BDSMI

Bondage. Discipline. Dominance. Submission. Sadism. Masochism. You know . . . the fun stuff.

How fun? Well, that’s the real question, now, isn’t it? I’ve been reading up on BDSM, and attending events, and so on for about a year now. I’ve been fantasizing about participating in BDSM activities for well over twenty years. And one of the things I’ve noticed over this past year is that there are a number of differences between the fantasies I’ve had and the reality I’m discovering.

Oh, I knew that would be the case. Partly because nothing is ever as you imagine it. Until you experience it (even just as an audience member), you simply can’t know for sure. But what I didn’t realize was that it would differ along the particular lines that have inspired me to write today’s post.

But Before We Begin: The Gender/Gender Pronoun Disclaimer

When referencing a non-specific person in an article, essay, or blog-post, I’ve found dual terms separated by a slash (like “his/hers”, “him/her”, and “he/she”) to be awkward and clumsy. And I’ve found switching the gender of these pronouns every other example to be just plain distracting.

So . . . keeping in mind that I’m a guy, and my primary interest in BDSM involves doing things with a female partner, that’s how I’m going to place my gender pronouns. So please: If the examples and references I give are all about ‘she’ being submissive and ‘her’ getting tied-up, and so on – don’t be offended. It’s just because it’s a she and a her that I see as being my BDSM counterpart. I’m not trying to imply that all females are submissive, or anything like that. If I were a woman with hetero BDSM interests writing this thing, it would all be ‘him’ and ‘his’. But I’m not, so it’s not.

My Preconceived Notions

My first exposure to the concept of BDSM activities was – like pretty much everything else in my sexual development – in the letters to Penthouse, or similar periodicals. The occasional letter-writer whose missive included tales of spanking, or tying their partner to the bed, or winning/losing a bet that made them a sexual slave for a weekend, or other scenarios that stretched the boundaries of what sex could all entail within my young mind.

(The key aspect of that being “what sex could all entail”. All of these things were presented to me as things to do during sex. Not just things to do in and of themselves.)

As time passed, I started to learn the various pieces of terminology. Bondage. Sadomasochism. Slave and Master (less frequently Dominants and Submissives). By time I eventually started hanging out at the houses of friends who had internet access, it was B&D, D&S, S&M, and BDSM.

But it was all still sex. It was dirty little stories to jack off to found on the Alt Sex Stories Text Repository (and later on at other places, like Literotica.com).

Even as I was reading things about BDSM outside of porn and erotica sites, it was still sex in my mind, because it had always been sex in my mind.

I was reading articles, and discovering that there were people who craved the pain of impact play. I read articles which left me with the impression that the Discipline and Submission in BDSM was the same desired structure that some people enlisted in the military in order to experience. I was looking at photos of bondage photography and discussing my theory with friends that a lot of the bondage seen online was an artform done more for the photography than for the actual fucking-a-tied-up-person.

Yet, my brain’s default position on BDSM was that it was sex. More to the point, sex that I wanted to be having.

At their core, all BDSM fantasies were – for me, at least – usually sex fantasies. I assumed that was true of everybody who practiced these arts. Bondage, for example. You tie her up . . . and then you fuck her. Or if not fuck her, at least finger her. (At the very least.) Grope, fondle, and finger. But to just tie her up and then let her go again? The closest comparison I can think of is catch and release fishing (not the cruelty-to-fish aspect of it, just the seeming ridiculousness of hey!-I-caught-a-fish . . . and-now-I-throw-it-back . . . so-I-can-catch-it-again.)

Outside of art-for-art’s-sake bondage, the ‘catch-and-release’ bondage made zero sense to me. Once CJ came into my life, on the occasions that I had her bound to my bed, it was always sexual. (Never any actual sexual intercourse, sadly, but still sexual.) There was finger-fucking. There was groping and fondling. There was sadomasochistic abuse of her nipples. There was stroking myself over her while she talked dirty to me . . . then there was cumming on her face. I had her bound face down once or twice, which included things like spanking. And sliding a lubed-up finger deep into her tight little asshole . . .

Sorry. I was having a little flashback moment there.

S&M activities also struck me [man, I wish I’d stop punning] as being inherently sexual. Not that ‘in order to make love a woman you must first beat her’, or anything stupid like that. But impact play is usually depicted as happening on areas of the body unprotected by clothing. She’s either naked, or has exposed whatever body parts you’re working over.

The bare-ass spanking, for example. Pull down her pants, pull down her panties, spank her bare ass – are you supposed to ignore the fact that there’s nothing but air between your fingers and her pussy? Or her asshole? Is she supposed to ignore the fact that she’s bent over your lap, and has just gotten so wet (according to all the spanking erotica I’ve ever read) that she’s soaked through your pants with her arousal?

But there are other forms of impact than just the spanking. Usually much more intense. Anything from a paddle roaming away from the ass to bruise other areas of the flesh, to the use of scarier implements, like the flogger, the whip, or the cane.

And then there’s aftercare. The part where you bring her back to a state of functionality. Where you soothe her, provide for her needs, bring her water and a blanket or whatever, and hold her. Comfort her.

I can’t help it. I’m sorry, it’s just the way my brain works. It puts things together that DO NOT BELONG TOGETHER. Every time I think of ‘aftercare’, there’s a brief moment where I think of slash fiction.

I once knew a female sci-fi fan who read lots and lots of slash fan fiction. (‘Slash’ fiction being named for the slash between ‘M’s in the M/M designator letting you know the story involved sex between two males.) I’ve never read any of it, but her and I talked about it a few times. Her favorite slash sub-genre was something called ‘hurt-comfort’.

Hurt-comfort stories were those in which a male character (this being fan fiction, an already established character, who was always depicted as being heterosexual) suffers some kind of physical or emotional trauma. And, in order to cheer him up, take his mind off it, help him heal, etc., another strong male heterosexual character (oftentimes his best friend) has gay, gay sex with him.

[Just listening to this description is a scenario that starts out with my brain saying, “Wait—what?!” and ends up with it’s little brain eyes glazed over, drool dripping down from it’s little brain mouth while it sits up in the corner of my skull with a piece of chalk, making diagrams on the floor to try and figure out A.) WTF?; B.) how such a piece of logic could possibly work; and C.) WTF?.]

So when I think of aftercare, there’s always this brief moment where I think of slash fiction. I mean, if ‘comfort’ is such a strong concept that it can cause two strong, well-established-as-heterosexual, male archetype characters to suddenly become gay for each other, then certainly a hetero male dom/top comforting a naked hetero female sub/bottom is going to lead to sweet lovemaking, isn’t it?

[Yeah, as soon as it enters my mind I push it quickly out again, because it’s a ridiculous string of logic to try and follow.]

B&D, S&M . . . and we can’t forget about D/s. Wow. All I ever knew for sure about Dominance and Submission was that if I had a woman who was willingly submissive to me (or better yet, a slave), I’d be set – sexually – for life.

BDSM Is a Coin

I was shocked to discover that not everybody practiced the fantasy version of BDSM that existed in my head. I was really surprised to discover the fact that ‘play parties’ weren’t just great big orgies with the addition of paddles, whips, and rope.

But there it was: People practiced BDSM activities at a complete remove from sexuality. Spanking, beating, flogging, whipping, caning . . . all actions being performed by people who would go their separate ways when the impact play was finished, instead of moving to a bed (or other convenient surface) for sex. Bondage (particularly suspension bondage) done just to experience it. (‘Caught’, then released.) Dominance and submission was practiced over ‘high protocol’ scenes where everything was formal and things like etiquette were of the utmost importance.

Once I adjusted to the notion that BDSM was it’s own thing and not simply a component of kinky sex, I made an even more startling discovery . . . I still wanted ‘in’. I looked at it, and realized that there was still something there for me.

Sure, I was aware that there were people who practiced BDSM the way I’d always fantasized it, and I wanted to fall in with that crowd and stick my cock in somebody during the whole bondage, spanking, and giving orders thing . . . but I also was more than willing to hang out with the ‘separation of sex and BDSM crowd’ and play with them.

