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Best Bits

Short stories from my Tumblr blog.

9th August 2011 Last night I saw an old friend. We were talking about the time he was suspended above and to the side of me while I was tied to a table below. A rope led from…

Wet Bits

My other Tumblr blog – where I keep the stuff that turns me on.

15 May 2012 I did it. I came on his chest like a dude. Well, sort of. Wasn’t exactly aiming, but it did shoot like a foot cuz I was flat on my back …

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interactions with strangers

Stopped to get gas at the Pilot Station at Road 8 where I-5 meets I-505. Saw a dude standing by the road holding a sign saying something to the effect of “Need food & money to get home”. Sized him up as I drove past to get to the pumps; he looked harmless enough.

Got my pump going and walked over to offer him a ride. “Where’s home?” I asked.

“Bakersfield,” he said.

“Boy, that’s a long way,” I said. Then I noticed the gas can. “Oh! You’re in a car?”

“Yeah, me and my girlfriend ran out of gas. We’ve been here since this morning.”

“That sucks.” Thought about it for a moment. “Grab your can and follow me.”

So he picks up his big red plastic container and his little brown puppy and follows me back to the pump. My gas has finished pumping, it’s at thirty some odd dollars and nine and a half gallons. Motioned for him to unscrew his lid with my hose so I could stick it in.

Ran it up to an even fifty dollars, which put it at twelve point five gallons. “That’s about three gallons, then,” I said.

“Hey, thanks,” he said. “That’s way better than a dollar here or there.”

Didn’t think much about it until later when I realized that, yeah, three gallons of gas isn’t exactly chump change these days. But it was an easy rounding up to make – I was already pumping gas and the extra twelve bucks or so wasn’t gonna break the bank. Plus, it was much easier than parting with the meager amount of cash I happened to be carrying on me. And it was a tangible gift. So I felt good, he felt good, everything was good. I reparked my car and went inside to get a hamburger.

Came back out and saw my gas tank door open and the cap missing. “Oh shit,” I thought. “Guess no good deed goes unpunished.”

Scanned the ground then retraced my steps to look for it at the pumps. Was still three pumps away when a lady yelled out, “You looking for your gas cap?” She pointed to where she’d set it down since it had fallen off my bumper where I usually set it.

Relieved, I retrieved and replaced it, then went on my merry way. But the whole thing reminded me of something I read or watched recently online, something having to do with people being generally helpful, almost as if by instinct, and I realized that it was right. When we have suffered similar problems, when we recognize them happening to other people, we do try to help or prevent – if we can, if it is easy, if it is painless, etc.

There was something else I read recently, something about the social contract and expectations. We expect people to help if the effort is small or the outcome great enough. Oh, here it is:

Communism is in a way the basis of all social relations – in that if the need is great enough (I’m drowning) or the cost small enough (can I have a light?) everyone will be expected to act that way.

(Source: nakedcapitalism.com)

This quote in particular has been sticking with me for days. There’s some stuff in there I want to sort out in regards to autism, boundaries, and behavioral norms but I suspect it’ll take me awhile. Meanwhile, I’m just gonna leave it here to chew on for a bit.

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making the switch away from Gmail and Google

I’m over Google. As I envisioned, it’s getting harder and harder to avoid Google+ and their new “improved” and fully linked and Orwellian profiles. So to hell with them. I don’t want my youtube linked to my email linked to my photos linked to my chats linked to my shopping linked to my searches and published somewhere sometime for everyone to see everything at once — and under my REAL NAME, no less. Fuck all that.

Since I have my own domains, it made the most sense to switch my email accounts from Gmail to my own servers but now I need a new client interface for my Windows 7 machine. Have tried four today:

  1. Windows Live (blech!)
  2. SeaMonkey (hard to adjust account set up)
  3. Opera (liking it quite a lot)
  4. Thunderbird (meh)

I like that Windows Live Mail has an integrated calendar and such, but other than that the format is aggravating and it’s difficult to figure out how to make account changes. It separates my accounts and doesn’t seem to have an integrated inbox.

