On magic and dogs, and magical dogs, and satisfaction.

German Riesling aerates better in an earthenware dog bowl, the minerality comes out a little more when it’s lapped from the floor, the tags clinking gently, rhythmically with each sip. And you learn to appreciate things more in small sips, or so was the timbre of the weekend. The Writer and The Photographer and I are deepening, us three, we have discovered throughout a weekend our paths can diverge and cross and loop around in endless sets of patterns. They are not The Couple, nor am I simply The Fuck, or The Sub. They know they’re more than their archetypes, and I, my writing.

We move past it all into beautiful spaces.

I was housesitting this week and made a point of getting fucked on all available, tenable surfaces. Sorry, but I’m not sorry. Confidential to the proprietors- you would have done it, too. You have a stunning, beautiful house. It deserves to feel my love in the space, like an actress alone. It was gorgeous, though, from the moment they arrived to the second we transitioned to the house and took care of the dog. I like when we are moving together in the house, when everything else is closed off and shut down and we are dancing in the kitchen, a tango in the bedroom, when the windows fog with our lovemaking and cooking and I feel lulled into comfort and pleasure betwixt my fingers and gently clutched between my teeth.

We eat risotto and make careful conversation. I am steeled and skeptical, as I can see them shooting glances to and fro and want to know what the secret is. The Writer asks me if I have ever had a drink thrown in my face, and I tell her that I have, regale them with hilarity, and, as I am securely seated in smug satisfaction, I fail to notice that The Photographer has her drink aloft until it is thrown atop me. I sputter, they grab me, and I am frogmarched down to the guest bedroom.

They shove me on the floor, and the lights click off. I’m alone with the shallow pulse of my heart and my fingers’ feeble grasp on the carpet, swivet running through my veins. When they come back, they buckle a dog collar around my neck, attached to a leash they carry together.

“Through the powers of magic, you are no longer human,” they say, “You are a dog, and you will perform tricks for us.”

My relationship with roleplaying is tepid at best. My own imagination often exceeds others, and the tired scenarios of sexy nurse and sexy patient, sexy robber and sexy victim, and sexy archaeologist and sexy dinosaur bones and/or underpaid graduate research assistant fail to captivate me. With these two, it is different. They are well-trained at improvisational banter and at times, I found myself wishing I was not the sole unspeaking participant as I would have loved to add my two cents.

That being said, they were adept at ensuring their dry interplay would be both entertaining and damning, as dogs who laugh and protest as humans do, no matter how swift they are at barking and fetching golden dildos on command, are subject to rigorous and invasive physical examination well into the dark of the night. I yelped as I came, I forced out barks I knew would come naturally, to my own chagrin.

I watched them seduce each other, I watched them meet and fall and care in the space of minutes, and it astounded me. They turned me back with magic and then, we went to sleep. My curiosity is as piqued and peaked as the pointy ears I cocked alongside my head.

With magic on my mind, I think back to how gleeful I was with them at my biweekly meeting with my therapist. He accuses me of being bored, that I’ll never be satisfied until I get settled into discomfort. And yes, things are different. The first days are the hardest days, as they say, even in the sixth month, the eighth month, but I am starting to ease in and get comfortable. This, though, interactions like this where I can get my hands dirty, this is deeply satisfying in light of things like jobs and school and bills, like time stops and I’m basking in the sun, like the first sip of a gin and tonic. If this is what it means to relax and change, I could do this for ages. It’s a simple declaration that doesn’t call for frippery. It is smooth and cool on my tongue: I like them.

It’s funny, four days of beauty and I could have gone for days after. The exhaustion only sets in when they are gone, and it’s like a switch has been flipped. I wander around the house in a lurch, raspberries plump and taut staining the whorls of my fingertips. I linger in the sun because I want to taste the last of my Spring Break on my tongue and soles of my warm, warm feet. I am spoiled, I am rotten, I am filmy with my own juices covering my face and swallowing it whole. But fuck, I’m so smug, so quenched, that I don’t even mind.

