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Some News Can’t Be Unbroken

April 22, 2010 Diary, Raymond No Comments

She was a virgin.

A sweet southern school teacher. She was 23, and had natural D-cups that were full and soft, but definitely not too soft. These are the things that fantasies are supposed to be made of.

The truth is, she’d never fucked.

So there we were in bed. We’d met in a bar. I don’t remember the particulars now. I remember that I was lonely that summer. I went to bars with my friends when I could corral them to go with me. I went there hoping to meet someone. I went there to cure what ailed me. I went as often as I could.

I was 22, and recently dumped. There had been a great run-up to the dumping involving another woman (unknown to my real love), a month-long bender and ultimately a near-death car crash-up.

The car crash had been a one-car right-angle turn that wasn’t properly executed at 6:00 AM. The relationship had come to an end shortly thereafter. It’s funny how romantic notions of death are appealing to some women, but nobody’s laughing after a wreck like that.

I was walking wounded on a smashed-up hip, but the feelings inside hurt worse. Much worse. My former love had hurt me. She was supposed to come to the hospital but hadn’t arrived due to a supposed miscommunication with my family.

Truth was, she just couldn’t justify it anymore. The romance evidently had died with the car. She was mortified by the outcome.

Yet the walking wounded still get around. Maybe they’re a step slower, but they get there in time most of the time.

In the absence of love I found hope in my sweet southern virgin.

Let’s call her Nancy. I wonder if I should be ashamed that I don’t remember her name… considering what followed. Maybe it’s just blocked out.

I remember that her voice was syrupy. She was from Florida. She taught children. This job seemed to suit her. She didn’t seem very grown-up herself. But she was all woman.

Back then, it was still somewhat of a novelty for women to really hit the gym. So women were softer. It’s neither good nor bad necessarily. I remember that for a 23-year-old, she was perhaps three to five pounds overweight. It was as if she carried all the extra in her breasts.

She had a full bush. It wasn’t exaggerated, just not really trimmed. It went all the way up to her pantyline.

Her vagina wasn’t super-tight or anything. Fantasies are just that… fantasies. But I’ve never been obsessed with tightness. Like with all things, I look for ‘just right.’ Call it the Goldilocks test if you will.

I remember that she smelled clean. No perfume, just soap. Her vaginal juices were acidic. Not a judgment, just a chemistry thing. Not bad. Great if you can get it, really.

She was so fucking cute. And she saved me, in a sense, that summer. She was the first after all the rest. The first after I’d found love and lost it again. I would move from there soon enough.

Dark hair. Winning. But not sophisticated. She’d never had sex because she hadn’t gotten around to it. Even thinking on that now, it amazes me.

After a couple of dates, she confessed and I persuaded.

So we fucked. I fucked her, and then I showed her a bit of how she could fuck me. She took right to it.

Virgins are lousy in the sack. It’s universal that way. Sex is a habit best practiced.

Still, I was so grateful. So happy. So relieved. I was happy to be fucking her, and more than a little proud that I was her first after all those years she’d taken a pass on it.

She was pleased. It was a healthy situation. She felt comfortable being brought into a sexual life by me. Except for one thing.

I hate condoms. I did then, and I do now. I don’t sleep around as much as you may think and I know how to spot trouble, shall we say. So diseases have never been a problem. I pulled out after fucking her and came on her stomach. We fucked twice a night for a week. I assured her that it was fine. In fact, I’d been doing this for a long time. I don’t have any problem with the idea today. How complicated is it? Just don’t ejaculate. Pre-come is all weak swimmers with no tidal rush behind them. Pre-come is nothing compared to the onrush that follows. Pre-come is harmless.

Pulling out late is a problem.

I left town. Upon return, I called her or she called me. Presumably I called her. It was winter.

I had liked her a lot, she was charming. And I had really enjoyed her breasts. They were quite spectacular.

She was staying across the river. We met up. We drank. At least I did. I drank a lot. I don’t remember drinking a lot, I just remember waking up the next morning feeling like I’d been hit with a hammer.

The next morning, she told me that she had had an abortion.

I got angry. “You didn’t call me?!”

She said that under the circumstances, back in the south on summer vacation, she hadn’t thought much of it.

“You didn’t think of it?” I stood up. I began to pull my clothes on. I did this angrily, like a demonstration. This is a dumb exercise for anyone. But it gets the point across. Childish and clear.

“What was I supposed to do? What would you have said?”

“I don’t know. You never gave me that choice!”

I was really, really angry. To this day I sit with the knowledge that I was powerless that morning. It had all happened while I was getting high thousands of miles away. I hadn’t been consulted. Had she tracked me down through family, I would have not been able to comprehend it. I was spending my nights in a meth house.

We are all good people. The sweet southern virgin. Me and my restless exploration of cheap taboos. The mother of the young child that lied half-catatonic on the meth den couch while she argued with her common-law husband. We didn’t mean to do these things. Maybe we’re not good all the time. Maybe we would all get another chance. Maybe not.

