest and neck. Her eyes were closed and her breathing soft and shallow.

With her eyes closed, he could study her face without her seeing his reaction to it. Those lips, full and wet. He pressed the flat of the blade against them.

“Kiss it,” he said. She complied.

Leaning down, he replaced the steel with the gentle warmth of his lips.

Her response was to kiss back, but not in a way he’d experienced before. There was a primal hunger to her now. A yearning he’d not tasted on her lips before that moment. He felt himself being drawn in by it, succumbing to her need.

He pulled back quickly, and held the knife against her throat again. Her were eyes open now, the passion in them ignited.

And as she now held his gaze he realized that a few inches of steel was all he had for protection.

Thought: Seeking Rejection as a form of humiliation play?

It’s happened to me online and in person, and I know it’s happened to many of my fellow lady right-of-the-slashers. We openly identify as submissive or bottom or whatever the one that means “I’m not in charge” to us, and we’re approached by a submissive male offering (sometimes quite relentlessly) to serve us.

Why do they do that? This question was just posed in a status update on FetLife recently. Okay, actually, her question was “What does it mean?” but in answering that, I think I might have hit on something.

I know a lot of male bottoms are really into humiliation. I also know that strong lady tops are not quite as plentiful as their male counterparts.

Rejection is the low hanging fruit of humiliation, in a way. So, do they go after the strong lady submissives in the hopes of being rejected so they can get a little bit of that feeling they crave? And the ones that get pushy about it and raise our ire to the point where we’re spitting venom at them, is it…getting them off?

If that’s the case, I don’t know. It feels a little bit like dragging us into their play without our consent; only by asking in the first place they’re technically requesting consent. It’s a nice little loophole.

I haven’t had coffee yet. This just popped into my head as I was responding to her post and I figured I could turn it into a whole blog and see if anybody had any theories, comments or thoughts to add?

An Essay About and Alternate Ending to “The Mindgasm”

This makes more sense if you’ve read this first

I’ve felt “owned” many times, but only once was it explicitly part of my dynamic with that partner. It’s a heavy responsibility to carry. I don’t like to think of myself as a burden, but let’s just say I don’t go around asking people to “own” me all willy-nilly.

But those of us who know the feeling, we know when it’s happened.

In the recent story I posted “The Mindgasm” the two characters don’t have that sort of relationship. The simplest way to describe it would be to say they’re just casual play partners. And when she realizes that something he threw out as an offhand remark triggered a response in her that made her feel owned, she was overwhelmed by it.

In the story, she gets her footing back through the power of snark.

I want to point something out here, in case it’s not clear. That whole story is made up. It was inspired by someone who DID say that line in a hypothetical, throw-away, and joking way, and my REAL response to it was to shake my head and laugh it off. But on the drive home, I wondered about the headspace of someone who would take that seriously and the rest of the story pulled itself together.

This whole thing ties into a lot of my feelings about submission and dominance and how that dynamic works as an exchange between two people and not just one person serving another.

‘Cause when you really think about it, which one of us is doing the serving?

I get to lay there and be still while my top has to do all the work. Learn the skills. Carry the large suitcase full of toys. Keep their needs and my needs in mind. Ensure my enjoyment without me explicitly telling them what I want. Keep in mind (if in a public place) not to interfere with other scenes in progress.

All I have to do is obey.

My partner will tell me what he or she needs or wants and I just get to do it. I don’t need to read minds. I don’t need to worry bout his or her health. I don’t need to be cognizant of anything but “obey.”

And through it all, I really have all the power. One word. I can stop the whole thing with one word. Only, I really don’t have the power ’cause they could ignore it. That’s what makes this an “exchange” and why trust is such a huge part of it from both sides of the slash.

I hear the phrase “greedy fucking bottom,” a lot and it makes me smile, ’cause it’s true. I am a greedy fucking bottom.

Anyone who has ever spent time behind me with their palms in the air has probably heard my response to a good healthy smack on the ass:

“Yummy.”