So now you know, I asked if you’d watched Shortbus, so you’ll know what I mean when I tell you that I cried and clenched then, at the moment I realized time hadn’t stopped and I wasn’t alone.

-C.

On piercing.

It’s everything I wanted and all I never knew, distorted within the frames of a fun-house mirror. The careful lines of brunch-filled mornings bracketed with lazy readings of Oscar Wilde and coffee are no longer colored in with faded, invisible faces, but real people! There are real people in my life and they listen to Nirvana and cuddle me up on the couch. Cam’s past lives are simultaneously grinning as this is more vibrant and social than she ever fathomed it could or would be. The little room is no longer envisioned empty and sometimes, even, her people stay and linger a little while and do not leave when the music dies down.

But there is a goal and a call to action to all of this languorous limb-bedecked repose. The sun streams in and the match wavers close to my face. I can feel the heat linger on my lips. There’s half a joint stuck in between my dry lips, and I’m sucking to save my life. It’s one PM, Mama Cass strolls through my ears and around the folds of my brain, and there’s a needle piercing its way through my ear. Yesterday, I bought an earring and today the earring is going to be placed in my ear. We ate our biscuits, the wine is poured, and I’m pretty stoned. I’m balancing a glass of Riesling on my keyboard because I feel like taking silly little chances.

They looked down on me and for once, I didn’t close my eyes and the needle sank in, true affection and true alteration and I breathed out once, slight, but hard, emptying my lungs of fear. The bitter tang of coffee seeps to the forefront of my tongue, I’m not dizzy, but I’m somewhere else. The Photographer works the earring through the back and all of a sudden, there it is, the titanium realization and endless ring in my ears. I’m happiest, I realize, in a sweatshirt advertising family property that no longer exists, boxers and boots straight out of a catalogue, disheveled but never distorted and showing my cards from the sides of my lips.

I dimple, I bend, they breathe air back into my lips and inflate me once more, and I glow, glint from ear to ear to asymmetrical thought and back. The piercing was calm and without fanfare, private, so shockingly intimate it renders me silent but for my body language and the words moving through my bones, onto the screen in binary harmony and back again.

-C.

On pride and punishment.

My encounter with The Professor had me aching and thinking about what I’d done with The Writer and The Photographer the evening before. We have been craving slow licks of each other, The Writer, The Photographer, and I, and so, had added another visit in between our previously scheduled one and my business trip. They graciously offered to drive me to the airport in exchange for fucking my brains out for twelve blissful hours.

However, my conduct via text a few evenings back set the stage for the evening. My teasing and lazy flirtation started a chain of events beginning with a large knob of ginger in an abandoned Chinese grocery, The Writer’s voice cool and sharp in my ear as her hand flitted quickly between my thighs.

“I hope you know what we’re doing to you later.”

The stuff of Victorian punishments, in an article I blissfully imagined would have been titled “The Comeuppance of Young Cam,” figging and caning. I’d never been figged before and was nervous, but not as apprehensive as I’d expected. The Writer had been figged, and I trusted both of them to punish me fully and leave me coming back for more again and again. We carried the ginger and dinner ingredients home, and as we settled into the rhythm of cooking and chatting, the punishment momentarily slipped my mind. Mariachi music blared from the computer and I closed my eyes to absorb the sweet harmony of it all, of three mojitos and a belly full of tacos. These interactions knit me closer to the interactions I like to have, close and sultry with spices and a heady itch in the back of the mind. The open-ended splinters of it keep me curious, a world where there is no set role or part to don. We can mix and match and scratch until we scream.

Like I said, I’d forgotten about the ginger until The Writer gripped the back of my hair and forced me to the kitchen floor.

“Stay.”