I looked at her. Nancy. The former virgin.

I was hungover and I was upset. I love children. These moments are confusing.

I walked out the bedroom door, down the stairs of her friend’s house, and she and I never spoke to one another again.

Raymond Burns is an esoteric indie film professional living in Los Angeles. Raymond is a social animal who loves every inch of the female form. He comprehensively appreciates the quiet aftermath of a woman’s orgasm. He hangs a bit to the left.

Formosa Cafe

April 19, 2010 Diary, Nikki 1 Comment

Last night at the bar when Jason began flirting with me, I tried to stay cool and unresponsive.  But then I started looking at his mouth as he spoke and how his hands moved and I knew we were going to fuck.

I followed him back to an old apartment building at the base of the Hollywood Hills. His room was narrow and lit by a red light bulb and a string of white Christmas lights hung around the moldings. His mattress was on the floor. His guitar was against the wall.

Jason’s mouth was soft when he kissed me but he pressed down hard. He bit my lip and pulled off my sweater and pushed me down onto the mattress. He pinched my nipples. He kept his hands on my tits and went lower, kissing and licking my stomach. Eventually he pulled off my jeans and started licking and sucking and biting me. It was too much pressure so I told him to be more gentle.

“Sorry,” he whispered, and moved his mouth lower. Then he pushed a finger inside me and moved it up and forward and the intensity almost made me pass out. My back arched and I climaxed in waves. I pushed his head off me when he tried to keep licking. He came up and pulled me back up onto the bed.

“Can I do that again?” He asked. “You taste really good.”

When I had caught my breath I turned to him. He took off his shirt and kissed me. I tasted myself and all I could think about was how his cock would feel in my mouth.

“What about you?” I asked.

“Take off my pants,” he said.  I unbuttoned his pants and pushed them down. His cock was so hard. His skin was pale and his scrotum was pierced with a little silver ring.

I pulled myself up and leaned over him, kissed him, rubbed myself up and down his body, bit his nipples. Then I went lower and took his cock in my mouth. I sucked and licked. I couldn’t go too far down without gagging and I knew he wasn’t going to come so after a while I stopped and moved up so we were lying down together with our heads at the top of the bed.

“Want a cigarette?” He asked.

“Yeah,” I said, and as he moved over me to get them he started kissing me and we were entwined again and I felt him hard against my stomach and wanted him inside me so fucking badly. He moved down to lick me and this time his tongue was lighter so that when I came it was faster and the contractions were more intense and I was left trembling and my mouth was completely dry. He came up to kiss me. He stopped and looked at me. I smiled. He held my head in his hands and said “you are so sexy.”

I felt my legs shaking and said “I’m not going to be able to walk.”

“That’s okay,” he said, “you can stay here.”

“I can’t,” I said. I’m not good at spending the night. I don’t know how to be that vulnerable.

He moved up and started rubbing himself against my pussy. He lifted my legs up over his shoulders and was careful not to enter me. Once, he pushed in.

“Oops, sorry,” he said, and then, “damn, I want to do that again.”

Then he said: “we can’t have sex because I don’t have any rubbers.”

“Okay,” I said, and looked up at him. I wanted him inside me but I also desperately wanted to suck his cock until he came so I could taste him.

“But I can come like this,” he said and he kept rubbing and almost entering and pushing and it was making me crazy.

“I want to fuck you so badly,” he said, then he turned me over and moved up and down against my ass until he came on my back. I felt it splash. I felt the wetness. I love that feeling.

He wiped me off and went to get us cigarettes. He lit both in his mouth like he was in a movie and then came over next to me and lifted me up and put a pillow underneath me. He kept kissing my forehead. He pulled the covers over us and opened his arm and motioned for me to lie on his chest. We smoked and listened to Mazzy Star. I was aware of everything: the sound of a tree scraping against his window, the smell of his hair gel, his skin hot against mine. I felt safe.

On the way home I stopped at the red light at Sunset and a prostitute crossed the street in front of me. She was wearing a trench coat open down the front. She was slim with a long blonde ponytail and high heeled boots. She winked at me and did a little dance step in the middle of the intersection.

Nikki Thomas was born and raised in Los Angeles. She was a straight A student who couldn’t follow the rules and spent as much time in the principal’s office as in the library. At university she opted not to join a sorority and instead filled her free time cruising Hollywood bars and parties, hooking up and getting down. Nikki is a bad girl with a heart of gold. These are her stories — consider it our Monday treat for you.

Beaten, Bruised and Subspaced

April 13, 2010 Daisy, Diary No Comments

Erotic torture at the hand of a good Dominant can leave lovely souvenirs of a good time had. It might take the form of bruises, welts and scratches on the submissive’s body. Seeing color and patterns appear on the skin from BDSM play can be almost as intoxicating to the Dominant as the submissive’s screams and cries.

