Jake drove me into the desert to fuck me. I’m not sure why. I would have fucked him anywhere. But we were talking, and somehow it came up that I liked the desert. We had been flirting at school and at the bar for a few weeks. He had broken up with Miranda, this tiny Japanese girl with blue eyes and a meth habit.

I’d gone over to Jake’s apartment once. We played Nintendo and joked around a little bit. He didn’t try to kiss me or anything.

That night, it must have been after some party because I remember I was wearing a dress with stockings, he said “let’s go to the desert.”

“Okay,” I said.

We took the 10 east. We passed through downtown and East LA. City lights faded into wide blank spaces as we drove farther east. I watched the tip of my cigarette glow red in the window’s reflection. I think we were listening to Bad Brains on cassette.

We merged onto the 15. I read the Barstow/Las Vegas sign and wondered how far he would take me. I had a little fantasy about checking into some dive hotel at the eastern end of the strip, going to the room, fucking, going downstairs and playing cards until sunrise.

Eventually Jake pulled off the road and drove into the dirt. I got out of the car and breathed in deeply. The wind was cold and sharp. I tasted the dust in my throat and nostrils.

I started walking away from the road. I could only see black and I wanted to disappear into it. But Jake caught my hand and pulled me back. ”It’s way too cold. Let’s get in the car.”

We got into the back of his SUV. Jake pulled me down and we started kissing. He was gentle. When his hand moved high enough on my leg to feel the top of my stocking, he pulled his head away from mine and pushed up my dress. ”This is so sexy,” he said, and bent his head so he could unclasp the garter belt. 

“You don’t have to do that,” I said, and pulled down my panties over the stockings.

We were still close enough to the freeway that when a semi-truck passed it would make the whole car vibrate. Rectangles of white headlight came through the back window and then passed, quickly, along the length of the interior wall, illuminating Jake’s face and body so that I saw him like an old fashioned filmstrip, in rapidly cycling frames.

We smoked the rest of his Marlboro Reds on the way back and listened to the other side of the cassette. I think it was Redd Kross.

Photo by Ken Lund.

Anyone who has read Guts by Chuck Palahniuk knows that things can end very badly when we don’t carefully consider the risks of exercising our proclivities. But just in case you didn’t get the lesson (or you fainted during one of Palahniuk’s infamous readings of the story), we have some more gruesome tales for you, fresh from ER gossips around the country.

The Strange Case of the Missing Hot Dog

Adolescent girl comes into the ER complaining of vaginal discharge and odor. Symptoms have been occurring for over a month. The doctor examines her and finds one half of a rotting, moldy hot dog. The girl admitted to masturbating with a hot dog over two months prior, and thought it might have broken upon removal, but she was too embarrassed to say anything.

The doctor removed the offending hot dog. The girl recovered without further incident.

Lesson: do not masturbate with hot dogs. What the hell, people?

Beer Bottles Suck — Literally

Guy shows up in the ER, sitting on his side in obvious agony. Nurse asks for presenting complaint. Answer: “Something is stuck up my ass.” Taken to the examining room, the patient rolls over to reveal a beer bottle stuck in his anus.

The problem was that upon attempting to remove the bottle, it created suction and the tissue got caught. Then the bottle cracked. He required major surgery to remove the bottle and multiple stitches for the lacerations.

Lesson: bottles create suction. Don’t be a moron.

The Great Cocaine on the Dick Myth

It’s said that cocaine applied to the base of the penis can prolong an erection. Some yahoo decided to test this theory after snorting a few lines himself. He got hard and liberally applied coke around his erect penis. He had sex. And more sex. And more sex. According to what he told the doctors, he had sex for about three days, but we can’t know for certain, as his mind wasn’t exactly the clearest.

At the end of however long it was, his dick had still not gone down, so he gave up and went to the ER, panic settling in. When brutal treatments to attempt to evacuate the blood from his still hard and very purple member, he had surgery to release the blood from the corpus cavernosum to the corpus spongiosum, which are places in the penis you would know about if you’d paid any attention in anatomy and physiology.

Anyway, this is a last resort, which could result in preventing a man from having natural orgasms for the rest of his life. Unfortunately, he had waited too long to seek treatment and he ended up losing his penis entirely.