I shivered on the ground and life continued as before, the music still playing, The Writer and The Photographer continuing their dance around the kitchen, around each other. Being ignored is an alien feeling that raises my hackles, but the flip side to such a token is that it gives me the push to feel as small as I need to- it’s the most helpless I think I can feel, outside of being completely stripped and exposed. But the magic in it is that I’m bound in no other way than by the whims of others, hence the invisible appeal.

My pants were tangled to my ankles, the ginger prepared. The Photographer squared a chair above my head and placed her boots gingerly (the most appropriate adverb and without a hint of irony!) atop my twitching hands, pale and ebbing of blood I knew was flowing straight to the source. The soles sank into the skin without fanfare and I was pinned, like a butterfly, between a chair and naturalia slowly sinking its way into my ass.

The ginger burnt, though slowly, the sensation seeping its way through my body, starting in a dull ache at the base of my tailbone and leeching, as if traveling down my bloodstream, into my calves and pussy. It curled my toes and tensed my muscles- it was a unique pain in that it was not entirely unbearable, nor unpleasurable in the slightest, but its relentless force pressing into me and consuming what felt like every cranny of my blood vessels and musculature backed me into a corner and made me scream for mercy for fear that it would swallow me whole, beat in my heart, that heat and smothering, the comfort laced with spines.

They thrust it in and out of me and before long, I succumbed to the sensation and took it in strides. The slow burn juxtaposed neatly with the swift, yet quick ebb of pain from the cane, ramrod-straight against the tender plush of my thighs, ass, and back of my knees. The ginger and humiliation lingered deep in my system in dizzying quantities as they led me back to the bedroom, splayed out in a drugged whimsy and plunged into darkness, the hilt of a cock sinking into my ass, my mouth, my pussy before I lost count of the orgasms and sank into erratic, satisfying sleep betwixt the duo.

-C.

On asking.

The Professor came to my hotel last night. Her story is a little tragic, as she came into my life at a point that made our relationship less conducive as it could have been. And to be frank, I like her as a person and as a sexual partner.

The nitty-gritty: she was the first person outside of my relationship that I fucked while still in the relationship, and the one sole sample for me to decide that nonmonogamy wasn’t for me, at least while E was still in the picture. We had a lot of hot textual conversation, we Skyped, and ended up renting a room at a Howard Johnson for the night, went out for Mexican, and fucked like rabbits. I came four times and she fisted me, my tie balled up in one hand and her fingers around my neck.

She was an absolutely incredible top, but I didn’t fulfill my duties as a bottom, at least in retrospect, that’s how I interpret it. I didn’t communicate my desires outside of sex—desires like needing to process shit as a 21-year old and not knowing how to then go back to my girlfriend reeking of sex. After that, I dropped off the face of the earth and she got a girlfriend and is happily monogamous.

Still, that didn’t stop her from coming over last night. Now that I’m single, I felt better about saying hello and trying things again. I was in her area on business, remembered that she lived there part-time, and sent her a short message that I figured would either be promptly attended to or promptly ignored:

Professor –

This is Cam, I’m in your area, and I’d love to buy you a drink if you’re around, too. Here’s my number, text me if you’re inclined. Hope your work is going well!

I sent it in the taxi on the way over to the hotel. As I was stripping my shirt off after checking into my room, there it was: “Cam?” in text form, and there it started. I didn’t expect much, but she got down to brass tacks. A few drinks later, I was feeling bold and caffeinated enough to ask her by. As soon as she sat down, she looked at me, slowly, from my spit-polished red dress shoes to my blushing face.

“I’m not going to fuck you, but that doesn’t mean I can’t have some fun with you.” Christ, her hands were still as capable and perfectly manicured as I recalled them to be, and her grin spread across my face. She knew the power she had over me, despite my bravado and smug fever at the delight of such socialization after touching down in a new state for eight hours.