I am reminded of Sir M’s delight in inflicting corporal punishment on me every time I rub arnica cream onto my sore butt to reduce the redness and welts that linger days after our scenes.

My last session with Sir M began with 10 hard whacks of his paddle on my naked butt that turned it completely red, like a monkey in heat.  I was to count each strike and say, “Thank you, Sir. This will not happen again.” It was my punishment for not following proper protocol the weekend before.

I’d lost focus that night and forgotten to stand and walk on his left side and open doors for him. For this offense I was beaten so hard that by the fourth strike I had trouble speaking and by the ninth I couldn’t hold myself up. The paddle left an outline mark on my right butt cheek that lasted for days.

He hugged me and caressed me after the tenth strike and reminded me not to fuck up again.

My tattoo blushed

Sir M gets a kick out of snapping the tattoo of a geisha girl on my hip with his riding crop — aiming to make her cheeks blush red. It is a super sensitive spot on my torso so her blush comes at great pain to me. He also enjoys carving long lines and designs into my skin with his deadly sharp knives. (“Bad kitty did it to me” is my typical excuse if vanilla friends or family remark on my deep scratches.)

The marks from a BDSM session, frightening and beautiful in their colors and textures, can be a badge of courage among masochists. Some subs can’t wait to lift their skirts to show off their welts and bruises, to demonstrate how much pain they can endure in submitting to their Doms.

In my case, as a non-masochist, I find myself totally fascinated with the marks left on my skin from Sir M’s hands and toys. I love to inspect the bruises he inflicts on my butt and thighs and follow their progression from red to a bluish purple to yellow-green and finally back to normal as they heal.

Subspaced

The bruises left by a Dom’s hands are only skin deep. There are psychological effects from BDSM play that can continue for hours or even days after the session. Probably the most pleasurable is known as subspace. This is an altered mental state caused by endorphins released in response to erotic pain. This state might typically last 20 to 30 minutes or longer after the scene and leaves the sub with a floaty sense of well-being. For me, it can range from feeling relaxed and spacey with lower pulse and heartbeat, to completely being in a trance with no perception of what’s going on around me.

When I go into subspace deeply I cease to hear anything in the room and I feel in a calm, meditative state. Sir M has told me after I return to reality that I’ve gone deep into “La La Land.” I often have absolutely no recollection of what has happened during that time. It’s a delicious feeling of complete transformation and the euphoria lingers a good, long while.

But occasionally the effect is just a depleting spaciness — in rare instances that can be hard to shake off. I had this experience recently when I played (did a BDSM scene) with a new partner at a new club. I teetered on the edge of subspace but wouldn’t let myself quite let go to get there. And after the scene we were distracted and not able to do proper “aftercare.” This is usually a quiet time to help the sub recover and get grounded and is an essential part in the process.

Too much of a good thing

I was spacey for the rest of the evening and wasn’t able to feel grounded. I drank a soda, got some fresh air, and eventually was OK to drive home. But I went to sleep in that altered state and wasn’t able to get a full night’s sleep. I awoke just as spacey and depleted as I’d felt when I went to bed. It was a reminder of last night’s fun, but felt like an ugly, undeserved hangover. To my dismay, the spaciness lasted for the entire next day.

I started to feel alarmed. One person suggested I take a long hot shower. Another person suggested I eat chocolate and drink lots of water. I took all the advice and on the following day I felt slightly less spacey but not back to normal.

Fortunately, my lover J had the intelligent solution.

He came over the following morning and crawled into my bed.

He smacked my still sore buttocks briskly enough to wake me up and then cuddled up behind me.

He tugged my not-quite-healed nipple piercings hard enough to make me wince and yell “ouch” Although it hurt, it did jolt adrenaline through my system. Better than a triple espresso.

J worked his deceptively soft hands down my front, then gripped my outer thighs. His finger fluttered along my clit then slid under to feel the juices running from my cunt. He pulled me back against him by wrapping his large arm around my chest while he worked his finger inside me. I felt warm waves of pleasure travel from my head to toes. When I climaxed my muscles clenched so hard it almost pushed his finger out of me.

The combo of sexual stimulation and pain brought me to a heightened state of erotic pleasure and afterward I felt mental clarity for the first time in days. The best cure!

Daisy TraLaLA (@daisytralala) is a saucy Angelino kinkster who glides with ease between the worlds of tech, art, cuisine, electronica and dungeon parties. Check back every Tuesday for posts from her journey to the most divine surrender.

Even the Unlovable Can Get Some Love

April 11, 2010 Diary, Raymond 1 Comment

How many times have I leaned on you?

Why is it, in the cycle of disrepair, that I reach out this way? I’m drunk, I’m on the phone. I shouldn’t be on the phone. I want you to come over. You’re my new squeeze, my ex, my anything, my everything. I want you.