I like the thought of control. (And I’m willing to bet the feeling is even better.) I want to find a woman who yearns for the endorphin rush of pain and help her satisfy those needs. I see bondage as being useful as an aid to keeping her in place for the spanking or flogging or whatnot. (Beyond that, I still can’t really reconcile the concept of non-sexual bondage in my poor confused noggin.)

BDSM has nothing to do with sex.

BDSM is all about sex.

I don’t really see it as two radically different philosophies so much as two sides of the same coin. (Especially considering the number of people who flip the damn thing – playing either platonically or sexually on a situational basis.)

To my way of thinking, BDSM play should still ideally involve a sex act. This could be because I’ve always thought of BDSM play and sex play as one thing. It could also be because I’m an incredibly horny 38 year old who should have lost his virginity twenty to twenty-five years ago with the rest of his peer group instead of letting his sexual tension stay bottled up until present day, when he’s on the verge of exploding.

My definition of a sex act, by the way, being “something done by two or more people involving manipulation of genitals intended to bring about orgasm”, which covers everything from simple handjobs and fingering all the way up to sweaty, grinding, thrashing, wild, screaming, penis-in-vagina fucking.

I’m not saying that every little spanking should necessarily lead to a full-fledged fuck. But definitely the second-or-third base ‘foreplay’ style stuff should be a common occurrence.

Various Opinions on the Subject (or “BDSM is a Kiss”)

A couple of months ago (back when I thought that I’d be writing this post much, much earlier than now), I posted a thread on FetLife asking about the intersection of sex and BDSM. How connected are the two? How many people keep them separate, and how many people keep them linked? And so on.

Many of the answers were prefaced with the caveat that: “There is no such thing as ‘normal’ or ‘standard’. All that there is, is whatever you find works best for you.” Which is good advice, but not what I was looking for.

Some people told me that – for them – BDSM and sex were completely intertwined and inseparable. Without the sex, there’s no point to having the BDSM. (One of my favorite lines from this viewpoint was “Sex without kink is just vanilla sex . . . while kink without sex is just a tease.”)

Others said that while they didn’t see sex as an integral part of BDSM, engaging in a play session invariably made them incredibly horny . . . so BDSM usually led to sex, despite the fact that they didn’t consider the two to be a single set of actions.

For some people, it was always sensual, but not always sexual. For others, it’s about a feeling of intimacy. (One respondent indicated that she could have sex without intimacy, but she can’t do casual BDSM play.)

There were people for whom BDSM tended to involve sex, but only because their usual play partner was also their lover. With other play partners, it was just the BDSM. And in other BDSM relationships, sex didn’t enter into it.

And then there were the people with two different styles of play. One representing each side of the coin.

So, on the one level, I got most of the expected answers from the spectrum of “BDSM is a part of sex” to “BDSM is apart from sex”. Then came the fun answers.

One of the people who replied to the thread hit me with this little piece of insight: There are people who are into flogging, bondage, power exchange, and so on, but whose activities do not include penetration. And these people will tell you that BDSM isn’t about sex. Because they engage in BDSM activities, and don’t incorporate sex into that play. But then again . . .

How do you define sex? How do you define making love? There are people out there who would say that flogging their partner is making love to them (or that being flogged is being made love to). Who’s to say that for some people BDSM (the standard actions, even without the benefit of penetration) isn’t sex?

Another respondent said that BDSM had never been about sex for her, but had always affected her sexually. And that giving herself to someone in a BDSM context was better than any sex act could ever be. (She went on to say that so long as she was able to serve another within the context of BDSM it wouldn’t bother her if she was never penetrated again. A statement she revised in a later post further down the thread when clarifying her remarks, as she really didn’t want the whole penetration thing absent from her life . . .but still . . . it says something about her views on BDSM that she made the comment in the first place.)

There also came the opinion that since BDSM is a lifestyle [which is a potential topic for another time], sex is a part of it as much as sex is a part of anyone’s life. If people only practice BDSM in the bedroom, then it’s a sex thing. But if it goes beyond that (up as far as a 24/7 participation in the stuff), then that’s how they live their live, and they have sex when they have sex. But the BDSM has become more, and the fact that the sex involves BDSM is less noticeable, because everything involves some level of BDSM.

My favorite answer was from someone who stated that the closest analogy was to kissing. An intimate action. And one that can be done platonically. Caringly or affectionately. As a prelude to sex. As foreplay. As part of a sexual encounter. Or simply as a self-contained act – ‘an end-unto-itself’.

It’s an interesting was of looking at it. BDSM is a kiss.

Your sub/bottom/partner has a bad day, and needs pain, or discipline, or whatever it is that she personally cries out for. As a caring dom/top/partner, what do you tell her? “Oh, come here. Let me kiss it and make it better.”

The bratty sub tells you to ‘kiss her ass’. Which causes you to take off your belt. Yeah, you’re going to kiss her ass.

“Kiss Me, I’m Irish” becomes “Kiss Me, I’m Submissive”.

Hmm. My word games are going to carry me off if I’m not careful. Time to kiss this little subtopic good-bye and move on.

My Dungeon Encounter at KinkFest 2008

My BDSM-est encounter thus far took place at last year’s KinkFest. I’ve talked about this a few times already, most notably in “My BDSM Experience”, way back near the very beginning of the blog. It wins the title of “BDSM-est” over anything that CJ and I ever did by the simple virtue of having racked up a larger number of BDSM points. Taking place in a dungeon. In public. Involving actual leather cuffs. And a spanking bench. And so on and so forth.

Paddlevendor (not her real name) was set up in the vendor’s area, trying to sell me a paddle. (Which probably helps to explain why I’ve named her what I did.) She’s tenacious – I’ll give her that. So much so that when our back and forth ‘I don’t need a paddle, and here’s why’ / ‘Oh, yes you do, and here’s why’ game came to what I thought would be a close by me telling her that I really had no use for a paddle as I had no partner to use one on . . . she told me that she’d play with anyone, so long as it was public, and asked if I was planning on going to the play party that night. Well, that’s the kind of sales pitch you just can’t ignore.

When we met up in the dungeon later that night, she explained her medical problems, and gave me a list of places where I couldn’t hit her because of them. She also informed me that her panties (along with tights and socks, as it turned out) would be staying on, because she didn’t want anything to go to far, as genital play was reserved for her sex partner.

Now, none of that is anything that I have a problem with. I understand it all, and I’m fine with it. However, at the time, I was incredibly disappointed. And, if I’m completely honest, a tiny little bit pissed off. Why? Because hours earlier, after purchasing the paddle from her, I asked the question: “So, what do you all do in the dungeon?”

To which her response was, “Pretty much everything.”

Her medical concerns kept me from hitting her legs. I wasn’t allowed to devote any real amount of spanking to her ass. (Everything I did was concentrated on her back.) And she remained fully dressed below the waist.

It would really have been nice to know about the medical limitations beforehand, but you and I both know that’s not my complaint. “Pretty much everything.” I spent several hours with the words “Pretty much everything” reverberating through my head. I tried very hard not to think about the prospect of losing my virginity that night, although I couldn’t help but picture fucking her while she was strapped down to a spanking bench. But I was planning on at least finger-fucking her in addition to the paddling I planned to give her. I fantasized about cumming on her face.

But apparently – for her – BDSM had nothing to do with sex.

At the time, I wanted to ask her if she incorporated BDSM and sex into a single activity with her (monogamous sexual) partner. I actually started formulating the question in my brain, but couldn’t think of a way to phrase it that wasn’t going to sound like the beginning of a negotiation to try and get into her pants. (Which was NOT my intent. No means no, and all that. But I was honestly curious about whether she kept her BDSM completely separate from her sexual activities 100% of the time, or just outside of her bedroom.)

“Pretty much everything.” Yeah, right. That was a far-too wide-ranging statement to be casually thrown around. I found myself thinking that there should be a way to tell the difference between the “BDSM has nothing to do with sex” people from the others.

What’s In a Name?