But yes, on the surface – it would seem that the submissive/bottom is serving the needs of their toply counterpart. Giving over that control, learning to anticipate and match their moods (playful? serious? primal? sadistic?), and in our own way, ensure they are enjoying their time as well.

Ever feel like your top was going through the motions just to please you? It sucks. I want to know they’re getting something out of it. In a funky figure-eight of codependent narcissism, I get nothing out of it if they get nothing out of it, and since I want something out of it, I will damn well ensure they get something out of it.

It’s not like we don’t bring anything to the table. It’s our ass ON the table.

But ownership – that’s, like, a big deal, man. At least to me it is. That’s taking on all that responsibility, not just for the duration of a scene, but outside of it, too.

The bottom in my story has a little mini freakout in her mind when this is happening because putting that responsibility on her top had not been negotiated. I’m not saying all my characters are me, but in this case, she reacted the way I would have.

But, what if he hadn’t asked her that particular question in the end? What if he’d asked a different question instead?

What if the end had gone something like this:


“You made me feel owned,” she admitted.

“And that made you come,” he responded, understanding.

“Yes,” she answered.

He paused for a minute. The tension in the air was thick.

“Do you want to be owned?”

She didn’t respond. She didn’t know how to respond. With deliberate intention, he walked around the table. Her eyes closed involuntarily as she sensed and listened for his movement. He was standing behind her now.

“Stand up,” he said.

She stood, blood draining from her face. This was too much to put on him. This was where he would let her down. Where their relationship would end.

“Look at me.”

She lifted her gaze timidly and started into his focused eyes. She could feel her heart beating in her throat, all the moisture, having left her mouth was pushing its way past her tear ducts.

He softly pressed his thumb to her chin and traced a line down. Slowly, his fingers spread across her throat. Gently he added pressure – more and more until her breathing became calm and measured.

“Tell me,” he ordered.

With a hoarse whisper, she answered him. “You’ve already owned me for a while now.”

“Took you long enough to figure it out,” he murmured just as their lips met for what felt like the first time.


I’m gonna leave you with that, for now.

A Superficial but Relevant Take on Self-Love: (Or, How My Mom Mommy-Dommed Me Into Loving Myself)

I had a conversation with a coworker in the bathroom yesterday at work.  Yes, women talk in the bathroom at work.

Coworker: Wow, your hair is getting really long.  Do you dye it yourself?
Phi: No, I go get it done professionally. That was one of my mom’s mandates after Tony died.
Coworker: To get your hair dyed?
Phi: To take care of myself.  Get my hair dyed. Get my nails done. Get waxed.
Coworker:  And does she pay for it?
Phi: Nope. I do. She made me promise to budget for it.

The point of this post is inspired by @Innermind’s reminder of the importance of self-love, and I don’t mean masturbating which we all know I’m a big fan of anyway.

My mom might be a little bit superficial, but she wasn’t wrong. I’d let myself go. I didn’t care enough to maintain the standard of caring for myself that I’d had before life got shitty.  I’d gained eighty pounds, I was self-dying my hair and it showed, and I wore unflattering jeans and leggings all the time because I couldn’t be bothered to groom my legs.

Frankly, I’d just stopped caring.

She paid for my first visit to the hairdresser the day after the funeral. It was $200. As she pulled out her credit card to pay for it, she gave me the lecture.

“No more boxes from the drugstore. You go find a hairdresser you trust and you budget for this. No more shaving. You go to the waxing center and you get your brows and legs taken care of.  No more chipped polish and calloused feet. You go to the nail salon and get your mani/pedi every two weeks. You make room for this in your budget. You make this a priority.”

She knew this was something I had to be forced to recognize as a priority, because living as the codependent caregiver for a depressed hoarder, I’d not been one for a long, long time.

Later on, when we were going through my expenses trying to get a handle on my budget, my dad suggested I could afford to keep cable television and home phone and take on a new car lease.

“No,” I said. “That goes. That’s my pampering budget.”

My mom was so proud.