I want you and I don’t want myself. I don’t want to be myself anymore. I’m drunk or I’m hungover. I’m raging against the dying light, or I’m licking my wounds at noon. I have booze and drugs and rock and roll and I need sex. I need you. I have to have you. You are all I want now. Without you there is nothing left.

There is no us. There is only me. Me and my hands and they can’t be still without these chemicals. I love you but I can’t consider you. I love you and I would if I could. And I mean that. I’m almost out of excuses but I’m hoping that you’ll listen to one more. I’m hoping that you’ll see past the agitation, the aggravation, and the endless frustration. Don’t look at the vomit on the floor that’s all crusty and rust-colored. I still consider myself a spiritual person and vomit doesn’t bother me. Not much at least. Not anymore. Just don’t tell anyone. You wouldn’t do that to me, would you?

There’s a knock on the door and I drag myself to my feet. Well, hellllllll-o.

You brush past me, wanting to assess the damage. For a Friday afternoon, it’s really not that bad. At least as I see it. The furniture is largely upright and unstained. What matters to you as far as I can tell is that you’re here now, and that I’m breathing all right. I am. When I’m not chain smoking, that is. And if you ignore the occasional coughing fits.

I don’t think about why you’re here or what’s right or wrong. I can’t be bothered with all of that. Why address the impossible…? This is what I am and what I want to be, what I always wanted to be. Otherwise, the conversations might be different. We might be different.

You fell in love and you ignored the warning signs. The pictures of us together are lovely. You sleep deeply and somehow the blaring music in the other room doesn’t bother you. If I were you, and I were a woman, I’d probably buy earplugs. If I were you I might try to help but then I might give up, too.

If I were you, I’d stop answering the phone so much.

I have goals and I have dreams. You play along with my romantic notions and slurred speeches. What else can you do at this point? You’re a woman and you fell in love. Leave, you’re still in love. And then you’re in love with an apparition, a memory. What good would that do you, or more importantly — much more importantly — me?

But you’re in love with a ghost as we chit-chat today. The ghost of the good me, the one you came to love. The ghost of our happy times, before I started wallowing in the wretched.

You push me away at first when I try to kiss you. I have been very lonely today. It doesn’t occur to me why, but I wouldn’t care had it registered. I would have brushed that away just as you brush my kiss away now.

You want me to take a shower. I think about this. At first I say no in order to buy some time. Showering will be awful, it will ruin my high and I know this. But now I am naked and getting into the shower. I stop in front of the mirror and admire myself. I like to do this when I am high but I won’t want to do this tomorrow.

I have an angle. Nudity is a precursor to sex. So I will shower.

When I get out of the shower, you are on the phone. You hang up and look at me. You smile. You take the extra towel and you run it over my hair. I smile back at you and do a little dance. This is courtship.

I pour you a drink even though you don’t really want one. I get high as soon as I’m dressed so that I can relax and ditch the bad clean feeling. I comb my hair. And then I comb it a second time.

We agree to watch a movie. I bide my time. Ten minutes into the movie I am bored and hit pause. I always do this. We argue. I pour a drink for myself. You decide to have another. We sit on the couch.

I manage to harangue you into going in the bedroom. I have needs and then my needs have needs too. As soon as I get your clothes off it’s all sweetness and light, but I’m biding my time again.

I fuck you hard. I’m not nice about it. You go with it. I almost lose my way, but I throw us both over and use my mouth all over your body. You suck my cock back to fullness and we flip around again. It’s frantic now, we both know that we’ve got one last shot. You are groaning and straining with your back arched. We come together. You howl as I grunt like a wild boar.

You wanted to fix me and I wanted to fuck you. I got what I wanted.

Where we will go from here, no one can say. I wipe the semen off with a stiffened towel that hasn’t been washed in weeks. Naked, I go into the kitchen and pour another round.

Tomorrow I will tell you stories of reform. Tonight I will drink and smoke weed and fuck you and smoke weed again and listen to music. In that order. You will fall asleep hours before me. Alone.

Raymond Burns is an esoteric indie film professional living in Los Angeles. Raymond is a social animal who loves every inch of the female form. He comprehensively appreciates the quiet aftermath of a woman’s orgasm. He hangs a bit to the left.

Double Dom’ed: How I Got Virtually Co-Topped

April 6, 2010 Daisy, Diary No Comments

My date night started out perfectly vanilla, like the type of dates you see on reality TV shows. Sir A arrived at my home elegantly dressed, and took me to a quaint Italian restaurant in my neighborhood for dinner. Sir A is one of the Doms I’ve been courting since last month. I dressed up in a deep plum silk dress with plunging neckline, stockings with garters and my best heels. We debated the wine list, chose something Italian, then decided to be politically incorrect and order veal. The adjoining tables would never have imagined that our conversations included flogging, caning, threesomes and ass play.