One of the things that I love about BDSM is how elegant it is. I’m not talking about the activity right now – I’m talking about the name.

Somehow – whether it was one creative genius, a committee, or a work-in-progress passed along from collaborator to collaborator over time – Bondage and Discipline and Dominance and Submission and Sadism and Masochism became known by the simple, four letter initialization BDSM.

I like that kind of thing. I like initializations when they’ve got some creativity packed into them, I like acronyms (and the related fields covering the topic of word-strings condensed into a single word), and I like the idea behind mnemonic devices. (I also like portmanteau, anagrams, palindromes, and so on and so forth.)

And as someone who likes that sort of thing . . . BDSM just fuckin’ knocks my proverbial socks off.

It didn’t end up being B&D&D&S&S&M. It didn’t end up being BD&DS&SM or even BDDSSM. No, someone decided to grab hold of the overlapping initials and squeeze for all they were worth, condensing them into single letters pulling double duty. Four capital letters representing six words (and either three or five ‘ands’ or ‘ampersands’, depending on how you’re counting.)

Like I said: Elegant.

In fact, not just elegant. Perfect. Flawless. So completely and totally ideal that it should never be altered, adjusted, or manipulated in any way, shape, or form. Obviously, that goes without saying. Anyone who would try to change ‘BDSM’ into something different is clearly a fool.

That having been said . . .

I would now like to talk about something I’ve decided to call ‘BDSMI’.

M&I

What the fuck is BDSMI?

Actually, it’s a smaller question than that. Broken back down into it’s component parts, we all know what B&D is. Along with D&S, and S&M. Which just leaves us with the new guy. M&I. So really, the question becomes . . .

What the fuck is M&I?

M&I is Masturbation and Intercourse. A term I’m using here to cover most (if not all) possible sex acts.

Define it however you like. Take masturbation to mean jacking off or fingering yourself (or the mutual masturbation style jacking or fingering someone else), and have intercourse cover vaginal, oral, and anal intercourse.

Or have ‘intercourse’ mean simply intercourse (PIV, and possibly PIA) and define masturbation as any sexual activity outside of intercourse – the classic “Everything But”. Handjobs, fingering, and oral. Titfucking, footjobs, uhm . . . armpit fucking . . . fisting . . . anything else involving putting the cock somewhere, or putting something in the pussy, I guess. Anything designed to bring about an orgasm.

M&I, simply put, is the sex that’s left out of “BDSM has nothing to do with sex”.

And while everybody masturbates (Yes! Even you! We have you on camera!), and mostly everybody has sexual intercourse, my intention for the term M&I is that it be grouped with B&D, D&S, and S&M in the whole BDSM category. Forming BDSMI. Therefore M&I pertains to BDSM-style sex, not vanilla.

Point and Purpose?

Is there a point to my having bastardized the (oh-so-elegant) ‘BDSM’ into a new term? Do I foresee it having a purpose beyond a simple intellectual exercise to help fill up a blog post?

Hmm.

Depends on just how full of myself I am, I guess.

Actually, yeah . . . I’d at least like to think it’s got a purpose. At the absolute minimum, coining the term BDSMI gave me a title for this post (along with a focus for it). But – do I seem like an absolute minimum kind of guy to you? (Penis size doesn’t count. I can’t help that.)

It seems to me like there’s a implicit dividing line (not an angry border, just a simple “here is where the difference kicks in” notifier) between BDSM for it’s own sake, and BDSM as an aspect of kinky sexplay. And currently, in my head, BDSM for it’s own sake is called ‘BDSM’. The other stuff, the stuff that I’ve fantasized about since reading about spanking and tying a girl to a bed way back in Penthouse Magazine? In my head, that’s now labeled ‘BDSMI’.

The thing is . . . I’d like these labels to exist in places other than just in my head.

I’m not necessarily looking for the creation of a symbol or anything. (I added an ‘I’ to the end of ‘BDSM’, so let’s now add an ‘eye’ to the middle of the triskelion icon. Uh – no.) But maybe wearing a pin or a sticker that reads “BDSMI”. Or even just “M&I” Something you can wear to a play party that lets people know you’re orgasm friendly.

This isn’t to say that wearing an M&I pin will get you laid. All it would do is alert people looking for partners at a play party (or wherever) that you’re open to some form of sexual activity (not necessarily full-blown intercourse, but at least some form of genital manipulation). It gives you an opening to bring it up during scene negotiation. (Especially helpful if that’s something that you’re generally too shy to talk about on your own.)

I’d love it if this thing actually took off. Not just for the ego boost it would cause for yours truly, but also because I honestly think it would be a useful tool for the BDSM (BDSMI) community.

So, tell your friends. Point them back toward this blog entry if you want. Spread the word:

BDSMI.

M&I.

Read “Time Delay”.

(That last one is optional – but always appreciated.)

The Road to KinkFest - 57 Days and Counting

Thursday? What the Hell? I don’t post on Thursdays. I’ve settled into the whole Monday – Wednesday – Friday routine. How did a Thursday post get in here? Hmm. I blame KinkFest.

This is the first of five posts chronicling my personal countdown to KinkFest. I have to go through all manner of preparations for the event. Things to do. Membership to apply for. Reservations to make. People to contact. Stuff to obtain. Information to devour. Dungeon play party fantasies to masturbate to. Luggage to pack. And, of course, money to figure out just how the fuck I’m going to get so that I can pay for the whole thing. (Here money, money, money . . . )

And since KinkFest is a BDSM/Kink event, and I just happen to do a BDSM/Kink-based sex blog . . . it made sense to do a series of posts covering these preparations.

The plan is for a series of bi-weekly posts. On Thursdays. (I could’ve sworn I didn’t post on Thursdays.) The first one today, the final one the day before the event begins.

This isn’t to say that I won’t talk about KinkFest prep in other posts, or that I won’t touch on other topics in these ‘Road to KinkFest’ posts. I mean, come on. I’m disorganized. Often scatterbrained. And usually just plain wacky.

But at least we’ll have the illusion of some kind of order here, right? Right.

Previously on the Road to KinkFest . . .

I’m not sure how long ago the website for KinkFest 2009 went up. A subject-to-change list of presenters and workshops was announced on FetLife in late November. The more detailed version of this with presenter bios and workshop descriptions went up on the KinkFest site at some point in December. No actual schedule at that time, but enough information for people to start getting excited over.

That list had nine workshops that I really want to attend. (Along with a handful of others that I wouldn’t mind attending, but aren’t of an oh-my-God level of importance.) Sadly, there are only six workshop periods on the KinkFest schedule (spread out over five rooms, giving nearly 30 workshops total – ‘nearly’ because a few of them are double length).

Last week somebody started a KinkFest group on FetLife. I was up at the library on what had to be the day it was started, because I was the tenth person to join. I don’t know what the membership of the group is up to now, but I’m guessing it’s more than ten.

Fifty-Seven Days

The countdown begins. Fifty-seven days remaining. Roughly two months. Just how long that is depends on why you’re asking. If it’s “how long until the event finally gets here?”, then it’s a long, long time. If it’s “how long do I have to get everything done?”, then it’s hardly any time at all. (Isn’t that always the way these things go?)

February 1st is on a Sunday this year. No mail on Sunday, so Social Security checks should hit mailboxes on Friday, January 30th. Once I get my check in the bank, I can go up the hill to the library and purchase my membership from the KinkFest website.

It currently costs $125 ($100 for PLA members – and PLA membership is only $10, so . . . do the math) for KinkFest membership. That goes up to $150 ($125 for PLA members) on February 15th. The cut-off for applications is March 15th. Sooner if they reach the point at which they’ve sold enough memberships to fill the place to capacity. Once that happens . . . you’re shit out of luck.

So, if you plan to go, don’t dawdle. Oh, obviously, you should wait until after I’ve purchased my membership. But once I’m safely assured that they didn’t run out of memberships before I’ve submitted my payment, then by all means – hurry!