SeaMonkey looks awesome enough, and I think I’d really like it, but I made a small mistake when setting up my first email account and now I can’t figure out how to fix it. A challenge for a new day, perhaps.

Oh, hey, there it goes. The setting is hard to find but it’s there. This is a tempting little browser – it comes with mail, a web composer, contacts, and chat. No calendar. Lots of little windows. I don’t like that the mail is pop up windows, but I might remember to try that composer the next time NVU crashes on me.

Opera. Dig it a lot. Integrates all the mail accounts very nicely. Also is within the Opera browser itself, which I actually like a lot since I’m used to using webmail with Gmail.

Of course, that begs the question as to why I just don’t use the webmail services that come with my server. <shudders> Those were fugly.

Last and possibly least was Thunderbird, which was nothing more than underwhelming.

So, that leaves me more or less happy with Opera at the end of the day, even though it doesn’t seem to have an integrated calendar. But there are widgets that look interesting, so I’ll maybe give them a shot.

What I’d like is a synched calendar that works on my phone and computer, but I don’t see one that doesn’t require a login from one of the major names like Hotmail, AOL, Yahoo, Gmail, or mobileme. There’s an option to add a CalDAV account, however that works. Not immediately useful, that I can tell.

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why the wine reminds me of switchel

So, I think I figured out why the watered down wine reminds me of switchel – it’s easy to drink in the same way. Switchel is easier to drink than water, which means I can drink more of it faster without feeling full or repulsed.

Adding one part wine to about 5-6 parts water ended up making the mixture more palatable than either water or wine alone. Like, I can really drink the hell out of this stuff. Which is what made switchel such a good choice to prevent dehydration. Though of course, wine itself is dehydrating, so I’m not sure exactly what the net affect here is. I suspect it’s a wash.

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drifting malaise

I’m depressed. I haven’t been writing in, well, years. For awhile I was writing every day when I was on tribe. I had the best group of friends on there, even though I’d never met most of them in real life (but only at first – it’s actually the ONLY online social network I’ve ever been on that carried those friends and lovers into offline relationships).

So here I am, complaining about not writing, in writing. To no one. If I don’t tweet or link this on Facebook, Tumblr,  or somewhere else, it may as well have never existed. Which is okay. It’s not a very important post anyway.

But I miss having somewhere to ramble daily and say I was lonely or crazy or mad or whatever, and know that crazy interesting and often caring people were following along with me and tossing me their love and support at randomly convenient times.

Haven’t really had that since. It’s like the gang all split up after high school; some people went to Facebook, a few to Twitter, most to Fetlife, and the rest just sort of faded away. I didn’t really search them out in new places, cuz I sorta kinda hate all those new places. Except for Tumblr and Twitter. But even then, it’s getting old.

I feel lonely, and isolated. Which is weird and not weird given my current life circumstances. Not weird because I’m literally living in the boonies, but weird because I’m back near my “hometown” and for years I’ve looked forward to being near my friends again, only to find we’ve grown apart in the meantime. Plus, I hate driving to town.

The friend I most looked forward to seeing is the one I used to tell about my various crushes and love affairs. But that door is jolly well closed now that I’ve started dating within that person’s immediate family. TMI in all directions.

I started out writing today, a post in response to an anonymous question over on Tumblr. Took me awhile to compose, and all the while in the back of my head I was wondering whether I even wanted to. I mean, it’s typically considered impolite to ask people what they make, right? But for some reason this rule never seems to apply to sex workers.

Writing. I was writing this morning. Not for me, but for somebody else. Which is okay. Writing is good. Writing in the morning is even better. I used to wake up that way every day, spend hours pouring out some heart rending yet ultimately meaningless ramble about my daily existence.

But then I got distracted. First my help was requested, and then my company. Which brings me back to the main reason I stopped writing in the first place – I didn’t have time because of my romantic relationship. Not all the time, mind, but when we would travel, dear god, I would get totally derailed.

He’d run me ragged from dawn to midnight. If I wanted to write, I’d have to forgo sleep. Period. So I stopped writing. Then we’d get home after a month and I’d have try and catch up on bills, because it’s not like I was earning money while we were away. Self employed people don’t exactly get paid vacations.