Lesson: be careful with that stuff. And remember, if the erection lasts more than four hours, haul ass to the ER.

All They Need Is Moisture and Warmth

Another girl presented to the ER with vaginal discharge and odor. Upon examination, doctors discovered a sprouting avocado seed. We wish we were kidding.

Lesson: stuff can grow in there. Don’t let it. Hello! A seed? Other stuff commonly lost in cavities: dolls, golf balls, racquetballs, corn cobs. Don’t do it. Just don’t. They have toys for this. Toys are awesome. Please use toys.

So there you have it. Insanity of pleasure. Be good to yourself. You want to keep getting off for a long time, don’t you? Think things through. Don’t be hasty. Don’t be stupid. And if you are, don’t be embarrassed to seek medical attention immediately. They’ve seen it all. Trust us.

Photo by Lauren Nelson.

“As you know, California is an all-party consent state,” I say, putting the iPhone on the table. The banter around me dies down immediately. “I’m going to take the lack of screaming as consent. If you speak from this point on, you’re consenting to being recorded. All right, let’s hear that story.”

“What story?” Daniel* asks innocently. He takes a sip of his drink and begins: “We met on a cruise. It’s what I call a vacationship. The vacationship that went way too far. We went on a cruise to Bermuda in June, spent seven days together and stayed in touch over the summer. I spent the summer on the East Coast, so I’d drive to see her and we’d be involved. Sexually — if I need to announce that for the microphone.”

“Oh, yes. And later you can give me all the details,” I respond.

“It’s part of the deal if you’re friends with her,” Jordan chimes in, amused at the reaction. He’s hosting this evening, it’s a small gathering of writers and thinkers: Melanie, Daniel, Ethan, Rodrigo, Jordan and me.

“OK, by the point I left, she’d gotten very possessive, she kept telling me, ‘don’t misbehave yourself’ — shit like that.”

“Did she specify on this ‘misbehavior’?” I ask.

“Yeah, she said she didn’t want to come to L.A. and find I’d been bad with some middle-aged Israeli housewife.”

“Only Israeli ones?” A deep chuckle sounds on my right.

“I was like, ‘sorry, I wasn’t aware you’d purchased me.’”

“Where was she on the hot-crazy scale?” Melanie asks.

“Interesting, we were just talking about hot versus crazy versus smart,” Daniel says, looking at Rodrigo.

“Wait, did we miss something?” I ask.

“When did this conversation happen?” Ethan follows.

“It takes less than five minutes to cover all this information,” Rodrigo says, characteristically deadpan.

“She’s quite intelligent, she’d doing really well at university,” Daniel says, getting back to the conversation.

“Wait, OK, but how hot?” Ethan really wants to know. He has no interest in it whatsoever, but he likes to uncover the things people seem to be hiding, so he pushes.

“Eight?” says Daniel.

“I’d say seven,” Jordan rebuttals.

“So she’s insane,” says Rodrigo.

“She sent something in the mail,” Jordan says, leaning forward.

“Yeah, she sent me a big care package in the mail,” Daniel repeats.

“Horse head?”

“No, but it included several interesting things, one of which was a bottle of aloe moisturizer.”

“Oh, nooooo,” Melanie whines. “What’s that for?”

“On the cruise, I got sunburned. We had an inside joke for whenever we were around her family. If I said I was going to ‘put on aloe’ it meant that we were going to meet in her room and she was going to give me head, basically.”

“How old is she?” I exclaim. “I’m sorry to interrupt.”

“She’s twenty.”

“OK,” I sit back. “You can’t fault a fetus for being juvenile.”

“It gets better,” says Jordan.

“Each one of the elements may be simply juvenile on their own,” Daniel tells me. “But it’s the collective that makes her batshit crazy.”

“Oh, I see! Well, go on.”

“The bottle of aloe had a tag on it ‘only to be applied by Brittany.’”

“How did she spell it?” Ethan interrupts suddenly.

“Jesus,” Rodrigo says, rolling his eyes.

“There we go again with the names,” Daniel sighs.

“B-R-I-T-T-N-E-Y.”

“E?” Ethan gasps.

“Wait, what?” Melanie leans in.

“T-T-N-E-Y.” Jordan repeats.

“Britt-ney.” Daniel sounds it out. “As if this is in any way relevant.”

“Wait, what sign was she?” Jordan asks.