Scheduling Conflicts

Last week (I think it was last week) the workshop schedule finally went up on the KinkFest site. Nine workshops I wanted to attend, remember? One of those I won’t be attending because it’s a four hour workshop, it’s first come-first served, and it’s limited to twenty people. And the others? They managed to arrange the remaining eight workshops into three workshop periods.

Those. Fucking. Bastards.

There are three workshop periods during the event where there’s pretty much nothing going on that I’m dying to see. Oh, for two of those there are workshops that I still plan to attend, they’re just not anything from the oh-my-God-I-have-to-attend-this list. And there will be one workshop period that I plan to spend in the hotel’s hot tub. (Ah, the hot tub . . .) Who knows, maybe I’ll find a lusty female willing to meet me there and let me play with her swimsuit-covered tits and slide the crotch of her suit aside so I can finger her under the water and then put a checkmark next to number 39 on my list of 39 Things to Do in Year 39. (Hey, it could happen.)

The second workshop period on Saturday includes a workshop by Panther Prowls entitled “THWACK! – Understanding Impact Play”. At the same time, there’s a workshop by Freya entitled “Visit Uranus – An Anal Pleasure Workshop”.

The second workshop period on Sunday brings us both “Let Your Beast Out” by Cleo Dubois (a workshop about conscious sadism), and “The Siren Song of Oblivion – Why Play on the Edge” by Mo Williams. (I missed both of Mo Williams workshops late year – wanted to attend both, but one was scheduled opposite something else I had to attend, and the other happened after Zorch decided that we were leaving early. Afterwards, whenever I heard about KinkFest, what I heard about was Mo Williams’ workshops.)

The third workshop period on Sunday – and final one for the event – includes “Asymmetrical Bondage – Beauty in Chaos” by Boss Bondage (owner and operator of the Asylum Dungeon), “The Art of Flagellation” by Master Bob (who attends the Salem Munch), “Strapping On and Getting Off – Penetration Pleasures for Top and Bottom” by Freya, and “Fisting and Footing” by Allie.

Some of these are impossible choices. I may need all 57 days just to figure out what I’m going to attend and what I’m going to have to let go of. I look at my choices and try to figure it out, and my brain gets dizzy and falls over inside my skull.

Do I choose the ones I want to see the most? Do I choose the ones I see as being most useful to me (as someone trying to get into things like BDSM and sex)? Sadly, they aren’t the same.

That last workshop period. I know I’m not going to the bondage one. (Sorry, Boss.) But I can’t really narrow the other three down to the required one. I’ve got a huge foot fetish and a major desire to fist somebody. I need to learn how to use a flogger. I’ve got this oft-mentioned desire to get fucked in the ass by either penis or a strapped-on dildo.

How does a person make a choice like that?

Plus . . . there’s the wild card factor. If a presenter gets sick and has to cancel, I’m probably screwed. Because it will either be a presenter whose workshop I need to attend, or it will be someone who wasn’t even on my radar – and who will be replaced by a last minute presenter doing a workshop on Clown Sex, or something equally geared specifically toward my interests. Something to throw my whole schedule out of whack.

The watersports workshop I attended at last year’s KinkFest wasn’t on the schedule until the event started because it was a replacement for a workshop whose presenter couldn’t make it to the event. So even as I try and figure out what I’m attending and what I’m not, I’m trying to keep in mind the potential for the wild card workshop to leap up and bite me in the ass.

Hello? Can Anybody Hear Me?

There are a handful of presenters whose bios include some sort of contact information. Either websites or e-mail addresses. There are also a handful of presenters that I’d like to contact before KinkFest and ask a couple of questions of. Guess what? None of the presenters I want to contact are the ones who have supplied contact information.

The people in question either don’t have FetLife accounts, or don’t use the same name on FetLife that they use as workshop presenters.

So, I’m going to ask. I’ll start a thread asking questions about contact info on the FetLife KinkFest group. If that doesn’t work, then I’ll probably drop an email to whoever’s in charge of programming at KinkFest.

I don’t want to be rude or demanding. If these people don’t want to be contacted by any freak who can access the internet, that’s perfectly understandable. But if it turns out that they don’t mind the occasional contact, and just don’t put that info into their bios so that they aren’t flooded with mail from conference attendees (and wannabe conference attendees, and stalkers, and weirdos, and the like), then it’s well worth the time and effort it takes to ask the question.

Like everyone always says: it doesn’t hurt to ask.

That Oh-So-Pesky Virginity

The major problem that I had at last year’s KinkFest was that it was the first time I was surrounded by openly kinky people. In the workshops, in the dungeons, even in the hallways. I knew that these people were my fellow perverts.

I wanted to learn. I wanted to make contacts. I wanted to explore BDSM. All of this was true. But mainly . . .

I wanted to fuck.

I figured that if there was anywhere that I was going to run into one of these seemingly mythological ‘female fat admirers’, it would be at a BDSM/Kink/Fetish event. Despite trying not to, I had managed to convince myself that I was going to finally lose my virginity at KinkFest.

It didn’t happen. Which both disappointed and depressed me. And I think that my desire for my first-ever round of sexual intercourse probably kept me from experiencing some ‘firsts’ that would have been within my reach had I only attempted grasping them.

57 days. Do you think I can lose my virginity in the next 57 days? I don’t know whether or not it’s possible. But I think that it’s what I need.

If there’s any way that I can attend KinkFest and NOT still be this sex-starved, 38 year old virgin – self-conscious because of my near-complete lack of any and all sexual experience, and desperate to finally be rid of this metaphorical stone around my neck – it would not only increase my enjoyment of the event, but would probably allow me to actually focus on the purpose of the gathering, rather than spending all three days sitting on a stack of unrealistic fantasies and going home unfulfilled.

An Empty Jar

As mentioned earlier in this post, I plan to purchase my membership to KinkFest on either Friday or Saturday. Marking not only the beginning of “The Road to KinkFest”, but also serving as the kick-off to February’s status as “Top Ramen Month”. (All Top Ramen, all the time.)

KinkFest membership comes half out of my February check, half out of money I saved from January. (Come to think of it, there was quite a bit of Top Ramen in January, too.) The rest of my KinkFest funds are currently being kept in a jar.

And yes, that jar is empty. Not even a lonely penny resides there at the moment.

Beyond membership, I honestly have no idea how I’m paying for this. (I’ve got 57 days to figure it out.) If I wasn’t needlephobic – and of course, completely and totally medically FUBAR – I’d start selling my blood. (I’d go out and become a gigolo/man-whore, but I figure if I can’t find anyone to have sex with me for free, who’s going to want to pay me for it?)

I’m not worried about it (or so I keep telling myself). It’ll work out. The money will come from somewhere.

I’m not worried at all. Not yet, anyway. If I haven’t figured out the financial end of things by then, I’ll start worrying when I hit 29 days and counting.

Memo To Myself

(“Do the dumb things I gotta do – touch the puppet head.”)

Another thing I need to do before KinkFest . . . I’ll need to write a couple of blog posts for while I’m at the event, and for while I’m laying in a heap recovering from the event.

I’ll need to write and pre-post a blog entry for the first day of KinkFest (the Friday of my normal M – W – F schedule). I’ll return home Sunday night, but will I be in any condition to write anything? Or to go up to the library the next day and post stuff? Maybe, maybe not. Better safe than sorry. The Wednesday following KinkFest is April 1st, and I’d just as soon skip blogging that day instead of going anywhere near the internet. My KinkFest report will probably go up on the blog on Friday, a week after the event starts.

But I’ll definitely need at least two posts written and set for auto-posting before I leave.

Coming Up on ‘The Road to KinkFest . . .’

I can’t afford to pay for an entire hotel room for two nights! And even if I could, whatever would I do with the additional bed? There must be a solution to this problem.

4/5X costs how much!?!

Contact information . . . on paper.

And:

“Hey, I was kinda wondering – if you’re not busy – would you have any interest in playing with me in the dungeon later on tonight? I just bought this in the vendor’s area, you see, and I’d really like to test it out . . .”