So we talked. We talked for a while – I got a better sense of her, and I think I met her at a smarter, happier place. I may have bungled the first go-around, but second chances can happen, especially when you’ve a free evening, a good Pandora station, and a chaise lounge with a girl moving closer and closer to you by the minute. And yes, technically, as this is not a sex post, putting it on here may seem both irrelevant and strange, but it’s a follow-up, a reevaluation coming in both a typed report and a steely deliberation enunciated into my ear:

“Cam, if things ever change, trust me, you’ll be the first to know, because you’ve been on my mind. And I’m not going to cross any lines tonight, but if my situation is ever redefined, I’m going to get in my car, drive to you, and beat the living daylights out of you.”

I shivered.

She’s a blank page, and my ink runneth over. I’m spurting, leaking, staining the table and her cardigan and she’s just laughing, toothy and clever close to my skin. Four hours slipped by like I’d snapped my fingers and willed them away, and around 3AM, she got up to leave.

She hugged me, tightly, with more connection than before. Her hands slipped around my waist and she held me close.

I opened the door and her fist shot out, knotting my tie and locking her eyes to mine, and she slapped me across the face, the door closing on its own as she slid out before I even had a chance to register, calling out into the empty halls,

“Have a wonderful evening, Cam. We’ll be in touch.”

-C.

On getting away (and coming again and again): Part III

We breathe and recalibrate, get up and shake ourselves off. The party is soon. In bold calligraphy across my arm, something is written on the tender softness of my skin, but The Photographer will not tell me what it says, only that it is true and that people ought to know. I shiver in anticipation, the flash of exposure across the evening.

I have a secret, and it strips me bare more than the spatter of spit across my face, or the tooth-rattling shake of bare knuckles on skin, pulsing, exploding, and the fear is low and hollow in the pit of my stomach. It is raw and tender and I am dying to tell.

I whisper to The Photographer, who squeezes my thigh. Her grasps are powerful, her gestures possessive, and I lean into them in comfort and sheer allure. I am friendly, provocative, all things that come out when I am drunk on alcohol and responsibility and lust, a natural charm bubbling up from my limbs and throat when the cards are in my hand and my feet are firmly on the ground. It is one of my more favorable moments, a balance I can enjoy and wield with effortless pleasure.

I quickly ease into the delight of social interaction and attention, and the secret thrill of the hunt as I am pursued from room to room, one or another alighting their gaze upon me, beckoning with a finger, gesturing toward a door. On the couch, The Photographer slides her hand underneath me, effortlessly chatting and waving hello as she squeezes me and holds me to her. I am drunk on the chase, the reverberations stemming from our interactions. People notice the grip on the back of my head, the way my voice falters when my thigh is pinched and I struggle to maintain composure. In the shadow of a smoky room, voices all around us, The Writer holds me in the corner and slips one, then two fingers down my throat, never breaking eye contact, never hesitating. The world moves around us and we stop completely.

It is then that I tell them both my secret, three seconds of waiting shivering in the back of my throat, and to my delight, they curl into me, they memorize my curves and cartography by the lashes they leave and the kisses they nuzzle into the smooth hollow of my neck. We are getting closer, to something bright and beautiful.

“I like you both a lot.”

The Writer slips her hand in mind. “Come with me,” and I shadow her down the hall. We close the door to the noise and slip away.

Her tongue reels inside of me, voracious and insistent, and sucks on my skin. The blood rushes to my skin as if compelled by invisible magnets, and she of the iron muscle holds me as I writhe, my own private resistance, and I come in a small, charmed cry, swallowed by the darkness of the room and the fervent noise outside. The Photographer tiptoes in and we shut the door to the world and trip into unconsciousness.

~

In the morning, on the floor, I look at my arm as the belt slaps down across my shoulders. I have nuzzled into The Writer in somnolence, and now, the letters loom. I thought it said something pejorative at first, the characters drying into my skin with each careful brush stroke. What it says, The Photographer tells me, crouching over me with the belt taut across my throat, is, “I am a human,” and to me that is the most heartbreaking of truths as I am stretched and teased to a point most delicate.