“Enough out of you, antagonist!” Daniel yells, theatrically. Neither one of them believe in astrology.

“Included with the bottle and the tag was an exotically-colored thong –”

“‘Exotically colored’?” I ask.

“Meaning it had all kinds of prints on it and leopard colors and seahorse scales.”

The horrified silence is punctured by a single question: “had she worn it?”

“No, it came in an envelope that said ‘get excited for my visit.’ As if I were in some way to worship this thong in her absence. Burn it with incense!”

More laughter as dessert is served. Chocolate fondue, with an assortment of fruits to dip. I place a piece of chocolate-dipped banana on my tongue like communion.

“Also included were seven or eight pictures, each individually wrapped in their own envelope and with a very specific message on the front. Each one unique. Each picture was a little bit different. As an example, one of them had a picture of her licking her lips in what I imagine she thought was a sexy way. The title of this picture was ‘Yummy.’”

As the laughter roared around me, I pull the iPhone close to me and made a mental note: “write an article on preparing a proper care package for a boyfriend.”

“In addition to that were three CDs. Instead of having the titles of the songs, each CD had titles of her making, which in some way related to our relationship. Which wasn’t a relationship, as it happened over the course of a week.”

“Wait, three full CDs?” Melanie asks. “Good lord.”

“Seven days or five?” Rodrigo pipes up. “Was this a true week or a business week?”

“Seven days.”

“Seven whole days,” Rodrigo says with mock wistfulness.

“Those extra two days make all the difference.”

“What genre were the songs?” I ask.

“I have no idea,” Daniel responds. “I never listened to them. They’re still somewhere in my desk.”

“Are they! Can I have them?”

“You love your emo longing,” Rodrigo says to me.

“I would give you the pictures too,” Daniel goes on. “But we used them for kindling for the fireplace.”

Jordan laughs, “yes, we did.”

“It’s actually quite fascinating to watch a picture burn. The picture — the film — shrivels up and the paper remains, and then the paper bursts into flames.”

“Did you find that very cathartic to burn those pictures?” Ethan asks.

“No, they just happened to be available. I needed to get a fire started,” Daniel pauses. “Do you want to see her picture?”

The world of Facebook.

“I apologize,” Daniel says, looking at his phone. “Her name is Brittany. B-R-I-T-T-A-N-Y.”

“You can’t even spell her name?” I ask, taking his iPhone. She’s tall, thin — statuesque even.

“I’m sorry. It shows how much she means to me.”

“But she’s the Batshit Crazy Girl.”

“Well, I guess she is… memorable.”

Moral of this story? Don’t be the batshit ex or you, too, will derail great discussions and turn them into a dinner-time carnival of lulz.

* Names have been changed.

Tonight she watches. Legs crossed, head cocked, a bemused smile on her lips. A softly fuming cigarette at her fingertips. The taste of vodka.

Young girls in next-to-nothing and older girls in less circle the room in desperation. They freshen their faces. They hedge their bets. Pull down tops and pull up skirts.

Wager your self-respect and you could win the man of your dreams.

When she finally chooses him, it is without celebration. She was the only one in the room without “please want me” in her eyes. And, as such, they all did.

The flick of an eyebrow, the slow exhale of a cigarette.

Her place.

The painted faces fall as they exit. He was the bet they were all placing.

Chip stacks crumble. Another spray of perfume.

And afterward, she rises. She doesn’t need to tell him to go. Only to walk slowly to the balcony and with her wine glass and the sunrise.

She is alone again already, just as she likes it.

A stone balcony, a blazing horizon, soft curves and a gently fuming cigarette.

He has forgotten the painted faces of the evening. It is only her silhouette that remains.

He watches her, just for a moment, before closing the door.

What happens when one opts out of reproduction and throws herself into self-absorbed hedonism? They pack their cigarettes, thigh highs and trench coat and head for London town. These are the stories of the Barreness, our London correspondent. This piece was originally posted on her blog. Image based on a picture by Anirudh Koul.

The fundamental tenet of BDSM play is “Safe, Sane, Consensual.” This isn’t Ma Cherie’s Kink U* so I’ll sum up:

1. Don’t kill each other.
2. Don’t be too drunk or under the influence of other, ahem, substances to make rational decisions.
3. Respect each other’s limits.