Milestones (And Other Obsessive-Compulsive Uses For Numbers)

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

Humiliation Girl

I’ve already talked a little bit about my ‘relationship’ with someone I like to call Humiliation Girl (not her real name, but it certainly should be) in the blog. I originally mentioned her way back in my third post, “My BDSM Experience”. I talked about her abrupt disappearance from my incoming email in the first “This Should Be Many Smaller Posts” post.

I spent a couple of paragraphs talking about her again in the ‘Food Play’ section of the “Fetish at Christmastime” post. Then in “Watersports – A Jar of Piss vs. What I’m Actually Into” I described one of the dares that I sent her. A dare that she apparently accomplished, as per her claim in her final email to me, but never actually gave a fully detailed report on. (Tsk.)

I eventually outlined the basic history of our e-mail association in “What Zeitgeist the Clown Did in 2008”. (Some of which I’ll reiterate here for those of you who don’t want to go back and read – or reread if you’re one of my faithful two or three readers – that piece just for the background info.)

I also recently mentioned (“Misconceptions and Context”) having written her a humiliation scenario in which I strip away her femininity – a weird little scenario that ends with HER being humiliated by fucking ME up the ass with a strap-on.

It’s possible that there were other references. The abovementioned are the ones that stand out in my mind.

Throughout the entirety of this blog, after repeated posts in which I simply mention or reference her, I keep meaning to do a post that’s actually about her. At first, I was waiting until our correspondence had progressed further. Once it stopped, I was waiting for it to resume. After I’d given up on her, other topics kept forcing their way into the list ahead of her.

But finally, today’s the day. It’s time to talk about the Humiliation Girl.

How We ‘Met’

Last March, Humiliation Girl (or HG) and her husband (whom I’ll just call “Hubby”) posted a lengthy request on a bunch of different message boards. One of which was on a Yahoo group dedicated to Salem, OR area adult book stores. (Gloryholes, couples booths, and other likely places for anonymous sex.)

HG was described as being 27, 130 lbs, 5’4”. Curly red hair, pale skin, and c-cup breasts.

In that post, they talked about wanting to travel during spring break for swinging activities. Hubby just wanted to watch. HG just wanted to be used like a piece of meat. They asked that people send in descriptions of what they’d do to/with her if they ended up being chosen as playmates during HG and Hubby’s travels. About the acts to be described, they stressed “the more degrading and abusive the better”.

One of the main activities that they were looking to accomplish was fisting. HG wanted to lose her fisting virginity, and her and Hubby thought it would be exciting to have her first time be at the hand (my pun, not theirs) of a stranger.

They included a lengthy list of things that HG was into, or wanted to try. Including humiliation, degradation and abuse. Specifically, she wanted to have sex with “fat, old, or very unattractive partners (a humiliation turn-on for her, take no offense)”. Hubby also mentioned that “Penis size is also not an issue. My wife prefers to be stretched out by big cocks, but also gets off on worshipping tiny little cocks as well (humiliation factor again!)”

I’d never responded to one of these before. But my virginity was acting up that day, and their post had made me really, really horny, so I sent them an email.

I introduced myself, and explained that I was the perfect partner for her if she was into humiliation, and if her humiliation switches got flipped by getting fucked by an older obese man, and having to worship a tiny penis. Plus, still being a virgin meant that if my email convinced her to come out to Oregon, then when I fucked her it meant that she was such a low and filthy thing that she’d be willing to spread her legs and submit her body to someone so vile and disgusting that nobody else would even entertain the notion of having sex with him. .

[No, my self-esteem isn’t so low that I think of myself in those terms, but it fit the humiliation theme, so I ran with it.]

The Corpse Scenario

In that first email to her, in addition to listing a variety of bondage, humiliation, and abuse activities I had in mind, I also included a list of roleplay possibilities. One of which I actually wrote up rather than simply leaving as a one-line list item.

Given that you like being treated like a piece of meat, try this on for size:

You’re a woman who just died in a bathroom, and your body has been discovered by a deranged pervert. I grab you by your ankles and drag your corpse out of the bathroom and into the motel room proper, then start going through your pockets. At first, my intention is really just to loot your body . . . but then I find condoms in your pocket. And only a slut walks around with condoms on her. A slut probably wouldn’t mind if I did more than just loot her corpse.

I remove your clothing (possibly taking it off, possibly cutting it off of you). I pocket your panties (souvenir). I play with your tits, and push a finger up inside you. You must have been horny when you died, because you’re still wet. I molest your dead body as you lie there, silent and unmoving.

I put on one of the condoms I found in your pocket, and begin fucking you. All the while narrating what I’m doing, talking to this strange girl’s dead body, and voicing my disbelief that I’m actually fucking a dead girl.

After I’ve cum, I realize that I should probably clean you up before someone finds you and calls the cops. So, I drag you back into the bathroom, and deposit you in the tub. Still feeling depraved (and when else will I ever get this opportunity?) I empty my bladder on you before I start cleaning you up. I piss on your face, your tits, and your pussy. Then I turn the water on and get to work.

I wash you down – removing my piss, cum, and saliva from you. And since dead girls don’t feel anything, there’s no need for me to be gentle. After scrubbing your body with a wet washcloth, I re-wet it, and then stuff it in and pull it out of your pussy a few times. I then leave you naked in the tub, taking your clothing with me for disposal.

At this point, I was really just trying to go for degrading rather than an actual specific fantasy of mine. Sure, with the exception of the necrophilia theme, everything I wrote sounded good to me. And I was amused by the discipline/submission angle of her trying to remain corpse-still throughout the entire sex act.

Anyway, I sent off the email, and waited.

Questionable Honesty

I got an e-mail back from them in April which apologized for not getting back to me sooner (and which read like a form letter – I don’t think they’d gotten back to anybody yet). They explained that they’d missed their arbitrary spring break travel window, but planned to do some traveling over the summer and later on during the year, and would try and do some swinging during that time.

The e-mail also promised that pictures of HG would be forthcoming soon.

When the pictures showed up a month later, they were accompanied by an e-mail from HG, informing me that the situation had changed somewhat. Hubby had changed jobs, and lost his vacation time in the process. So now the plan – with Hubby’s perverted approval – was to send HG traveling alone with a video camera. She’d have her degrading little encounters that she’d handpicked from the e-mail submissions, and videotape them so that Hubby could watch them upon her return to him.

An e-mail or two later, the story was that Hubby had become jealous, and decided that he wouldn’t let her travel on her own to have sex with other men. If she wanted to indulge in her fantasies, Hubby had to be there to watch in person. Although (as HG further stated) Hubby had seemed to have gotten cold feet and changed his mind about the entire swinging thing now, so it might not happen at all.

Had they ever planned to travel the country letting strangers violate and molest HG’s incredibly sexy form? Who knows? I have my doubts. My theory is that it was a test to lure dirty and depraved minds into correspondence with the promise of sex. Then to see which ones liked dishing out the verbal abuse and proposing the humiliating dares enough to stick around even after the potential to fuck her nasty little brains out was yanked away.

There was a part of me that questioned whether or not the whole thing was true from the beginning because, well, it seemed too good to be true. And there’s usually a reason for that.

E-Mails To and From Humiliation Girl

The bulk of our email correspondence was over a three month period (June through August). It started with the email in June that included pictures. [And regarding those pictures, might I just say, GOOD LORD AND BUTTER! HG was one incredibly hot little redhead. The second time I looked at her photos I found myself musing, “I wonder what the chances are of convincing her to dress up like Batgirl?”]

The first thing that she said to me after informing me that Hubby would no longer be traveling with her for her little cross-country sex romps was:

You are one SICK puppy, and I mean that in the best possible way! I would love to hear any of your fantasies, no matter how warped. Maybe we can figure out how to make some of them happen, especially if hubby won't be there to play referee...

I think that she liked what I had written her.

She talked about fisting in that first letter . . . along with the fact that she was interested in permanently stretching her pussy open. She wanted to “permanently gape (her) cunt”. She would go on throughout the course of our correspondence to talk about her fantasy of having her pussy ruined via insertion of large (and too-large) objects.