I finished off with some warm flourless chocolate cake that was just divine. I find that rich chocolate is an aphrodisiac as it warms my body and brings a blush to my cheeks.

“Let’s go back to my place.”

He gave me a wicked kiss that lasted a few seconds longer than usual and a little bite on my neck that sent shivers down my spine. Then we were off.

No time to pour him a drink

We entered my living room and before I could offer him a drink he had me pushed up against the wall with my legs spread.

“Keep your hands up there and don’t move.”

He pulled off my bra and stood behind me squeezing my breasts and tweaking my nipples.

Sir A chomped on my neck harder. He put one hand under my dress to graze my crotch and was pleased to find no panties, just a moist pussy. He thrust his groin against my butt and penetrated me aggressively with one index finger. It made blood flow to my cunt, engorging it and making it throb. The other hand played with my nipple piercing, twisting and pulling slightly to just cross my pain threshold. My nipples popped erect and my cheeks flushed more deeply. He enjoyed seeing my reactions as erotic bliss and erotic pain combined to bring me to a boiling point.

“Well, I was just going to go home but now I want to stay and have you suck my cock.”

That sounded like a good idea but I had an even better idea.

Virtual three-way

“Sir, may I have your permission to put on the webcam so Sir M can watch?”

Sir A smiled and bit the back of my neck.

“Of course!”

As I wrote a few weeks ago, I get a thrill out of keeping the webcam on for Sir M, hoping he will randomly catch me doing something sexy. Sometimes I flash my bare ass to the camera as I pass by, to see if he’s watching. I’ve left the camera on when I’ve had female friends visit but don’t feel its right to do that to a Dom without his permission. I guessed that Sir A would be down for it.

Sir A has been very respectful of my relationship with Sir M, as Sir M is my main Dom and I am “under his protection.”  We both have been careful about protocol to reflect my relationship with Sir M, but still honor Sir A as a Dom. As of yet I hadn’t encountered a situation where I’d be interacting with both of them at the same time.

Sir M’s slut in action

I slipped off my dress but left on the stockings, garters and the little silk slip I wore under the dress. We set the laptop with webcam up on a chest facing the bed and I turned it on. I was giggly and turned on by the idea of having Sir M watch his slut in action.

We started wrestling on the bed and removing Sir A’s fine clothing. Sir M logged on. My heart leaped!

Sir A thanked Sir M profusely for his kind generosity in sharing his property (me). They discussed my skills and merits like I was a house pet — and I liked it.

“What she lacks in skills she makes up for in enthusiasm. I could teach her a few tricks if I wanted to,” said Sir M.

I realize Sir M likes to keep me on my toes so I don’t get “lazy.” His compliments often come with a qualifier. In this case I think he also wanted to challenge me to perform to his liking.

I swallowed his cock in front of the webcam

Sir A laid back luxuriously on my bed, propped up against the pillows, hard cock looming in front of me and taking up much of the real estate on the webcam broadcast. I kneeled next to him on his left, facing forward so I could swallow his cock in Sir M’s line of vision. We did some adjusting and brought the laptop closer so he’d have a better view.

Then I really got down to business. I sucked and stroked while Sir A ordered “lick my balls… NOW!”

I shifted down and licked and sucked while he squeezed and manipulated the upper shaft.

“Now lick the top. Come on, use your tongue, that’s what it’s for!”

Sir M was silent for a while, until he drawled, “well, that’s OK, but make her work harder!”

Two Doms = double pleasure

I had two Doms telling me what to do, feeding off each other’s energy and co-controlling me. It was intensely hot and at the same time a bit distracting as they gave me orders.

Sir A said to Sir M: “I can’t make her follow all my orders like you can. She doesn’t even always call me Sir.”

Sir M replied, “I can make her do whatever you say, so go ahead and order her!”

“OK,” Sir A said to me. “You can’t touch yourself or masturbate at all until you next see Sir M.”

I was mad but I pushed it out of my mind. That seemed like a very bad idea to me but I complied.

Sometimes they gave me conflicting commands.

“Get all the way down on it, you lazy bitch!” Sir M would growl.

“Just suck the head,” Sir A would taunt me.

“Use both your hands — that’s why you have two hands and a mouth,” Sir M would add.

“Don’t use your hand like that — if I wanted a hand job I’d tell you to give me one,” Sir A would bark at me.

It was exciting if confusing, having two masters. I’ve always loved the idea of being with two men — double pleasure and double fun.

My mouth was violated

We did some repositioning and Sir A had me lay on my back while he hovered over me to face-fuck me. That is one of my favorite positions because it makes me feel gloriously submissive and therefore sexy, to lay still and be violated that way. 

He slid his cock in to make sure I was comfortable then pushed it to the back of my throat as far as it would go. I gagged and broke out in goose bumps like a jolt of electricity had gone through my body.

“Take it and stay there!” Sir M yelled.