SSC came to mind when Baby Face Rooney became the nth guy to ask me for head. He’s only the second one to use the excuse that he can’t get hard without it, but that’s a topic for another time. (Seriously, women and gay men, how unpleasant is it to have in your mouth a soft dick you have to resuscitate with your tongue?)

I can’t even be easy on Baby Face for being 21 and asking me that. Future Doctor is in his 30s and he asked me a couple of times.

Oh, haven’t you gotten the memo? I don’t give head.

Yeah. I said it. There are plenty of men who don’t go down on their women and they don’t get half the grief I do. I have tried to tell the men not too early as to risk not having sex (or getting dinner paid for, don’t judge), and not too late as to almost get jabbed in the eye by a runaway penis before screaming, “I don’t do that!” (Yes, it happened, and I did not get raped or beat as I thought might happen due to the look on the drunk guy’s face as he tried to comprehend why any girl would refuse it.)

Aversion has nothing to do with it. I love feeling the flesh of an erect member in my mouth, the smooth head rubbing the roof of my mouth, my lips running up and down as my tongue draws the alphabet over every part of his cock. I love sucking cock. I love sucking cock so much that I get painfully stimulated and wet. I love sucking cock but I won’t do it without caveats.

Now we come back to SSC. SSC in BDSM boils down to safety precautions. SSC blowjobs originate from my desire for emotional as well as physical safety.

Safe. As a free agent in this sexy city of mine, I have an active sex life. Even if that means I have two partners in one month, that’s still two partners who are not monogamous either. Do I want to give head to every single guy I date? Eff no. Why is it a given, and especially without a condom? I offer to give head with a flavored condom or even a non-lubricated one. Is it the same? Heck no but I dont want pre-cum from every dick I come across. It’s not safe.

Sane. Now, in my right mind (giggle, chortle) I make good decisions about the company of men I keep. When it comes to blowjobs, let’s keep it reasonable. I am not going to fall for the line that you can’t get hard without one. You are assuming that I signed up for the job of your fluffer, and honey, you are so mistaken. The fact that you ask me for that reason makes me question doing the deed with a capital D with you, bringing to mind another D word: douche.

Consensual. Okay, any oral sex I’ll give is going to be with my consent barring any predetermined rape fantasy scenarios, and even that is still consensual. The real issue here is choice. I am choosing to make you worthy of my physical intimacy. I do have some pleasure from it, but essentially oral sex is a gift from me to you. Do I want to give that to just anyone? Do I want to have any regrets after I discover you are a dickwad? At least with sex, I can say I got something out of it.

Now in my life I consider oral sex a gift of mutual respect, as in you better respect me as I serve your needs and I respect who you are as a person.

When I was still a virgin eons ago in a galaxy far, far away, I went down on my high school boyfriend because I thought I loved him. Oral sex was a token of my love and affection, not just pleasure. In those early years of discovering sexuality, I don’t think I was concerned about pleasure as much as feeling connected. Maybe some of that still resonates with me as an adult and why I can’t have continuous, rampant casual sex for very long as much as I love sex.

Wow. Who knew when I started writing that I would get so romantic about a blowjob. That’s who I am, I suppose: the romantic nympho. (Don’t take me too literally, I’m not trying to get stalked here.)

*P.S. I heart the Logo Channel.

Ma Cherie (@CherieDAmour) is in the market for a boy/girlfriend, kinky sex partner, willing slave, and sugar daddy, though not necessarily in that order. When not working as a dominatrix, Ma Cherie is cruising online dating sites, hitting up fetish parties, and regularly pleasuring herself. Unironically, her favorite song is “Kiss With A Fist.”

“I wish it didn’t have to be this way,” he lamented insincerely; barely audible over the rustle of fabric. The buttoning of buttons. His watch snaps closed.

“Sure you do,” she smirks; the first drag of a morning cigarette clawing at her throat, sharp and satisfying.

She exhales until he is barely visible through the haze. She rubs the light bite marks on her thigh.

The sun has barely shaken its veil of gin and jazz. It struggles above the horizon, announcing its distaste with an angry spray of crimson and gold.

The city is aflame, the end of her cigarette blends into the morning sky.

She smiles.

No one knows better than her the beauty of “this way.”