She is inside of me to the hilt, and I have lost control. I have slipped, fallen away, and am staring dizzily at the sky, my chest heaving with tears. Her hand slaps down on my chest, pressing me tighter, compressing into her, deeper. It is the kindness in her eyes that finally breaks me, the immense trust we are connecting to each other from arm to pussy to eyes to quickly beating hearts and I come and I sob and I am held until I can breathe without shuddering.

We are not yet finished, and I am strung up with soft cotton rope and placed, gently, on my stomach. Rubber bands are stretched around the soles of my feet, incense sticks lit and placed in between skin and security and lit. I shiver and dance as the ash falls, a quick jolt of miniscule lightening where it lands on my skin. I am fallout and dusk, the shadows in my curves greying and sparking as I squirm under the palpable gaze of my partners. Each strike of the matches sends me reeling, shaking to a new place.

The match is lit in front of my nose, a magic trick in triplet and I seize as if possessed, swallow the fear, and blow it out. The slap that ensues is satisfying, heavy on my skin as the arms draped over me and holding me to the ground, to a solid, grounded state alight on anticipation and anxious craving. The clove cigarette smoke swirls around me, the ashes flicked to my skin, propelled by a flinch and a yelp. I want it! I want it all! says my greed, says my soul. Let me take your cock, let me feel it heavy and slick on my throat, my fluids rising to accommodate unnatural delight that I suck down in inches and girth. Tease me, please me, hit me, I want to see, even if it’s dark, where I can go and where I have been.

I am reluctant to use such extreme modifiers- never, best, most, ever, but in that moment of white-pure clarity in my mind, their eyes before mine (say it) I cannot recall another time (say it) when I have felt so close to methodized calm like that. I swallow my fears like small doses of poison, their quickly flaring ashes and cold trickles of water bruise at the surface and seep down into the skin, they make me think and swim down to the depths of my thoughts and see what I am working with. They do what they do because they care and damn it, because they understand. The slaps are real, the burn lingers, and it is all what it is, nothing shrouded. I am a girl aflame, a woman choked by beauty and firm hands all around her and all the time to gaze.

And I say, “You can do anything to me,” and I mean it.

-C.

On getting away (and coming again and again): Part II

After we fuck, slow with sleep and creaking morning muscles, we fall apart and come back together, stronger than ever, and we eat breakfast and listen to NPR. I love it when my greatest desires dovetail so neatly- queers, brunch, talk radio, bathrobes and sunlight. It gives me cause for thought and pause for thanks to the lines of communication and ligatures spanning my muscles. And the ache doesn’t nearly match the wattage of my grin, smug incarnate and wholly deserving of the whole shebang.

After we are sated, we shower and wash off the smoke and dazzle of the club with each scrub. We entwine The Writer, kiss the droplets off her back, and move with her in the steam and heat. She tips my head back and I let the water course over my face and in my parted lips. I guzzle until the heat numbs my throat. In my mind, I am writing it all, and I’m halfway through yesterday.

The Photographer is packing, and I am sucking away, her cock fleshy and soft in my puckered lips. My mind is somewhere else, my animal instinct only to please and pleasure and give and give forever, because I know and trust that she will take of me. The brim of her hat almost touches the edges of her immense grin. “Faggot, do you know why you’re under arrest?”

I do not, and I vocalize this with as much muster and bluster as only an aspiring fag lawyer can have—“Fuck you, I’m a cop-suing lawyer, and all cops are pigs!” In no short order, I am cuffed with an elbow digging into the small of my back. I am gritting my teeth to negate the pain, just enough to spit out another epithet before my arms are wrenched high above my neck. The hot ache is only a piece of the puzzle, the rest is battling with my pussy, The Writer’s fingertips just exploring the inner folds, craning and wriggling to beg her with my body, please, please touch me.

She does, but only for a moment before the fingers retreat and a hand slaps across my face, catching my eyes as she shakes her head and purses her lips at me.

“What will you do to avoid arrest?”

