Sunday, February 21, 2010

A Bit of the Ole' Q&A

I have been communicating with Bratty-lil-girl, a regular commenter on my blog and a nice young lady I got to meet (along with her husband) at FMS' Back-to-School Party back in November. With SSNY's Atlantic City Party coming up in April, I thought I'd start a dialog to see if we might be compatible to play there.

I was pleasantly surprised when she sent me a list of questions to respond to, not as a quiz or an inquisition, but just to spur on the discussion. I thought they were good questions and I felt my answers might be of interest to some of you. (Please note to "long-time" readers, a lot of this has been covered in multiple posts in the past, so if you're bored, I understand.)

What do I like in a play partner? Hmm. I have to have a personal connection with a play partner. There has to be a chemistry, otherwise it may be fun but not really deep, if that makes sense. I don't care about what she looks like, age, body type. If there's a connection/an attraction of some sort that's important. There needs to be mutual respect, communication and trust. Without those three things I don't believe a true lifestyle relationship can happen. As you know I'm not into D/s or protocol or any of that, so I'm really an open book: respect, communication and trust. I don't take what I do lightly. I deeply appreciate the trust a woman puts into my hands.

Do I like audible feedback? Yes, yes and yes. But not necessarily. HUH? I play with a girl who's very silent during the scene, which is fine as long as when I check in with her I get feedback. To go into herself, to achieve subspace, she gets silent, but I need to know she's okay when I check in. That same girl used to give no feedback at all, which I struggled with greatly, as I need to know during the scene that what I'm doing is working, that I'm not overdoing something or creating the wrong kind of pain. But I "read" a woman through sounds, body movement and breathing. That's a lot of feedback if the top is paying attention.

Am I a talker or silent concentrator? It depends on the scene, completely. There have been light and fun scenes I've done in which both top and bottom are bantering back and forth, being sarcastic, even laughing throughout. Erica and I do this often, particularly when there's an audience and we "put on a show." Some scenes, for the bottom, need to be dark and intense. In those cases, I don't speak much, but use words for the mindfuck, talking into the ear of the bottom in dark, almost whispered threatening tones. Some scenes require a sort of "sensory depravation" in which there's blindfolds and even ear plus (not for me!) and I'll not say much at us. Regardless though, I always check in on the woman to make sure she's okay, getting what she needs.

What's my ideal scene? I'm very up front with people: I'm a textbook sadist. Look it up. I derive sexual pleasure from inflicting pain on others. That being said, that level of pleasure is based on so many things: connection with the bottom being most important. It doesn't have to be intense, that connection just needs to be made at an almost psychic level. I really love messing with the mind of the woman. Not in terms of psychology, but in terms of "short circuiting" the mind--going from sensation play (something soft) to something pokey or impact, often at the same time. This sounds like a crock of shit, but my ideal scene is one in which I deliver exactly what the bottom needs and more. I get off on pleasing my bottom, which I know sounds awfully subby. I'm highly empathetic, and truly believe that play can be therapeutic and often the bottom is in need of achieving something psychologically out of the scene and I want to "take her there." When that's done, I feel very successful and rewarded. That's ideal.

What are my favorite things? I have favorite toys, certainly, in almost every category. I have two favorite canes--one is made of carbon fibre, is unbreakable and super-thin--it's incredibly stingy. I have two favorite floggers--one is heavy and made of moose. I have a favorite paddle--it's as thick as plywood and almost as stiff but is made of sandwiched leather. Incredible. I love sensation play, as I've said. But what I like the most is fire & wax play. That's why my screenname is showman451. Fire play is a total show. Paper spontaneously combusts at 451 degrees (think Bradbury). Thus, "showman451".

Well, there you have it. I read this to myself and worry it sounds like an advertisement. That wasn't my intent. I thought perhaps those of you interested in getting to know me better or understand my motivation to play would like some of these answers. That being said, if you read this and you want to play, operators are standing by to take your call...

Sunday, February 14, 2010

Happy Valentine's Day


Happy Valentine's Day, all. (Who doesn't love ole' Cupid getting his [her?] nosey butt beat?)

As for Valentine's, ours was fumbled well in advance of today when my wife and I got an email out of the blue from my wife's grandfather informing us he'll be coming to town and to pick him up on the 14th. Not sure the man realizes what day this is... So my fancy dinner plans were shot and all the romance set aside in lieu of our visitor.

However, yesterday was my lovely bride's birthday, so to honor the occasion we drove out to the Lair to hang out with friends and check out the scene--usually wild and crazy on Valentine's (mostly vanillas out for a "spicy" evening with a lot of sex, not much in the way B or D or any S&M). Last night was no exception. It seems, for whatever reason, last night was femme dom night with a lot of older, overweight subby men (not that there's anything wrong with that). Since my wife is a switch she took the plethora of scenes going on with male bottoms as a chance to take notes.