Casual encounters. Abbreviated passion. Uncompromised freedom.

She didn’t want to forget, but somehow, so few of them were memorable.

Recreational hazard?

“I’ll see you again,” he says. Not a question. Not a statement.

The sound of the door is the only punctuation. Definite, regretful. Satisfied.

She ignores the chill of the September morning and lingers, naked, as the city comes alive.

“This” was the only way.

Light another cigarette.

What happens when one opts out of reproduction and throws herself into self-absorbed hedonism? They pack their cigarettes, thigh highs and trench coat and head for London town. These are the stories of the Barreness, our London correspondent. This piece was originally posted on her blog. Image based on a picture by Anirudh Koul.

I returned to one of my former stomping grounds, San Francisco, for my first Folsom Street Fair since I “came out” as a kinkster. I lived in S.F. in the early- to mid-80′s and remember going to one of the very first Folsom Street fairs. Back then, it was a small, neighborhood affair, with a strictly hardcore gay leather crowd. As jaded as I was, it was shocking to see all those bare man asses and cocks hanging out right there in public, in broad daylight!

Now, the Folsom Street Fair is acknowledged to be the world’s largest leather event. Wikipedia calls it California’s third largest spectator event. Has BDSM gone mainstream? How the heck did that happen? This year it is estimated that 400,000 people attended the one-day festival this past Sunday. I was one of them. And I suffered in the intense heat wave, wearing a black latex dress. Oh yes, I am a slave to fashion!

The 80′s

I was not kinky back in the 80′s, but not exactly vanilla either. I’d been one of the original punk rockers in L.A.’s punk scene of the 70′s, and was a product of that subculture. I hung out in the gay bars and leather bars because they were the only public entertainment establishments to play alternative music back then.

San Francisco was still somewhat bohemian (although rents were high) and mostly gay. This was before the dotcom boom flooded the city with boring young non-creative straight people. It was also the early days of AIDS consciousness, where gay bathhouses were being shut down and queer culture got political. Too bad I wasn’t in touch with my kinky self back then; still, it was an exciting time and place to be “gay adjacent” as I was.

This trip to San Francisco was particularly significant because I was going to Leather Week as a participant rather than as a spectator as I’d been in the past.  I drove up the 5 from Los Angeles listening to podcasts from Poly Weekly. I arrived in the city Friday afternoon and set out on foot strolling down Folsom Street. The bars were already hopping, with the typical cross section of San Francisco gay bar dwellers: shirtless “boys,” older “daddies,” guys in leather, guys in chaps with bare butts, guys in Levis, guys in shorts and OINK T-shirts.

Shop till you drip

I stopped in at Madame S, an offshoot of the legendary Mister S leather store. Madame S features gorgeous latex and fetish fashions, plus an unusual array of “pleasure objects.”

I peeked through to Mister S and saw a room lined with a huge selection of floggers and paddles. Lots of leather daddies mingled there, wearing next to nothing; on the Madame S side kinky couples and cross-dressers waited patiently to purchase goodies. I lusted after a latex top but decided to be economical and bought a vibrating silicon butt plug instead.

Next I walked up Eight Street to Wicked Grounds, the kinky café. I love the fact that this establishment exists as a business and I always stop in for a coffee when in SF. They hold niche fetish munches and groups there almost daily — providing a physical meeting place for Bay Area Furries, a Switches discussion group, a pony munch and a kinky knitters group. They even have a monthly ‘bring your human pet’ night. It’s the only place in S.F. to get coffee served in a dog bowl!

At the table next to me, four nerdy looking kinksters played some sort of science fiction game, all of them staring intently at their cards. I looked around and the atmosphere seemed very accepting. Throughout the weekend I would run into people I’d seen there, and all were super friendly.

Permission to be seen but not heard

I was in S.F. without Sir M, but with his approval. I have to ask Sir M in advance for permission to go to any kinky events, including the Folsom Street Fair. He knows I will wear my collar and follow his protocols of not speaking with other Doms, etc., so he generously permits me travel like this.

Sir M gave me permission to attend the pansexual play party at S.F. Citadel, called “This Shit Will Fuck You Up.” Citadel is a large dungeon down the street from my hotel. I chose that event as it seemed to be the only non-homo party, but it turned out to be delightfully mixed.