My throat relaxed so I could take in his cock completely. I sucked on it deep in my throat and Sir A started to groan. His eyes squinted, he was in another place and I could tell he was on the verge of cumming. I increased the intensity of my sucking and he groaned more.

“Ahhhhhhhhhhh! You little whore!”

He dug his fingers into my head, holding me prone. I got swept up by his energy too and grunted loudly as he shot his load into my throat. I continued to suck and watch him twitch until he couldn’t take it any longer.

“Yes, she is enthusiastic,” Sir M commented.

Sir A thanked Sir M and they agreed it would be a good idea to “co-top” me again sometime soon.

Having two Doms dominate me in sex play was a supremely sexy experience, even if one of them was in cyberspace.

Daisy TraLaLA (@daisytralala) is a saucy Angelino kinkster who glides with ease between the worlds of tech, art, cuisine, electronica and dungeon parties. Check back every Tuesday for posts from her journey to the most divine surrender.

On a Saturday in Venice, California

April 4, 2010 Diary, Raymond 1 Comment

You don’t really want to fuck on heroin. The drug is enough. You’re slack, slacker than you’ve ever been. You’re okay with the world around you. The world around you suits you just fine. Friday night is becoming Saturday.

All good things must come. Come and then come to an end.

At the end of the high, it’s time to come back.

The best way to come back is to come. But it’s hard to come with your body broken like this. As the good feelings of Friday night came to an end, the pass out takes over. Now it’s Saturday and the good times have ended and you’re hoping she’ll come. Come over at least.

Detoxing is not sexy. Hard drug toxins have a special, special touch. The sweating starts. There is no appetite, the body wants the poison out but you’re not ready to live yet. No food for you.

The sheets are soaked through with sweat and you’re cold. It’s cold but you still sweat. You have the chills but you still sweat. It’s hot outside but you’re cold and sweating.

And then she arrives. You’re in agony but you’re young enough where lying in bed is somehow acceptable even though it’s four in the afternoon and the world is outside, just outside your window. She ignores the wet sheets. Notices them, yes, but decides to ignore them after she pushes them away. You pull them back to you.

You have only a futon. The futon is unfolded and it takes up most of the space in the room. The apartment is small. It’s a nice day outside but the blinds are drawn. It’s four in the afternoon and you’re glad to see her.

You reach your hand out. You caress her breast. Cup it. Something about the pain changes in you. There is a restlessness there. Warmth. You’re not as cold anymore.

She sits up then and reaches for the bong. She has her own weed. She smokes and you try to but it’s painful and you don’t want to be stoned, it just makes the pain worse.

But now she is high and that makes her horny. You don’t know why it’s called that, horny, but smoking weed makes her happy and horny and you don’t care why people call it that. You can barely think straight, thoughts are still all floaty but it’s not pleasant anymore.

She tucks herself in next to you, you ramble half-coherently, rattling off the fragmented thoughts that drift about in your mind. Your mind is resistant but your body is stirring. Your cock awakes. You’re young so you slip your hand in her panties right away as you kiss her. You’re young so you don’t think about how your breath might be or how your saliva must taste. She loves you and she ignores it, at least she doesn’t say anything. You’re young and she’s young too.

Before long she’s riding you. You don’t have the energy to move your body on top of hers so this is perfect. You’re surprised that your cock works at all since the rest of your body is broken. This makes you happy. Your cock is not as hard as normal but there’s something satisfying about this too. You’re young and you felt like you were dying just minutes before but now she is riding you and you know you are alive.

So this is what sex is after heroin. You fuck her and grab her tits with your hands and you’re happy. You’re turned on and it’s not exactly like regular happiness, but you’ve never fucked after heroin before and you’re glad to be alive because you felt like you were dying.

She is fucking you and making those noises that she makes. She’s going slower than normal because you are. You’re going slower than normal because your bones hurt and you’re just happy that your cock is hard and it’s staying hard.

She is cooing and you love her. You’re glad that she came over, and you’re glad when she says, “I’m coming, Babe.” She says that a lot and it makes you happy in that certain way every time you hear it. You fuck and sweat and breathe strangely since your body is still in shock and then you stop for a couple of minutes and then you start fucking her again. You know that you’re alive. And if you’re alive today, you’ll be alive tomorrow. Maybe tomorrow you’ll do more heroin but probably not, because that would be stupid. But you’re glad for her. You love her and you love fucking her and you find the energy to get behind her.

Raymond Burns is an esoteric indie film professional living in Los Angeles. Raymond is a social animal who loves every inch of the female form. He comprehensively appreciates the quiet aftermath of a woman’s orgasm. He hangs a bit to the left.

Polyamory vs. Monotony

March 30, 2010 Daisy, Diary No Comments

When I first changed my status on the kinky Facebook social networking site from “in a relationship with …” to “single,” I knew that in my next relationship I would seek an authentic Dom with a lot of experience. Sir M made sure that everyone was aware that I am single and under his protection, though he does not own me. I don’t wear a collar when we go to dungeon parties and he introduces me to any Dom I am interested in.