At the appropriate time I grabbed her, went on stage, dropped her over my knee and gave her a lengthy and strenuous spanking. (Not too strenuous--she's been sick and still not feeling fully up to snuff.) All OTK, all hand, somewhat intense at times. It was a nice short scene worthy of her birthday with a full compliment of the appropriate number of swats at the end, with careful focus on her sweet spots. Working around the red fishnets were a challenge, but I think I got through to her.

Happy Valentine's Day! I hope you had good vanilla sex, kinky sex, spankings, smackings, bondage or whatever else floats your boat today & tonight.


Sunday, February 7, 2010

Gentleman First, Top Second

If you've been a reader of my blog, you'll know I don't subscribe to the whole D/s thing (not that there's anything wrong with it). I'm not into the protocol, demeaning, subservient thing. So when we're at the Lair, our local BDSM dungeon, we hang out in the kitchen when it's cold out. People come and go to get the homemade cookies, grab some of the soup made from scratch, nibble on candy or fresh veggies or get a cup of coffee. Of course, occasionally, (as Erica has posted on her blog) there's also a bit of countertop fucking or perhaps some occasional punishment by the proprietor of the establishment, Kane. There are two bar stool height seats near the door, which inevitably is where Erica and my wife position themselves. I stand by these seats chatting away, saying hi to acquaintances as they pass in and out. Occasionally, I end up near the constantly opening and closing door.

I end up opening the door, holding it open, closing it constantly for many of the people coming in and out. One of the regular dominants there said to me recently, under his breath, "You really shouldn't keep getting the door. People will think you're a sub." Me? A sub? WTF? He walked away, and the next person came along and I didn't grab the door. I didn't move out of the way. The person had to mumble something to me and press their way past me. Immediately, I felt uncomfortable. Why?

Because my adage from the start of this whole lifestyle thing has been this:

I'm a gentleman first, a top second.

I'm sorry folks, but why should being a dominant or a top preclude you from good manners? From being couth? From being respectful to others? Woman or man, top or bottom, if you're in the way, why wouldn't you be polite? If you're standing, hands free, by the door and you can grab the door knob, why wouldn't you?

It's a little thing, I know. But allow me to tell you another story: my wife and I were chatting in the kitchen with some friends (not Erica and J this time). One of the regular doms pushes past my wife, intentionally bumping into her. Now my wife is a switch, and on this night, she was totally Dominatrix'd out--femme dom to the max. Believe it or not, I could see a male dom pushing past a sub. I'm not saying I'd be keen to it, but I could see that as "acceptable" in some way in their world. But with her in her thigh-high leather boots and kinky black leather corset, it was uncalled for. Hell, it was uncalled for anyway. My wife, in full top mode, said, "Well, excuse you." And good for her. Where does this guy get off bumping intentionally into anyone, anyway?

So that's my position. What say you?

A Long, Pointless, Kinkless Story (or) Time for the Fucky-Fucky?

That’s a great title for a story…if you want to make sure no one reads it!

So I have been in Beijing all week. At dinner the other night my host informs me he was a professional singer in a former life, having sang Chinese opera and even performing for the President of North Korea. He asked if I enjoyed Karaoke. I told him, having been a singer myself in a former life, I did take to Karoake once in a while, just to goof off. My host asked if I liked Asian Karaoke, emphasis on “Asian.” Well, pretty much all my Karaoke experiences were Asian, having taken place in Japan, Korea, Taiwan and Singapore. “Yes,” I said, “I like Asian Karaoke.”

A few hours later we were pulling to the Karaoke bar, a large, five-story structure off a main street near the Olympic Stadium, nicknamed “The Bird’s Nest.” On the outside of the building were 30-foot tall backlit images of sexy women and the name of the building above in glowing, shimmering letters read, “Men’s Club.” Uh-oh, I thought. What have I gotten myself into? What is ‘Asian Karaoke’? A euphemism?

Allow me to pause in my story for a moment: I travel on business. A lot. I’ve been all over Europe, Asia, Southeast Asia, the Middle East and the Americas and Australia. I’ve been invited to brothels, “barber shops,” “massage parlors,” “men’s spas” and any other euphemism you can think of for sex den. If I’ve gone, I sit in the corner sipping a drink. I’m not one for cheating or, for that matter, casual, pointless sex with diseased sex workers. Not that there’s anything wrong with that, other than the usual exploitation, etc.