I had some hesitancy in going to this party — I’ve never been to S.F. Citadel, and more importantly have never been to a BDSM play party on my own. But I walked into the party and immediately saw familiar faces. First I ran into Master D and slave s, a very sweet older couple I know from my dungeon in Los Angeles. They have been in a Master/slave relationship for over a decade and are a fixture in the scene there. She is always naked, except for a pussy chain and collar. She always seems so comfortable in her own skin; she became a role model for me when I first started playing with Sir M and realized I was going to have to be naked every weekend at the dungeon.

Master D loves to show off his collection of exotic custom-made toys. He has several pairs of handcuffs of his own design that look menacing and escape-proof. He showed me paddles made from alligator, a flogger with a reptile claw at the end of the handle, and a number of other indescribable handmade toys intended to inflict pain. His toys are one-of-a-kind art objects, to be sure, but they are quite effective in his hands.

I recognized S from the Burning Man circuit, in his furry one-piece suit with floppy long sleeves. We chatted briefly then I went downstairs to check out the play area.

Play party, S.F.-style

It was one good-sized room with nearly a dozen different scenes going on. The diversity was amazing. A tall, thin, androgynous female with a white crew cut gazed down as another female with similar hairdo worshiped and sucked her black cock. She wore a strap-on, a one-shoulder leather holster and a “Lesbian Sex Mafia” badge — and nothing else.

Next to them, a Dom in a fedora spanked his girl on a spanking horse to the rhythm of the music, straddling her to get the right angles. He could have been playing a conga drum. Beyond them, a chunky Latina with a really bad feathered and crudely dyed hairstyle was chained to a suspended circular platform.

Three large and burly older biker dude-types spanked, flogged and caned her in rotation. All three wore leather vests emblazoned with Red Dragon Club on the backs. Their scene lasted over an hour and a half of non-stop impact play. I wondered how she could handle it. Eventually two of the bikers packed up their toys and the third, who must have been her Dom, moved her over to another play station for the next act of her scene.

I recognized the sultry and gorgeous Minx of Poly Weekly and chatted with her quietly (it’s bad dungeon etiquette to socialize in play rooms like that.) She had an androgynous couple in tow. We propped ourselves up against a high spanking horse in order to watch all the action.

In front of me, a lovely and calmly composed girl in lingerie sat on a towel on the floor. She appeared to be in a meditative state like a yogi. She did a pigeon stretch, oblivious of all the BDSM scenes going on around her.

A Dom started rigging up ropes above her, and had her hogtied in 5 minutes flat. He suspended her upside down and she looked like she’d been transported to LaLa land.

“That’s M, a famous rigger from up the coast,” my new friends explained.

M adjusted the ropes to control her height, then pulled out his hard cock and stroked it. He grabbed her now upside-down head and thrust his cock into her open mouth. He face-fucked her then pulled her off. I saw her head bobbing as he pleasured himself this way, and I guessed what was going on. I walked around to get a better look. She was completely tranced out, in absolute submission and he was using her like a toy. It was so erotic, my panties got soaked.

I was not permitted to play at this party, just watch, and that was starting to feel torturous. I left the party early, went back to the hotel, and tried out my new toy. Bzzzzzzzzzz bliss!

The main attraction

I wanted to save my energy for the street fair. Folsom Street was blocked between Seventh and Twelfth but the fair has gotten so large it also spills onto the adjoining streets.

It was blazing hot and crowded. I tried to beeline through the solid masses toward the women’s play area, where I’d planned to meet up with some friends.

I ran into someone I knew from my business in L.A., head of the biggest gay media company. He looked me up and down, took in the latex dress and fancy rhinestone collar, and smiled. I could see the light bulb go off over his head, realizing that I’m a submissive, when he’d been trying to figure out my orientation over the years (I used to work with an LGBT-based design agency.)

The crowd was similar to that of a gay pride festival, but with a lot more bare furry man butts and fewer bare chests. There was leather and more leather, in spite of the wicked heat. Many of the females were more butch than the guys. I was overwhelmed by the sheer volume of all things leather and BDSM: the flogging demos, the Masters, the slaves, the chains, the whippings, etc.

My vanilla friend was wearing skimpy clothing and a big pink hat. She’d brought a young married couple. The woman was tall and slim, a yoga instructor. She wore a thin rhinestone collar and her husband had her on a leash.