And thus began our real correspondence.

I told her that I had a fantasy about having a woman cum mule for me (sucking my condom covered cock until I came, then after removing the condom and tying it shut so nothing leaked out, swallowing my still-protected load, condom and all). She told me that the scenario did absolutely nothing for her at all. But that if it turned me on, she’d be willing to do it for me if/when we got together anyway. (There were a lot of things that she’d agree to do because it got her off knowing that the action turned me on, despite the particular action not arousing her at all.)

It also came up in conversation that – and I almost fell out of my chair when I read this – she used to go to sci-fi conventions . . . dressed as Batgirl!

Following a reference to strap-ons, I spun this little scenario:

I make a little speech about how woman are great. About how God made them to be creators, about how nature formed them as the Goddess archetype, or whatever. I go on about how I respect and adore women, and so on. But then I look down at the woman I’m talking to, and I say, “Except, of course, for you.” I then go on to tell her how nobody as worthless as her could be considered a real woman, and by claiming to be, she’s insulting all of womankind. My ranting and verbal humiliation of her continues until I tell her that she’s not even worthy of possessing a vagina. She needs to strap on a fake cock over it, like putting a fresh coat of paint over some ugly graffiti. Then I tell her that it’s not even enough to make her a man. Because men are allowed to make love to women. No, what she needs to become . . . is a faggot. A dirty little cock-sucking, ass-fucking queer. Which is how I can be bend over with a woman sodomizing me with a strap-on, and still be the dominant one in the scenario. And after she’s done (or once I’ve had enough), then she can get on her knees and suck my cock.

(Yes, some of that could probably be construed as hate-speech toward homosexuals. No, it’s not the sort of thing that I’d say outside of this sort of scenario. I’m calling her – and her alone – a faggot and a queer in this new fantasy male persona as a means of degrading her, per her desires.)

Later on, after getting more information about things she’s into (like medical/gyno fetish), I refined the above scenario for her:

First comes the diagnosis, while I’ll make with an uncapped marker in my hand. “Not deserving of being a real woman” gets inscribed across your forehead. “Doesn’t Deserve a Pair of Tits” gets written on the appropriate place. “Not Worthy Of Having Vagina” scrawled on your leg, with an arrow pointing at your dirty pink hole.

We get rid of your breasts first. Squash down your pathetic c-cups and bind them tight to your body with saran wrap. Make you as flat-chested as we can. Then comes the cunt. What do we do with that, I wonder? Finger you one last time, of course. Play with your clit. But not all the way to orgasm. The doctor might take you close, but when your waves of pleasure approach, we pull out and write “Hasn’t Earned the Female Orgasm” on you. When you looked at the tray of surgical instruments, were you a little frightened? Were you wondering what the needles and fishing line were for? Do you figure it out as I pinch your inner labia shut? Can you imagine what it feels like when I push the needle through one side of one of your pussy lips, only to re-emerge on the other side of the other one? Can you feel the sterilized fishing line being pulled slowly through the sensitive flesh of your labia? Can you imagine it happening over and over as I stitch your cunt shut?

And even with the hole sewn shut, it’s still obvious that it was once there, once open for business. We can’t have that. Which explains why the next sound you hear is a strip of duct tape being torn off the roll. We have to cover up all evidence that you were once – laughingly – a female.

Then we attach your new strap-on prosthetic faggot-ness. And initiate you into the ways of faggot-hood. You have to buttfuck your doctor, like the queer that you are. Then get down on your knees and give your first faggot blowjob.

Popular culture tells us that if a man could suck his own cock, he’d never leave the house. Well, I think it’s time to show you that you never have to leave the house. Because the next step is to unstrap your dick, and make you suck on it. How does it taste? Like the inside of my ass? Excellent.

Maybe I’ll even undo your surgery. Remove the ‘bandages’. (Duct tape hurts when it’s ripped off of flesh. Do I care? No.) Unstitch your cunt. Discover how wet this whole procedure has made you. (Sick. Sick. Sick.) Then ram your faggot’s cock into your freshly reopened cunt. (Am I giving you a urinary tract infection by spreading bacteria from my ass to your cunt? Probably. Do I care? No.)

You’re wet right now, aren’t you? I don’t mean the ‘you’ in the above scenario, tortured, belittled, degraded, and then fucked with a dirty dildo in both mouth and twat. I mean the you that just read that whole thing. Most women, upon reading the above scenario, would just feel ill. (And actually, few of them would have read the whole thing through to the end.) But you . . . your pussy is all wet, and your nipples are hard. Aren’t they?

In her next e-mail, she confirmed that yes, it made her pussy get wet and her nipples get hard. And best (?) of all: “and the part about giving me a urinary tract infection and not caring sent me over the edge!!”

She asked me to amp up the verbal abuse. And to start giving her orders and/or dares to perform.

Lowly Crawling Thing Wants Verbal Abuse, It Gets Verbal Abuse

So I started telling her how stupid and worthless she was. Calling her a pile of human garbage, and all the usual stuff. Verbal abuse 101. She was a fucking bitch, she was a dirty cunt, she was a stupid whore.

She’d talked about my e-mails making her so hot that she had to masturbate. My references to her masturbating went from “did you finger yourself?” to “did you shove your nasty little fingers up your slimy fuckhole and pound yourself until you came?”

The salutations on the e-mails had gone from ‘Dear HG,’ to ‘Bitch,’. But then one day, instead of calling her bitch, I opened up an email with: ‘Gooey Hole,’

She liked that. I don’t think that I used her name again after that. And I tried not to use the same replacement twice.

Gooey Hole, Pissbucket, Snatch-Squatch, Slimetrail, Jism-Drizzled Cunt Face, Fuckbreath, Fraidy-Cunt, Disgusting Thing Scraped Off Of The Bottom Of a Shoe, Cuntlet, Slutling, Brain-Sick Whore, Cunt-Flavored Fingerbanger, Day Old Jism-Filled Donut, Worthless Slice of Slut, Snotbubble, Slutmuffin, Assortment of Fuckholes, Cockstorage, Little Obscenity, Urinal Cake, Dogtwat, and so on and so forth. I lost count of the number of times I read “I just LOVE the things you call me!!” in her e-mails back to me.

[Had our correspondence continued, I would have gotten a mailing address for her sometime before Christmas. I’d have either cajoled her home address out of her, or convinced her to get a post office box. Then I would have had a shirt printed up for her as a Christmas present. The shirt would have been completely covered in a pattern of “Hello, My Name Is” sticker images, each one with a scribbled in name for her. The greatest hits from the Gooey Hole, Pissbucket, etc. list, along with new ones for the occasion. Alas, it was not to be.]

Dares

I gave a lot of thought to giving her dares to perform. I started making a list. But eventually I found the one that screamed out “Me first!”, and so this is what I told her:

Wear a top that covers you completely, but allows easy access to flash your breasts (by either lifting your shirt or pulling down on your neckline). Wear a skirt (nothing super short). No bra. No panties. Then go out to some places. Liquor store or mini-mart would be good choices. Maybe hit a few bars. Shopping mall if you’re extra daring. Make a trip to a sex shop. Maybe hit the local comic shop on a Wednesday when it’s crowded with horny fanboys (all fanboys are horny fanboys) after the new comics. What then? Simple. If anyone asks to see your tits or your pussy, show them. Pull up shirt, hike up skirt, whatever. Now, you might be asking yourself what makes me think that someone make such a bold request. It’s because you will also have taken a marker and written “Ask to see my tits” on your forehead. And “ask to see my pussy” on your tits (making sure that this second line of text is completely hidden by your top.) So, let’s make this official, shall we? I DARE YOU TO DO THIS.

She’d already given me a sad, sad story about how she had no safe way to take dirty pictures, since her home computer was broken and she couldn’t use the computer at work to transfer images off of her digital camera. (And yes, there were dares in mind to challenge, but we never got to them.)