So we go in, get our Karaoke parlor, grab a seat and are served drinks. Everything is looking pretty karaoke to me, with microphones and a TV screen displaying the titles of Asian tunes I can’t read the name of as well as Western hits raning from Lady Gaga to Elvis. But we’re just sitting around sipping drinks. I’m guessing it’s so we can allow the liquor to take affect, reducing our inhibitions, so we can sing unabashedly.

Instead, a few minutes later, a woman in street clothes in her early 40s comes in to talk to my host. My Korean friend, sitting next to me, mutters under his breath to me, “The madame.” Uh-oh. Madame??? What have I gotten myself into? My mind races with the implications. A few minutes later a line-up of 10-12 girls come in, plastic heels clacking on the floor like Clydesdales. They line up in front of the Karaoke equipment and stand there. What the…? Each have a number pinned to them. I realize my host and Korean friend are looking at me, expectantly. I’m the guest, so I’m supposed to pick.

I point. “Her,” I say to one that looks strikingly like Tia Carrera. What have I done? No one else picks. Then they all leave. What’s going on? “Why didn’t you pick?” I whisper to my Korean friend. “I have a regular,” he tells me. Soon, my host has a girl sitting next to him, pouring him his drink and demurely touching his arm. My friend has another young beauty, also at his side. Strangely, I’m feeling a bit hurt now. Where’s my girl? I wonder, while simultaneously thinking to myself, What? NOW you’re competitive? Butt hurt? But before long, Tia came in and plopped herself down next to me, pressing up against my side. She spoke not a word of English.

Eventually, the singing began. My host was an amazing singer, doing both formal Chinese opera to perfection as well as love ballads. He was a pro. My Korean friend sang Korean hits—even a rap!—and did okay, but he was no pro. I started off with a Garth Brooks tune (Friends in Low Places) to the surprise of everyone and then went onto a classic Karaoke standard, Suspicious Minds. That Tsing Tao beer had gone right through me. I need the toilet. I asked the server to point the way. Immediately, Tia jumped up like she’d been shocked with a cattle prod, grabbed my hand and dragged me out the door.

Oh shit! I thought. She thinks I’m ready for a little fucky-fucky. What am I going to do? I can’t insult my host, who’s obviously paid for this girl based on my acknolwedgement that I was familiar with Asian Karaoke, but I wasn’t about to be taken upstairs for a rubdown…or more.

Instead, she led me to the bathroom door and left me there. Ah. She’s just doing her job. She won’t leave my side. As I turned in my beer rental at the urinal, an overeager bathroom attendant began polishing my shoes underneath me—while I pissed! I really had to go, so it was a loooong one, and soon he had a hot towel on the back of my neck and was giving me a back rub—at the urinal! “Enough!” I said, but he didn’t speak a word of English. He pumped liquid soap into my hand at the sink and offered yet another hot towel. Flummoxed, I pulled an RMB $100 note from my wallet, leaving it in his tip tray. (Later it dawned on me I’d tipped the guy about USD $15! That was one expensive piss!)

Tia was waiting for me in the hall and took me back to our parlor, where we sang a while longer. The evening was getting late and my host disappeared with his girl. Uh-oh. This is where it all goes down. Soon, my friend and his little girl will leave and I’ll be left to awkwardly try to communicate with Tia that I’d like nothing more than an actual backrub, no happy ending please. Instead, my host came back. It must’ve been just a bathroom break.

Finally, host and friend stand up to indicate it’s time to go. Are we going upstairs? Is it make fucky-fucky time? Will I have to embarrass myself by informing my host I really don’t know what real Asian Karaoke is all about? Instead, we head for the door, the girls in hot pursuit. Oh shit! They’re following us to the car! It’s not a brothel! They’re going back to our hotel rooms!

We reached the door and they gave us polite hugs and waved goodbye. Whew! We got into my host’s car and headed back for the hotel. It was nothing more than a hostess bar, where girls are paid to sidle up to you, tell you how young and handsome you are, how strong you must be, and what a good singer you are. I’d been to a few over the years in Korea and Singapore. Not dens of sex, just places for men to feel better about themselves, I guess.

In America we call that Hooters.

Thursday, February 4, 2010

You Want Some Candy, Little Girl?

By now, most of you have likely read Erica’s blog about our scene together last weekend at the Lair. I have an excuse for taking so long to get his done: I had to go to China on business. I’m flying back to Los Angeles now, eager to get home for the weekend. Rather than recount the entire scene and be redundant to Erica’s excellent entry I’ll give you all some perspective from my angle.

I haven’t told Erica this yet, but I hate scenes like ours last Saturday. At least I do before they start. For me, my job as a top is to fulfill my bottom, giving her exactly what she needs, taking her to places she craves to go. That’s why each of my private scenes begin a few days prior with the question from me: What do you need?