She said, “he likes this stuff and I go along with it because I love him.” She didn’t strike me as being submissive.

We ducked into the tented women’s play area to watch a demo on safer paddling. Two red asses faced the audience as the educator explained where to hit and how to avoid drawing blood.

They wouldn’t let one member of our group in, however, since he was male. So we settled for watching the Rubinesque burlesque show in front of the tent instead. I don’t enjoy watching fat women undulate but my friends seemed to be captivated by the show.

I wandered off again to watch the gays. The crowd was full of random naked guys, pet dogs, drag queens, transgenders, body builders and all sorts. It was great for people-watching.

A charming woman in a white latex outfit introduced herself as J.

“I saw you at Wicked Grounds and wanted to introduce myself.”

We commiserated about how hot we both were in latex. I later saw from her calling card that she goes by Mistress J.P. — meaning that she is a Femme Domme, probably a pro.

The day flew by too quickly — six o’clock was approaching. It was amazing to be in the epicenter of all that leather pride.

I dragged myself back to the hotel, tired, dehydrated, overheated. I vowed that next year I would dress more sensibly! But I’ll definitely make the Folsom Street Fair a yearly destination.

As the saying goes, it was the chase that thrilled her. The locking of eyes across a darkened room. A haze of sweat and cigarette smoke.

She enjoys a slow seduction. A rhythm that swells and retreats with the quickening and softening of heartbeats. The pulse of an evening. This one was a child, really. A man in years only. Full of his own estimations. He was ripe for instruction.

She had prepared her lesson plans. Softly and calmly she let him explore the curves of her. Eyes only at first. Don’t rush it. Fingertips follow eyes and tongue follows fingers. Slowly, gently, quick and hard.

Pay attention.

That’s enough.

She releases him and crosses the room without a backward glance. A different room. A fresh haze. The heat of breath and fervor. Her back to the boy, she lights a fresh cigarette.

There are no goodbyes. She isn’t interested in seeing him go. He isn’t brave enough to ask to stay.

Hesitant footsteps retreat.

And she exhales.

What happens when one opts out of reproduction and throws herself into self-absorbed hedonism? They pack their cigarettes, thigh highs and trench coat and head for London town. These are the stories of the Barreness, our London correspondent. Image based on a picture by Anirudh Koul.

A week ago a Twitter user asked the perennial question, “Jackie or Marilyn?” Would you rather be the elegant, stylish idol Jackie O, or sexpot goddess Marilyn Monroe? (For the younger generation, Team Jennifer or Angelina?) Virgin/slut, wife/mistress, girlfriend/hook-up, whatever paradigm you use to explain the roles available to women in society. They always boil down to good girl versus bad girl. Which one are you? An even better question, which one would you be?*

I remarked to my friend as she introduced me to her friends last night that I had not heard my real name uttered in a long time. I go by a pseudonym for my domina name, and, as such, adopted it when partying in the scene. I also use it for online dating with only casual prospects or with my overtly sexy secondary profile (I know OkCupid prohibits this, so sue me). I haven’t developed any dissociative disorders as of yet but it’s early.

Kidding aside, I do feel the conflict between my vanilla self (which should be my real self) and my fetishist self. It can be hard to ascertain what you want and what you are looking for in a relationship or sexual/play partner when those qualities can be totally different depending on which side you’re talking about. How do I reveal my kinky side to relationship-material prospects for my vanilla, good girl self? How do I get relationship-worthy prospects when I lead with my lifestyle as conversation?

One of my Twitter followers said my blog description contained an oxymoron. I can’t be a narcissistic romantic or a romantic narcissist. I told him to suck it, and then I explained that I really embraced those aspects, along with my other label as a fetishist. I’m living proof that it is possible to be a kinky romantic or a romantic fetishist. It simply means that I want flowers and sincere tokens of love along with my bondage and anal play.

I thought I’d found one of those guys who could accept the good girl/bad girl parts in Shaw. He was the bartender I’d attempted to date from Labor Day weekend. That prospect crashed and burned pretty quickly by Thursday after the holiday. We met while drinking a few beers and smoking in the bar I always frequent because of Bar Boss. B.B. had no idea we were talking ever since Jr. Bar Boss introduced us.