That’s actually sort of always been the tradeoff – work, social life, or special interests?

I need to make money to pay my bills. Unfortunately, this takes a rather substantial amount of time during which I need to make myself available to take intimate phone calls. Pretty much anything I want to do outside of my room conflicts with that.

I need to write to feel complete, to hold my sanity, to know who I am, what I feel, where I stand. It helps me to find my voice, a welcome relief in a world where people want me to use my audible one, an always taxing chore.

At some point I need to make time for friends, for love. But which time? The times that work for me don’t really work for anybody else. To be perfectly honest, for the most part I just want to be left the hell alone in front of my computer to write and read and work.

But not always. And not exclusively. I also want to tell the fuzzy beautiful boy to come in and let me adore him with my eyes, feed on his scent and essence and delightful presence. I don’t want to push him away. And fuck, it’s true that I chase him and follow him around when he just wants to work, too.

I think we both really want to be left alone a lot of the time. Unfortunately, the time when he wants to talk and be playful is the time I want to work, write, and be otherwise productive. By the time I start to wear down, he’s hitting his do not disturb work cycle.

But, ya know, having recognized that? I think I can live with that. So what if we want to spend the majority of our days doing our own thing? A big part of learning how to live together is giving each other space to do just that. Which, admittedly, is something I kind of suck at. I prefer great big physical symbols, like a locked door, which is the most recent solution I’ve been fixated on, since neither once of us currently possess such a thing.

Hell, for the longest place having somewhere even semi private to sleep and fuck was the main issue. Now we at least have my bed in my room with the almost closing door. But sometimes I want my bed and my room to myself. And sometimes he doesn’t want to be there. I just wish our sometimes synched up better.

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trust me, you’d know

“Remember when I asked if you’d ever seen me squirt and you said you thought so and I said if you had, you’d know? Well, there you go.”

It all started out kind of awkward while we were lazing around in bed this morning and he started pinching my nipples. Hours earlier I’d felt his interest cuddling and pressing up against me but it’d been just too fucking early to even think about trying to ungrog and move about.

So now it’s later and he’s playing with my nipples, which is okay, but isn’t exactly the best starting foreplay. Sure, it lets me know he’s interested but physically it mostly just annoys me. So I grabbed his hair and dragged his mouth down onto my nips instead.

Much better. Even if it doesn’t necessarily always turn me on, suckling is calming and generally doesn’t manage to annoy me. A much better way to ease into this waking up bullshit.

Tried to drag his hand down between my legs but it settled into a strong hold around my back instead. Okay, fine, he wants to be in control; I can live with that.

After a bit, he did work his hand down between my legs, and he continued the dominant theme, holding my arms and legs down and spreading me wide as he fingered my wet and eager hole.

Made me jump and squeal and even meow a few times then he kind of backed off and started casually playing with my clit. Maybe not so much casually as clinically. At any rate, there was no rhythm whatsoever to keep my excitement up so I resolved to be patient and just experience whatever it was he was doing.

That only worked for so long. I’m scads more patient than I used to be but that isn’t really saying much. Finally I couldn’t stand it any more and had to blurt out “Your fingers. In my pussy. Move. Now!”

So he did, and it was great. More squirming. More meows. And then I felt it. Probably because I’d been playing in my head with resistance play – the nice thing about his inconsistent timing is I could sort of disassociate during breaks in sensation and then pretend that I didn’t want the really good sensation when it suddenly came.

I gasped, “I’m about to make a mess!” and then I did; my hot, wet orgasm gushing down my thighs. Shocked, he tried to stop and I told him “No, no, it’s okay – keep going!” Had to keep repeating “It’s okay, it’s okay…” until finally the strain of it was too much for both of us and I had him stop.

We looked down at the multiple drenched spots and I told him “Congratulations, you just made a girl squirt for your first time.” He says, “We need to change the sheets.”

Natch.