As it turns out, most of the male hetero “top Doms” are in polyamorous situations, meaning they already have multiple female submissives (or slaves). The females are often bisexual and have relationships with each other as well. So if I wanted to be with one of the more experienced Doms in the scene I would have to join their poly family — as number three or four.

Not surprisingly, I declined. Being number three or lower down the rungs in a poly relationship sounds like a raw deal to me! My impression of poly up to this point was taken from watching Big Love, an HBO series about a polygamous Mormon family. They aren’t kinky or sex-positive but I’m sure there are many parallels in the daily life issues that arise. The women have a schedule of who sleeps with the man each night, and they negotiate and trade if necessary. In the show, the man resorted to taking Viagra for a while in order to satisfy all the women when the stresses of his business overshadowed his home life.

Their version of polygamy is quite rigid, whereas polyamory has a much more fluid way of playing out. I’ve been in an open relationship and enjoyed that freedom, but having casual sex with people in addition to your primary relationship (that’s my idea of an open relationship) is quite different than polyamory — namely having longer term loving relationships with multiple partners.

Polyamory = loving many

I spoke with Cunning Minx who does an excellent podcast called Poly Weekly to get her take on what is meant by “poly” in the kinky community. The Minx is a super smart and smoking hot sassy brunette who makes a compelling argument for the poly way of life.

“Poly is a lifestyle recognizing the possibility of full time, long-term, loving, committed relationships where all people involved have full knowledge and consent,” she told me. “In the kink world, people may have more than one partner and may or may not define themselves as poly.”

The Minx explained that poly is a way of keeping it fresh and exciting, but it may not be a viable option for all couples.

“Being together forever isn’t necessarily the goal,” she said. “But the happiness of you and your partner should be the long-term goal.”

She gave as an example a common situation where a couple may find that one partner is interested in different kinky activities than the other, so they may take on “play partners” in the BDSM sense, which can include sex. Depending on their own orientation, they may or may not consider this as poly.

Pondering poly

With this definition of poly, I realized that I’m in a “quasi-poly” situation. I have a Dom who isn’t my primary — he already has a primary relationship. I’m dating a few other Doms who are my play partners, and perhaps eventually one will become my primary Dom. I also hook up with my former (non-BDSM) lover J. I am a girl who needs a lot of sex and erotic play so being able to play with several men (and possibly women) works well for me. I am transparent with everyone and clear about my intentions. Fortunately, the men I’m involved with are turned on by the idea of me being with other men so this is a positive.

I was fascinated and did a lot of reading on the topic, paying attention to what issues poly people were talking about on the kinky social networking sites, as well as listening to more Poly Weekly podcasts. I found that many of the subjects being discussed were either of logistics or communication skills that could easily translate to monogamous couples.

I asked if poly people get jealous, and how they get around that natural human emotion.

“Jealously and feeling neglected happens in monogamous relationships too,” the Mix explained. “It’s all in how you decide to cope with insecurity and jealousy.”

She reasoned that a wife might also be jealous of a husband working late, bowling with his buddies.

“You have to identify your own emotions and own up to them in a safe space — that’s a skill for both partners,” she told me.

After speaking with Minx for an hour I wondered why anyone would want to be monogamous.

Poly and alternative lifestyles

There is a high acceptance of polyamory in other types of alternative communities. I’ve spent some time in an alternative music, art and lifestyle collective that includes a lot of “burners” (i.e., people who consider Burning Man a lifestyle).

One of my close (vanilla) friends in this community is in a poly relationship as the number two. The guy is 20 years her junior and not someone she’d consider a serious love relationship with, yet they have a loving friendship — with benefits — all with the approval of his primary girlfriend. He has an “emotional contract” with his girlfriend where they stated boundaries and parameters and this has helped guide them through expanding definitions of their triad relationship.

“To me it is all about openness and honesty,” he said.

That’s a great argument for the polyamory lifestyle, if one is up to the task. There are a lot of practical issues to tackle, such as having enough time for all the partners, who pays the mortgage, what happens when you have a child with one partner, who is the primary, etc. But after seeing or hearing of many positive examples of polyamorous relationships I’m on board and pro-poly!

Daisy TraLaLA (@daisytralala) is a saucy Angelino kinkster who glides with ease between the worlds of tech, art, cuisine, electronica and dungeon parties. Check back every Tuesday for posts from her journey to the most divine surrender.


Paige’s Boyfriend

March 29, 2010 Diary, Nikki No Comments


The nostalgia was so sharp and so strong today.

I was walking East on Sunset to meet my friend for lunch at the Rainbow when I passed a group of teenagers asking for spare change. I saw their smiles and tired eyes and then I smelled it. Hangover sweat: sweet and rancid, rotten chemical residue escaping through the pores, releasing poison.