Well, fuck me over with a wooden spoon, I was so surprised when Shaw texted me he was canceling our date that Thursday. Oh, get ready for the reason: “Didn’t know you slept with B.B. I don’t date girls who hook up with my friends.” Monkey balls. After a flurry of texts, I told him that he shouldn’t be surprised since he met me in that bar: “Chances are girls you meet have slept with B.B. or Jr. B.B.” No matter how I tried to explain how it didn’t even count (never heard of the five minute rule?), he didn’t budge from his “rule.” I told him he was losing out on something good by penalizing me for one night of bad judgment five months ago. I then BBM’d B.B.: “I hate your dick!”

Second rejection happened less than seven days afterward. One of the guys I was dating previously and I had started talking again. He told me he needed time to mull over this “new, interesting” part of me after our date. I kid you not: he dropped me less than 12 hours after making out with me and wanting to take me home for sex. Let’s say I gave goodbye make-out kisses around 1:30AM. By 12:30PM the next day, he was done, dude.

Overly polite, he made the longest and nicest brush-off I’ve heard in a while. He couldn’t handle my lifestyle and kinky aspects in a relationship and yet, he also couldn’t sleep with me casually without having “emotional hiccups.” He was very close to being straight-edge as a recovering alcoholic so I respected his over-analyzed decision, even as I thought how much more stereotypically girly he sounded. (My friend asked where he was hiding his vagina.) Great, thanks for not giving me dick.

I won’t even go into the rest of the week and how I didn’t get dick three more times. All I can say is that I have high standards for emotional intimacy. Sex should be fun and easier to achieve in this Craigslist, casual connections world we live in. How can it be that my good girl can’t find love and now my bad girl can’t get sex? Do I stay the course as Jackie and surprise them with my kinky Marilyn? Or do I get their attention with my skirt-flying Marilyn and keep them with my girlfriend-material Jackie? The challenge lies in having men (and women) see my quirky girlfriend parts of my personality along with my bad-girl looks or sexy self.

I’m taking on that challenge now with Future Doctor.

My fellow domme Chris said, “No one I know likes anyone anymore.” I nodded in full agreement until I remembered my one exception for the moment, F.D. The last time I slept with him, I mentally kicked myself in the vag for liking him so much. I worry that he will only see me as hook-up material because he calls me “damn sexy” and we haven’t had any recent dates that didn’t involve sex.

Hard to show my cards all at once to a man who fills my boyfriend check-off requirements well. I desperately want to be his Jackie who gets the midday texts of “Thinking of you. Have a great day” on top of being his Marilyn, who gets pussy-pounded three times in one night/morning-after. Tall order, right?

*P.S. My complicated answer is I aspire to be Jackie but I settle for being Marilyn.

Ma Cherie (@CherieDAmour) is in the market for a boy/girlfriend, kinky sex partner, willing slave, and sugar daddy, though not necessarily in that order. When not working as a dominatrix, Ma Cherie is cruising online dating sites, hitting up fetish parties, and regularly pleasuring herself. Unironically, her favorite song is “Kiss With A Fist.”

The door closes behind him. Her skin is still warm. His retreating footsteps beat a rhythm and she sings to it softly, tracing a line from hip to breast with her fingertips. His favorite bit of her, he says.

Brief, fleeting, fervent, she loves him in three hour intervals that begin and end with the rhythm of steps. In one direction and then in the other. He is not like the rest.

Tonight was not unexpected. Tomorrow it will not be forgotten.

But this is what they said they wanted — a life free of obligation, of repetition, of confinement. They make time for one another, but never a plan. Theirs is a desire born of those forced apart by time, by distance. By mutual fear. Extraordinary selfishness.

Freedom is her drug. She craves the weight of amorous eyes and revels in the knowledge that she is bound neither by her passions nor her ability to fulfill them.

She won’t be owned. He needs no possessions.

And yet.

In these quiet moments, when his steps have faded and taken with them his flavor and his scent, she wonders, “What if…?”

But only for a moment. Only until he has left her completely. And she goes on.

What happens when one opts out of reproduction and throws herself into self-absorbed hedonism? They pack their cigarettes, thigh highs and trench coat and head for London town. These are the stories of the Barreness, our London correspondent. This piece was originally posted on her blog. Image based on a picture by Anirudh Koul.