I take time to organize the scene in my mind. What implements will I use? How will the scene play out? What mind-fuckery will I incorporate, if any. In past blog posts I’ve likened this to a script or symphony, with room for improvisation along the way. So when Thursday rolled around last week and Erica said she had nothing in mind, that she was ready to go with whatever I had to bring, I was at a loss. Certainly, I was eager to play. It has been almost two months. I needed this. But a blank slate, a clean sheet? Notsomuch.

I was feeling a bit anxious by the time the four of us (my wife, Erica, J her boyfriend and myself) got to the Lair. I had no real “inspiration” for the scene. I was, as I’ve said, itching to play, but I didn’t know where to go with it. My bag was over laden with options because I didn’t have a specific plan: floggers, canes, nasty things, blades, paddles, straps—they all were there. I even threw in clothespins, a blindfold and my notorious peppermint oil. It was a kitchen sink of play equipment.

As we usually do, we found ourselves in the kitchen off the room where Erica and I like to play. There’s always a platter of home-baked cookies and a selection of candy. I love the Reece’s Pieces, so I stand by the bowl and grab a few, popping them into my mouth one-by-one as we talk, people watch and catch up with other denizens of the Lair.

Something came over me and I took two of the brown and orange candies and I offered them to Erica, to be nice. She politely declined. I looked her in the eye, feeling toppy, and said, “Eat them.” “No,” she replied, firmly. I didn’t break my gaze: “Eat them,” I said, lowering my voice an octave. She refused. At this point, J was looking at me with a bit of alarm on his face. I dropped the subject, thinking he might intervene, and went to my cache of implements and dropped the candies in a safe and clean spot there.

Later, as our scene played out, I knew I’d use those candies to push Erica. She was laid out on the padded table, naked, our scene well into an intense but not dark session, over an hour in at that point, when I grabbed the candies and proffered them to her, foisting them in her face. “Are you ready to eat them now?” The first time I asked, she gave a resounding negative. The second time, after a few flurries of blows to the buttocks, she told me to fuck off. The third time, she offered a more demure, “No.”

Each time, I would intensify my barrage on her backside, letting her know nonverbally that her response was what was driving the action forward in the way it was. I told her that her responses were causing her scene to turn out the way it was, not me. I launched into a rather unyielding and intense sequence, Erica crying out a few times. Once again, I asked her if she was ready to eat the diminutive candies. “No, thank you,” she responded this time. Ah! She was caving! Good!

I intensified my assault, but then was compassionate and cared to her sweet spots, made raw by my forceful caning and strapping. “See?” I said, “This is what happens when you aren’t so rude.” Or something like that. It’s been almost a week now, so excuse me for not remembering the exact words. Again with the hand, hard and rapid.

I grabbed the candies again: “Erica, I want you to eat these now,” I said. She was panting, in tears. “Okay,” she said, her face pressed into the furry, soft blanket I always lay down on the cold vinyl of the table. I get down so my face is next to hers and without a pause, I popped them into my mouth, noisily munching them open-mouthed in her ear. “Whaaaa…?” she muttered and burst out laughing. “Do you think I’d make you eat those?” I said. “What horrible thing to do! I wouldn’t make you do that!” Erica burst into a fresh set of tears and we proceeded to the “finale,” my word for the final assault, typically with my leather paddle so thick it looks (and feels!) like wood. To show her my appreciation for her offering to eat the treats, I spanked her hard, very hard, with my hand instead.

But I wasn’t done with the mind-fuckery. Oh, no. At the end, I asked her to tell me how many spanks I had given her, because when I use the paddle she counts. She always counts. “I don’t know!” she exclaimed in anguish. “You didn’t tell me to count!” I reminded her finales always have counts. When she guessed wrong to the number (it was 31) I told her she was lucky, but now she’d have to endure an additional punishment—this time with the dreaded paddle. But she was still a good girl, having offered to eat the Reece’s Pieces, so I only gave her five, tissue-compressing, bone-jarring full-swing smacks of the paddle.

Afterward, we talked about those silly candies and my insistence on her eating them. “I didn’t want you to actually eat them,” I said. “I just wanted you to give in.” We both agreed it ended up being a pretty decent way to structure a scene at the spur of the moment. “I wouldn’t’ve done that if I thought it would have been a genuine issue with you, Erica,” I said. She acknowledged that with many she would have remained stubborn just because she’s no true subby, but that she did it to show how much she trusted me.

In the end, a great scene. What started out as a blank slate ended up being not only a good physical and mental session, but one in which our trust and respect for one another were displayed to each.