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low self esteem and sexual objectification

Do you know those girls who objectify themselves because they have low self-esteem? I’ve become one of them online, and it sucks. The compliments about my cleavage, my smile–it feels nice. But after that I feel like a shameless whore. I fucking let horny guys jack off to that. I feel pathetic, and I need someone to talk me out of it. Because my sense of self-worth doesn’t exist and I feel like I’m just going to keep hating myself but still doing it because for the love of god I have never ever ever ever felt pretty in real life, or have been called that. I’m sorry if this is freaking you out. I’m really sorry.

It’s not freaking me out at all. First off, I’ve been one of those girls. Big time. I might even still be one to the outside eye, but not so much inside. Least I don’t think so. By the way, I’m 37 now and fairly well adjusted (finally).

Apologies – this may take me awhile to get out because I haven’t really sat down and thought it all out before explicitly, so bear with me.

So, I used to be “one of those girls” in real life. Now I “objectify” myself online – but on MY terms. I think the key difference is that I have the power and control over when and how I put myself out there as a sexual object. It’s not my entire identity, and I try not to let it be any large portion of my self worth. Anyone who tries to reduce me to that gets put in their place.

See, that’s the thing. I was an ugly fucking kid. Insecure. Shy. Never had friends, boys made fun of me. But when I was twelve, my hair grew out and so did my tits. Huge tits. All of a sudden tons of attention from boys (and grown men). Also was very repressed growing up in a fundamentalist Christian household. Very sheltered.

Other kids disliked me because I was smart. As far as I was concerned, that was the only quality I had going for me. Until I realized that I was a sex object. So I played with that. A lot. It’s natural, and we live in such a highly sexualized society there are a ton of examples to model edit: (for women).

It generally wasn’t a positive experience. I had obvious low self esteem and men preyed on that. They used me and dumped me. They never wanted me (though it took me years to realize that), they just wanted what I was offering without any strings attached. I wanted more but I never asked for it because I thought I didn’t deserve it and couldn’t get it. Note: this is a self fulfilling prophecy.

If you want to attach strings, attach them from the very beginning, clearly and openly. My major strings? Friendship, money, or love. “Sure, you can see naked pics of me if you provide me one of those three things. If not, I’m not interested.” Your strings may be different. You might not have any strings at all. And that’s okay, too.

See, that’s the thing about low self esteem. I put myself out there praying somebody wouldn’t shit on the heart I displayed on my sleeve. Unfortunately, this is a self defeating tactic because what I was projecting is that I was willing to let people shit on my heart. Turns out there’s this thing called boundaries that I didn’t discover until way late in life.

It’s okay to be a sex object and to have guys jack off over you if that’s what YOU like and want. Hell, it’s also okay to start a private photo blog showing off unidentifiable body parts just for the attention. In fact, I kind of recommend it. It *is* good for the self esteem to be told how sexy you are. We value sexiness in this culture.

What’s not good for the self esteem is being coerced into being a sexual object in an environment or situation in which it is inappropriate and/or you have not asked for or welcomed it.

Please don’t call yourself a shameless whore. There is no need for that. That is hateful, abusive language that you wouldn’t direct towards a friend you love, would you? It’s meant to put women down for not letting men/society/religion own their sexuality. It’s called slut shaming and is an ugly, ugly thing meant to silence us and keep our bodies under outside control.

This is me: bits.sinshinelove.com As you can see, I’m all over the fucking place. I don’t let my sexuality define me, even though I make my (extremely modest) living doing phone sex and selling the occasional sexy photo. I define and portray myself as an eccentric, interesting, well-rounded individual. And goddamnit, people respect me. Even though I post nekkid pictures of myself on the internet. My Christian conservative mother has even told me she’s PROUD of me, if you can believe that!

I have no idea how many guys have jacked off to pictures of me on the internet. But you know what? I put those pictures out there. It was MY choice. I like sex. It’s flattering to think people think I’m hot enough to masturbate to. It kind of blows my mind, frankly. Until I saw a really good one or two. That’s when it gets really interesting – when you see a picture of yourself so hot you masturbate to it yourself!!! I call that me-porn. And I think it’s a good and healthy thing for the self esteem.