The second dare I gave her was this:

Put your dildo in your purse, then treat yourself to lunch. (Not a ‘family’ place with lots of kids at the tables). Go to a restaurant, or a café, or whatever, go in, sit down alone, and order. Once you’ve ordered, take the dildo out of your purse, and practice your oral sex skills on it. Right there in full public view of everybody. Continue this until your food comes, at which point you wipe it dry with a napkin, and put it back in your purse. [For ‘bonus points’, after you’ve paid the check, take your dildo back out of your purse, and walk to the ladies’ room, toy in hand. Enter a stall, and fuck yourself with it. If you still haven’t completed your first dare when you’re doing this, I’ll allow an exception to your ‘won’t orgasm until after completing first dare’ rule. Bang your nasty little slash with that fake rubber cock until you cum. When you’re done, wash it clean at the sink, dry it, and return it to your purse.]

The third dare I gave her was the ‘empty your full bladder in a check-out line at Wal*Mart while buying adult diapers’ dare I discussed in the “Watersports – A Jar of Piss vs. What I’m Actually Into” post.

And after she was bratty to me in one of her e-mails, I also ordered her to do 24 jumping jacks – naked and outside – with a pinecone inserted into her vagina.

Her final e-mail to me included the following paragraph:

I actually have completed 2 of my dares; peed my pants at Walmart and hit the comic stores (almost DID get arrested) and did the pine cone punishment as well, but have not had the opportunity to write those in the detail that you deserve, but I will. I know my problems are none of your concern, and will accept any punishment for the delay.

There were more dares to come. Like I said, I had a list. Some of which I thought up just for her, others I stripped out of unwritten porn stories I had rattling around in the back of my head.

I was going to have her sit barefoot in a number of public places with a TIPS jar and suck on her toes. Maybe rub her crotch through her jeans and moan. But mainly just drool and slurp on her wiggly little toes in the hopes of attracting fetishists with loose change. She’d have to keep this up from place to place over a period of time until she’d collected a set dollar amount.

I was going to have her go to a jogging track and run eight laps. With a clothing adjustment at the end of each one. After finishing lap #01, she’d remove her top and stow it in her backpack. The conclusion of lap #02 would see her shorts or sweatpants come off. After jogging lap #03 in just bra and panties (and shoes and socks, of course – I’m not going to make her jog laps on a track barefoot), she moves onto lap #04 topless. And when finished with lap #04, removes her panties. After running lap #05 naked from the ankles-on-up, she gets to reverse the process, getting dressed lap-by-lap.

I thought about having her call in sick one day, then send herself flowers to her workplace – with a card signed by a male name NOT Hubby. How nosy are HG’s co-workers, I wonder? The card included with the flowers wouldn’t be sexually explicit, but very suggestive. Thanking her for last night, and making vague promises about ‘what he’d do to her’ next time he passed through town.

One of my favorites – Dare her to walk into the produce department of her local grocery store, and pick out some cucumbers. Spend time doing it. Measuring girth with her fingers, and stroking each until she found some nice smooth ones. Once she’d done that, the next step was to go up to the produce clerk and start asking questions. ‘Are these cucumbers pesticide free? I’m just concerned because I’ve got sensitive skin, and I don’t want to get irritated down there when I penetrate myself with them . . .’ and similar WTF? inquiries.

Of course, once we’d gotten her photography issues straightened out, I also wanted some images of her masturbating with a banana – in front of a banana display at a grocery store.

Another good photo dare involved having her go to a print shop and getting nude photos of herself transferred onto iron-on paper, then taking those to a t-shirt printing place and having them make her a t-shirt. Full frontal nudity of herself on the front of the shirt, image of her naked from behind on the back. Then put the shirt on and spend a certain amount of time at the mall shopping.

My favorite dare would have involved her going into a Postal Express, or similar non-USPS mailing outlet. Buying a padded mailer, writing my mailing address on the front, then proceeding to mail me a pair of her panties. Specifically, the pair she happens to be wearing at the time. Under pants, not a skirt. Meaning she’d have to strip from the waist down to get at them. Re-dress, then package them and mail them off. (Flee the store, red-faced.)

At Christmastime I was toying with the idea of sending her to a college dorm, where she’d go door to door collecting semen for the Damnation Army. [That one needed some work yet, but at the time I gave up on developing these, Christmas was still far away.]

Who’s Next?

Before HG, I’d never really given a lot of thought to erotic humiliation. Or nudity/sex dares, for that matter. Now it appeals to me.

Now I see these women whose FetLife profiles include a notation of interest in Humiliation, and I think, “Hmm . . .”

I want my next ‘Humiliation Girl’ to be an in-person Humiliation Girl, rather than an all-the-way across-the-country only-via-email Humiliation Girl.

And I want her soon. I’m taking applications now, if anyone’s interested.

How Old Is My Virginity?

Awhile back I was over at my sister’s apartment (this was before her recent move), in the midst of a rant about this, that, and the fact that I don’t have a girlfriend. As I was listing off a number of reasons why I desperately needed a girlfriend, I mentioned that she was necessary to alleviate my 37 years of pent-up sexual frustration. (This also happening back before I turned 38, for all you chronologists out there.)

As I sail on past this point and continue ranting, one of the people getting ranted at holds up a tentative hand, kind of like he’s asking my permission to interrupt. I stop my insane yammering and ask him what’s on his mind. “You have 37 years of pent-up sexual frustration?”

“Yeah?” I answer, not sure at first where he’s going with this. I find out quickly when he starts grinning, and says, “So, you were actually born sexually frustrated?”

Huh. I think about this for a moment. You can tell I’m thinking about it because I’m stroking my beard (which is what my brain makes my body do when it’s busy thinking). Then I turn to the guy and shout, “Yes! Yes I most certainly was!” Then pick up the rant from where I’d left off and continue sailing down a rapidly accelerating verbal stream of insanity.

But while I continued ranting, I made a mental note to eventually write a post on the topic of just how old my virginity really is.

Uh-Oh . . . There’s More of That There Semantic Nonsense A-Comin’

Let’s see: Zeitgeist the Clown. Talking about the nature of virginity. Hmm. This is either going to be a deep philosophical discussion about various abstract concepts, or a whole lot of semantic nonsense. Maybe a little of both (although, you’ll notice only one of those two choices made it into the subheading for this section).

The Difference Between ‘Innocence’ and ‘Virginity’

People tend to use the terms ‘innocence’ and ‘virginity’ as if they were synonyms. And I’m not so sure that they are.

I see it this way: Children are innocent. People that haven’t had sex yet are virgins.

Now, to be innocent, sex can’t be a factor. It can’t be an issue. Things like sexual intercourse aren’t even a concept to an innocent, let alone a hobby.

Virginity, on the other hand, seems to be defined by sex. It is, in many ways, the starting line. Standing on the starting line, you’re a virgin. But once you start running headlong into sexual activity, the virginity is gone. Sure, sex destroys innocence, too, but virginity is expecting it’s own destruction.

Innocence is a world without sex. Virginity is the doorway leading into sex. Two very different things.

I could make other arbitrary distinctions and definitions, too. ‘Chaste’, for instance. Chaste is an awareness of sex, with the decision to abstain. To be chaste means to attempt to live as the innocents do, despite having had the concept of sex forced into your brain.

I hear a lot about technical virginity. “I’ve been giving him handjobs and letting him finger me for awhile now. Then yesterday I finally sucked his cock. He ate my pussy, and made me cum so hard that I really, really wanted him inside me. So – I can’t believe I did this – I let him put it in up my ass. After he finished buttfucking me I left, and went over to my girlfriend’s house, and told her all about it. We got so excited that we played with each other’s titties and ate each other out. Of course, I’m still technically a virgin.”

More and more, people are considering virginity to apply only to PIV sexual intercourse. Which means that handjobs and footjobs and blowjobs and finger-fucking and pussy-eating and tit-fucking and even butt-fucking don’t take your virginity. You can do all of that fun sounding stuff and still be a virgin. (Yikes. I’d like to tell that to church officials from the 14th century and get their take on it.)