What will I do to avoid arrest? What would I do? I offer to pay, preening my leverage and delighting in getting rebuffed. The officers demand one thing, that I fuck them. I defy them, they beat me down. Little by little, I am pushed. My girly panties are teased, their smiles get bigger, and I wrestle in futility, my breath heaving and hard. I can’t overpower them and my resistance is easily pushed. I am wrenched up by my shirt and pressed against a wall. The Writer nudges my legs open, smiling and pacing. She is taking her time. After all, I’m not going anywhere.

In quick, militaristic succession, one, two, three slaps across the face, and my eyes meet hers, dancing and locked on each other. They have the heartstopping stare of hunters, feeding on my shallow breath and futile attempts to escape. They plow deep into my mind, can see me working and failing to come up with the answers. There is no way to avoid it, they will take me and claim me, strike me with their words and plunge to the hilt, steeped in the tightness of my aching, thriving self. They take me, my mouth muffled but my mind electrified, stupefied with the beauty and cruelty filling me. I surface, and then I dip underneath again to depths unknown, but I’m not holding my breath for long before I gasp in greedy gulps of air. They are in and around all of me and I listen and thrive.

Wrenched up by my hair, The Writer shoves me against the wall. My reprieve from being wrestled and straddled is for naught, though, as she dons the hat and paces around me, a smile curls to her lips like smoke and she grabs me by the chin, contorts my lips into a snarl and forces me to look her in the eye.

“What are you going to do? Where are you going to go?”

Fuck, I don’t know. I do know—deep in the back of my skull, there’s a battle raging, because there’s nowhere I’d rather be and nowhere I can go. She kicks my legs apart and repeats her question and I sneer at her,

“Bitch!”

She lowers her eyes and laughs at me, all teeth, all smile, and slaps me across each cheek, three times so quickly I can barely blink away the tears

“That’s right, I’m a bitch. But here you are.” She turns away from me and The Photographer unsheathes a sword from the corner of the room. She presses it against my neck, harder until my tongue is sticking out involuntarily, my eyes are watering and I am painfully, pleasantly aware of the irony of being choked with a large, phallic symbol, the cold steel thick against my throat. She traces the tip against my thighs and for a moment, her eyes are all I see, following my every twitch. Her power stops me in my tracks. I’m brave, I’m standing my ground, and my knees are shaking.

They grab me by the hair and push me to my knees in The Writer’s room, and handcuff me to the radiator. Gaff tape is slapped over my mouth, thick and stark against my skin. Candles are lit, four of them blowing smoke patterns on the wall, storm candles for shaky nights of indeterminate darkness. Here, it is light and the spring breeze is blowing in. The wicks and I shudder.

My eyes flutter shut and I begin to see with my skin, physiological reactions bubbling up with each brush against the hair on my arms, the puckering of goosebumps on my stomach and thighs exposed to the wind. I blink, once, long and slow, and when I look up again, they are standing above me, candles in hand.

“Do you want to watch?”

I do, it’s like watching a needle sink into skin, metal scrape against metal, teeth chipping, a slow microviolence slowed down by gravity and time. I blink at the last minute. Inevitably, my bravery fades at the eleventh hour. Candle wax in patterns mathmatical mapping starbursts across the veins of my hands, speckling my nose. My rough seaglass edges are rubbed smooth with each stroke and drip. It descends down my skin in rainbows, dragging into curves and stretches in my skin. I yelp with each pool, and as quickly as the pain comes, it ebbs.

Each grabs an arm and hauls me to my feet. I am shaking and cannot stand, but the smile cannot be erased from my face. We walk out into the sun, wax chipping off my fingers and forearms and pooling in the toes of my socks. I am content, awash in the glow of satisfaction, resilience, the sheer throbbing I get from my head to my feet and the spring in my step. I feel close, and I hold tighter, lock eyes with emotion and connection. I melt into myself, into them, into the snow at my feet and leap into the sun.

-C.