So, protect your heart, protect your feelings. Protect your identity, your location, and your family. But damn girl, do what you want. The carry away message here is to develop other parts of yourself to feel good about as well as your sexuality. Find your strengths/passions/interests/whatever and share them with others. Be ALL you can be. And if part of that likes to turn guys on, then do so. On YOUR terms. Whatever those may be.

Best of luck. ((hugs))

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a most treasured gift

I’ve written a lot about submission and dominance and my ambivalence with both over the years. Recent events force me to back up and reexamine once again. First there was this a few days ago, which damn near broke my heart:

Him: I’d like to be tied up and hit. Hasn’t happened yet. And at this point, I don’t really trust anyone enough to do that to me other than you.

Then, last night, from an article we both read by Kitty Stryker:

“I’m still waiting for a love story between a female dominant and her submissive that is sweet and not played for laughs.”

Him: This is the story I want to write.

And then he did:

Him: I was reading the article, and I came to a decision.

I want you to retrain me.

Me: How so?

Him: I have an image of what female dominance looks like. I recognize that a significant part of that image is from a decidedly male point of view. All kinds of baggage and preconceptions. It’s deeply tied into the now defunct way that I viewed women. Which amounts to saying it’s so error ridden and not based on first hand empirical data that it’s junk.

Also, I came to the decision that while I felt deeply embarrassed to have been outsmarted by you when you tied me up the first time, I want that. If you can outsmart me, I want you to do it.

Me: Hot.

Him: I don’t know what genuine female and gender queer dominance looks like first hand, and I’m not the one who can decide what it looks like. So, I want to learn from you.

Me: That is the most beautiful proclamation of submission I’ve ever seen. Perfect, really.

Him: What I know is that article resonated strongly with me.

Me: I love you. I don’t like the preexisting terms and labels and baggage. We will learn from each other. Thank you.

One thing that has always bothered me is how much of feminine dominance is modeled on stereotypical male dominance. It’s icky. I’ve written about it before, somewhere. It’s like men want dominant women to basically be dickish men but with tits.

Him:

“I have had men come to me terrified of the things they fantasize about. Actually shaking. We weren’t exchanging negotiations; they confessed. And it was heartbreaking to hear them say things like, “I know this is crazy but” or “I’m really fucked up aren’t I?” because they wanted to be submissive. I had a client thank me for listening to his limits and respecting them, because he had seen “professionals” before who caned him even though he didn’t want that, because “that’s what a dominatrix does”. How impersonal. How coldhearted. How nonconsensual.”

Me: That was my favorite part.

Him:

“I feel for these men. They’re told their entire lives that to be anything but an alpha, every second of every day, is to be useless. They’re told that their value is in wielding power, and these men are often not entirely sure if they want to release that power- or even if they can let go. It’s a delicate process to untangle that mess of protective layering, to gently tug at the bindings of social constraints and stigma to get to the male submissive heart hiding, trembling, in the middle. It’s a vulnerable place, and vulnerability is terrifying.”

This is what we have to untangle. I know that I’m not comfortable being without power in a relationship.

Me: I like pushing you into things you don’t feel ready for.

Him: And I know that I’m quick to withdraw my power from people when they try to snatch what is not offered, take what is not given.

Me: I want to know what is okay to take.

Him: Ask and you shall receive.

Me: I want to know what is absolutely not okay.

Him: This part made me think of your quick thinking moment. It’s how I came to the decision about that situation. It scared me and embarrassed me in the moment. It’s taken me a while to think it over and feel it out, and I want that. Neither of us knew before hand. You took something that was unthinkingly offered in play, and you did something wonderful with it. I trust you.

Me: I love you.

Him: So it’s like this. I’ve offered you myself. You are free to take what you please, when you please, how you please. Rather than tell you what you can and can not take, I’ll do it this way. If there’s a conflict, I will let you know. If absolutely needed, I’ll safeword. There are no stops assumed. I trust you to know what is safe, sane, and at least semi-consensual.

Me: Thank you.

So, yeah, my life kinda rocks. We even agreed that I get to tell him when to dominate me, which is beyond perfect, seeing that I’m a total do-me bottom.

DOMINANT BOTTOM shirt
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