This is why it’s a good idea to have concepts like chaste around. Virginity doesn’t mean what it used to. Chaste still does.

Sexually active people can do everything. Virgins can do ‘everything but’. Chaste people don’t do anything (and try not to think about it). And the innocent don’t even know that there’s anything to do.

Is Virginity a State of Mind?

What is ‘virginity’? In days of yore, didn’t it simply mean that you still had your hymen intact? Once you’ve lost your hymen, you were no longer a virgin.

Which would be a fine definition if it wasn’t also linked to not having had sex yet. But a woman could lose her hymen going horseback riding. Modern girls can do it jumping a dirt bike (well, not so much the jumping as the landing of a dirt bike, I guess). A fall can do it. So can masturbating with a candle, which isn’t technically sex. It’s not considered intercourse, anyway.

Little baby girls and little baby questionables born with birth defects or ambiguous genitalia end up having to have their vaginas surgically repaired and/or constructed. Which, a lot of times, leave them with no hymen practically from the beginning.

And having been born male (and having stayed that way), I don’t believe that I ever had a hymen. Am I – because of this technicality – not a virgin? Is there no such thing as male virginity because there’s no physical difference in our sex organs in the ‘Before Sex’ and ‘After Sex’ photos?

I’m one of those people that consider virginity to be the state prior to having PIV intercourse. A female loses her virginity the first time she gets fucked by a cock. A male loses his the first time he fucks a pussy. Of course, the situation might have to change for non-heterosexuals, but in my head, that’s how I see it working for me.

I haven’t ever sucked cock or taken it up the ass, but I do consider myself bicurious. I don’t consider that having male-on-male sex would lose me my standard virginity. Sucking a guy’s cock wouldn’t bring about any kind of big status change either, although I do consider that eventual first time getting buttfucked will be me ‘losing my anal virginity’. I have no coherent thoughts on lesbian virginity. (If I was a robot in a cheesy sci-fi movie, I think that being asked to explain lesbian virginity might be one of those things that trips the illogic circuit and either forces me to shut down, or makes my head literally explode.)

Quirky Bastard

As I’ve discussed earlier in the blog (several times, but primarily in a post entitled “Writer’s Block”), I have fiction writing skills that are currently unavailable to me. And while this lack of access bugs the Hell out of me, something else that has always bothered me is my lack of artistic ability. Visual artistic. I want to be able to draw.

I think that all avid comic book readers do. If I could write and draw, I’d be unstoppable. (No, I don’t know how or in what way I’d be unstoppable. I just would be. Trust me.)

When I was younger I wanted to write and draw comics. Once I finally accepted the fact that I couldn’t draw to save my life, I just wanted to write comics. I still want to write comics. Super hero comics. Sci-fi comics. Porn comics. All sorts of stuff.

And, connected to that, I also want to write comic strips. I know that comic strips are traditionally a one-person project, but like I said . . . I can’t draw. So every now and then I’ll come up with an idea for a comic strip (or nowadays, a webcomic). I’ll fiddle around with it for awhile, and then eventually abandon it instead of seeking out an artist collaborator.

The very first one of these, back when I was in the eighth grade, was a concept for a strip called “Quirky Bastard”. Here and now, some twenty-four years later (good God I’m old) I honestly don’t remember a whole lot about the strip. I know that the two main characters were Quentin “Quirky Bastard” Bassard and his cousin Rhett “Rat Bastard” Bassard. It was a modern day quest/’road movie’ type of story, and I’m pretty sure it had to do with fulfilling an obligation to qualify for an inheritance. But beyond that, the main plotline escapes me.

The main thing I remember about it is the whole ‘virginity’ plot. When the strip begins, Rat would fuck anything that moved. Quirky had never had sex. And Rat was always trying to get Quirky laid, but Quirky just didn’t seem interested.

I wrote up a conversation between the two about Quirky’s lack of interest in sex and then broke it up into a series of conversational sound bites that I could work into the script for a couple of weeks of strips, in between clever antics. The important part of this conversation was the point at which Rat exclaims (a lot of Rat’s dialogue was either exclamations or just plain yelling) that Quirky needed to lose his virginity. Quirky’s comeback was that he didn’t think he could lose his virginity, because he hadn’t actually found it yet. He went on to explain his theory that you don’t even find your virginity until you’re ready to have sex, and only once you’ve found it can you lose it.

This would set Rat off on a subquest to find Quirky’s virginity. Trying to expose Quirky to different types of women and different types of semi-erotic stimuli in an attempt to make him find his virginity. After a parade of failed efforts, he would eventually give up, and in the very next strip they’d stop off at a restaurant. And when Rat was away from the table, a woman would walk past Quirky. And upon seeing her, it was love (and lust) at first sight. His eyes would grow big, and he’d track her as she walked past him, then beyond him. He’d tilt his chair to continue watching her, and then overbalance and hit the floor when the chair tipped over. WHAM!

Rat then returned to the table to find Quirky on the floor, now facing toward the table. He’d ask what happened, and Quirky would say, “I think I just found my virginity.” Quirky’s response to this was, “YOU MEAN TO TELL ME THAT IT’S BEEN UNDERNEATH THIS GODDAM TABLE THE WHOLE TIME!?!”

Anyway, that was the first time I speculated that ‘virginity’ wasn’t something you were necessarily born with. It might just be something you had to acquire along the way.

So Just When Does Your Virginity Kick In?

I think that I found mine in the fourth or fifth grade. I often say that I fell in love in kindergarten. I’m not stating unequivocally that I was definitely ‘in love’, but that’s the word I used for whatever emotional tie I had to Sue way back then. Love. I was in love with her. I didn’t want to see her naked. I didn’t want to rub my weiner on her. (Kindergarten terminology – who called it a ‘dick’ or ‘cock’ in mid-seventies kindergarten?) I did want to kiss her, but only because that’s what television told me people in love did.

In the fourth grade I fell for Rabbit, and by fifth grade I was having fantasies and sex dreams about her. So, I’m going to say that’s when my virginity showed up. (Sadly, it’s never left.)

I was an innocent with Sue. A virgin with Rabbit (and everyone who followed).

I think that’s how the progression goes. You lose your innocence to gain your status as a virgin. You lose your virginity to gain your status as sexually active.

The Virginity Lost and Found

There is a certain extent to which the world is just virginity’s Lost and Found box. The place where you find your virginity. The place where you lose your virginity.

The world’s a weird place. Traditionally, you get creeps who peek into lost and found boxes when nobody’s looking, then go up and describe having lost something that’s in there so they can steal it. People have started doing that with the virginity lost and found, too. People with nothing but bad experiences in their sexual history. Reformed sluts and man-sluts trying to start dating with the intention of getting a relationship rather than just getting laid. Traditionally horny people en route to becoming married.

Revirginization. The fact that people are trying to become virgins again so that they can lose their virginity properly – to their one true love on their wedding night (or whenever) – makes a good case that virginity is actually a state of mind more than it is an intact hymen or a lack of experience with intercourse.

Of course, there are also people (unscrupulous guys) trying to lose their virginity multiple times. Young men feeding a gullible woman a sob story about how nobody seems to want to even date them, let alone initiate them in the pleasures of sex. Over and over again, gullible woman after gullible woman. I’ve actually been accused of doing this myself by people who disbelieve that I’m really a virgin. Because apparently, nobody waits until they’re my age to lose their virginity. (Nobody, I guess, except for me. It’s times like this I wish that men had something analogous to a hymen that I could stick in the faces of these idiots to prove that what I’m saying is true.)

And Finally, To Answer The Question . . .

I figure that my virginity kicked in when I was about ten years old or so, making it somewhere around 27 or 28 years old now. But I’m still going to continue screaming about my (now) 38 years of pent-up sexual frustration, because if I claimed having 27 or 28 years worth of it, people would get the wrong idea, and think that I’ve had sex, but just not since I was a ten year old. I’d have to stop and explain all of the above to them so that they would understand the difference between my age and my virginity/sexual frustration’s age. And really, who has that kind of spare time?

Misconceptions and Context

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.