It’s been over a year now.  I have no idea what’s happened on any of the TV shows I used to watch regularly, but I take care of myself in all the ways my mom suggested.  Not only do I do those things, but I’ve also lost the weight and then some, and treat myself to occasional massages and frequent bubble baths.  If she’d been paying for it, I’d have been doing it for her.  If I were doing it for the sole purpose of attracting a man, I’d be doing it for him.

It’s because of my Mom-Dom that I found a way to do this for myself.  In the process of doing something so seemingly superficial, I relearned to value myself on on a much deeper level.

Frequently Answered Questions about my life with genital herpes (updated)

*Updated on 2/24/2017 to reflect current relationship status and age


I have had HSV2 since I was 20 years old. I’m almost 39, which means my herpes is now old enough to have its own FetLife profile. The person who gave it to me did not disclose he was a carrier. It was one of those “just the tip,” situations, and BOOM. A few days later, the doctor is very matter-of-factly telling me I have genital herpes.

When I called the guy, he said “Aww, honey. I’m sorry. Yeah, I thought I felt a little tingle.”

Motherfucker.

I immediately told the two other partners I’d been with recently, and one of them still wanted to continue seeing me. I actually was getting a little tired of him, so I used it as an excuse to end it.

The first new partner I told was the man I’d eventually marry a decade later.

I hemmed and hawed over it. “I have something to tell you. I’m so nervous. I don’t want you to be angry.” I was petrified he’d be upset with me, but I shouldn’t have been.

“Just tell me,” he said.

“I have genital herpes.”

He laughed. “Is that all? I don’t care.”

Tony and I were together for two and half years, and then after a five year break, back together for the next ten. After the first month, we stopped using condoms. He never got it from me in over a decade of fucking.

I had a few other partners during that five year break. From the very beginning my stance on this whole thing has been to disclose BEFORE things get hot and heavy.

One guy I was dating got hot and heavy before I expected him to, and I told him just as our clothes were coming off. He went ahead and fucked me, but a few days later he broke it off because he’d spent the previous two days freaking out about it.

That’s when I set my 24-hour rule. Any prospective partner needs to be aware of my condition for 24 hours before he or she is allowed to make the decision to fuck me. I would make exceptions for medical professionals or people who tell me they’ve had partners with herpes in the past.

Well, in order to accelerate that whole timeline once I was interested in dating again, I was open as hell about it. It’s been in my profile here and was on dating site profiles as well (when I had them). I talk about it openly and I bring it up whenever it’s relevant, including during negotiations with a new play partner that might have had the potential for more.

Nobody has treated me with any disrespect. The worst that has happened is that I’ve had people decline to go any further, but because I disclose early, that happened before I developed those pesky feelings for them.

Herpes is a fact of life these days. I remember @TheFerret once posted a blog about thinking about your answer to this question before it is one that is posed: Are you willing to engage with someone who has herpes?

That was a great post. Seriously.

Was it hard to find partners to sleep with? Yes. That would be hard for me with or without the herpes though. I prefer to have a pretty deep emotional connection to want to have sex with anybody, regardless of my HSV status. In the two years after reconnecting with the kink scene, I met only two or three people that I would have wanted to have sex with (that wanted to have sex with me) that felt herpes was a dealbreaker for them. There were perhaps two or three others that didn’t want to sleep with me for other reasons.

Herpes is so prevalent, by the way, that there were plenty of options for me with other guys who have herpes. But, their own HSV status didn’t give them any bonus points. They still had to be compatible with me on every other level.

But there’s a silver lining. How many broken hearts has having herpes saved me from because it deflects guys who are only in it for the sex?

I get asked in PM a lot what it’s like to live with herpes. Here’s my standard answer:

My period is more of a nuisance. It happens every month and has far worse side effects. Herpes outbreaks happen maybe once or twice a year. I know when they’re coming. I eradicate them quickly by doubling up on my daily suppressant therapy. And the most annoying side effect is that I have to stop touching myself for a week or so.

As of the time of this update, it’s been close to two years since my last outbreak. Now that I’m in a stable relationship with an incredible man, I don’t have to deal with the annoyance of trying to date with HSV.

But, I will add something that wasn’t in the original version of this post. Dating poly people when you have herpes is more complicated, because there are multiple people who have to be notified of the risks, as minor as they are. I’m grateful that the people involved with my person were educated and open to it. That has not always been the case for me in poly situations.

For those who have questions, feel free to ask me here or in PM. I’m very open about this. I want to educate people about it. I think the stigma attached to having herpes is perpetuated by fear and lack of information.

It often feels like people without herpes live in perpetual fear of getting it, while people who have it live in perpetual fear of never getting laid again.

But the actual condition itself? It’s a nuisance. A tolerable, controllable nuisance.


UPDATED 1/22/2016 To include this link

Mr. and Mrs. Shameless go to the beach

“What are you doing, Daddy?” She’d just finished re-applying sunblock to her bikini-clad body on the large blanket they’d laid out on the sand. A few feet away, her husband was using a small plastic bucket he’d found to dig a hole.

“I’m digging a hole, pumpkin.” The afternoon sun was bearing down on his back. She leaned back and wiggled her bottom against the soft blanket.

“What for, though?”

“You’ll see,” he responded.

It was a weekday getaway, the kind that retired suburban men with their much younger wives could take without the bother of dealing weekend the crowds and families. There was another couple laying side by side, reading about twenty yards away. In the other direction, a small group of college-aged youngsters were kicking a soccer ball around far enough away that their laughter and cheers blended into the sounds of waves crashing and gulls squawking.

It was almost like having a private beach all to themselves.

A few minutes later, he mopped his brow and looked over at his wife, who was leaning back on her arms, squirming. He smiled through squinted eyes and called her over.

“Give Daddy a kiss,” he murmured as she stepped close to the edge of the hole to look inside. It was large enough for her to lay down in it. With an eyebrow raised, she leaned forward and onto her tip-toes for a kiss. He reached around and pressed his palms against her ass. “You enjoying your new beach toy?” he asked.

“Mmm. Yes, Daddy.” She pushed her butt back against his palm as it wiggled inside her.

“Top off,” he ordered.

She giggled, looking around. The boring couple with their noses in books wouldn’t notice, but as soon as she’d stood up, some of the soccer kids had gotten a little distracted by their public display and were definitely watching.

Turning to face them, she pulled the string behind her back and released her tits to the ocean breeze.

The soccer ball rolled down the slight incline into the water and bounced along the shallow waves, forgotten.

Meanwhile, Simon had produced a pair of alligator nipple clamps from the cooler. “These should be nice and cold now,” he said as he reached around from behind her to fasten them onto her already pert nipples.

He sank his teeth into her neck and she threw her head back with a groan. “Mmm…Daddy…” she mumbled.

“Get in the hole,” he ordered.

She hopped down into the hole and lay in it, all smiles, while Simon waved the small crowd of onlookers over.

“Help me cover her up,” he called out. Three of the guys rushed over, while the two women stayed back and whispered in low tones.

With four sets of arms, it only took a few minutes to bury her up to her neck.

Standing over her, Simon pulled a small remote control out of his pocket. “Let’s see if this works through three feet of sand,” he declared.

By the time each of the guys had had their turn with it, the quietly reading couple had picked up their stuff and moved further down the beach.

Mr. and Mrs. Shameless Take out the Trash

The roar of the garbage truck echoed through the bedroom walls. Still sleepy, Annie nudged her husband’s calf with her foot under the covers. “Daddy,” she grumbled. “Trash day.”

He grunted in response. Too tired to argue, she cradled her head into his chest, letting her hand wander (as it customarily did) toward his cock.

“Daddy, there’s something on your cock,” she murmured, unconcerned.

“Yes, pumpkin,” his voice had risen half an octave. “Let her finish,” he continued, “then she can put the trash on the sidewalk on her way out.”