I smelled it and then I felt it, and suddenly I was nineteen standing on the pavement outside of a club in Hollywood wearing a lot of makeup and something kind of sleazy. I felt it, like I used to feel it: confused and thrilled and bored all at the same time. Smoking cigarette after cigarette. Then later I remembered the drugs. Fondly.

I remember being at a club at the Park Plaza Hotel by MacArthur Park (it’s that big beautiful old hotel that was in the first scene of Wild At Heart) with Paige and her boyfriend Tony.  We were all on ecstasy and I just wanted to touch, to kiss, to be held tight, and rubbed. I was wearing a short dress and stockings and boots. Tony was sitting on the floor against the wall on the landing. Paige and I were standing, swaying, watching people come up the stairs and everything was in slow motion and stop-action. People vanished into the dance area. It was huge. We didn’t care about anything.

I sat down next to Tony. He saw the top of my stocking and an inch of bare skin and asked what I was wearing. I raised my dress a little to show him and he said “you’re a bad girl, aren’t you?”

Tony motioned for me to sit in front of him Paige was right there. She looked at us, looked up. Dazed. Smiling slightly. I turned to face Tony and he kissed me and it was the most amazing kiss and I was so turned on, all I wanted to do was sit against him with his arms around me and feel his fingers sliding down the inside of my stocking and out again, his nails sharp on my inner thighs.

But Paige was there and she was one of my closest friends. I reached up for her hand and pulled her down so her ear was by my mouth. I asked her if she minded what was happening. I told her nothing more was going to happen. Nothing beyond what could happen on the red carpet of the Park Plaza Hotel with hundreds of people milling around. She smiled at me.

“Nikki, I don’t care,” she said and stood up and walked away. I found out later she was grateful for this reprieve. She wanted to search for her own fresh distraction.

Tony and I played and kissed and touched on that landing against the wall. We were high as hell and all I could see was red carpet and that amazing staircase and a lot of feet walking around and I felt the fucking bass, the hiphop. I was sinking into everything I touched and he was so sexy and he was kissing me like he was starving for it. I remember his mouth hot against mine and his tongue, teeth, lips.

I opened my eyes and looked at him and his pupils were so big I couldn’t see the irises.

All I saw was black.

Nikki Thomas was born and raised in Los Angeles. She was a straight A student who couldn’t follow the rules and spent as much time in the principal’s office as in the library. At university she opted not to join a sorority and instead filled her free time cruising Hollywood bars and parties, hooking up and getting down. Nikki is a bad girl with a heart of gold. These are her stories — consider it our Monday treat for you.

Don’t Crank It

March 28, 2010 Diary, Raymond 1 Comment

This is a bit… complicated. One thing that I’ve found out about myself is that I am at ease around women. The flip side of that perhaps is that I’m too easily lonely.

I refuse to masturbate except under extreme circumstances.

This policy evolved over time, and I do follow it. So let’s define “extreme circumstances”. First, for whatever reason, I find myself without a regular sex partner. Perhaps I’m traveling, or in the first few painful days following a breakup. But this is the key: if there is any opportunity for sex with a female companion, I have no interest in cranking an orgasm out.

The simplest analogy is that with an old-time boxer preparing for an upcoming fight. The wisdom was that the testosterone was needed to defeat another man, and it shouldn’t be wasted. Yet my ‘upcoming fight’ is sex-related. I’m saving that drive for its real purpose: to find a woman to have sex with. I refuse to reduce the sensitivity of the shaft, and I will not underestimate the power of the sperm coursing through my testicles.

If I masturbate, I’m lazy. I start to associate sex with pictures, or movies. Place it in the realm of fantasy. And sex is no fantasy… it is the realization of life. It’s everywhere, and my masculine sex drive is one of my defining characteristics as a human being.

So I save it. I resist the impulse. I store up that precious sticky warm life and let it just percolate inside my balls. It gets so bad under a dark moon that my nuts begin to ache. I’m walking around trying to look normal and if my sack brushes my leg, there’s a concussion of pain that I keep to myself.

I own that pain. Breathe it out and look around. There are more beautiful women in Southern California than I could ever fuck in 1,000 lifetimes.

I’m saving this life force for them. Saving it to remind myself to look around. Smile. Talk to women in checkout lines. Just waiting for that glint of recognition that she knows what I want, and she’s happy to give it to me.

… And when I get that release, it’s primal. It’s animal. It’s earned and it is intense.

Raymond Burns is an esoteric indie film professional living in Los Angeles. Raymond is a social animal who loves every inch of the female form. He comprehensively appreciates the quiet aftermath of a woman’s orgasm. He hangs a bit to the left.

I <3 Cock

March 23, 2010 Daisy, Diary No Comments

Days later my body was still humming from an amazing, beautiful and profound experience I had the honor of sharing. As these things usually go, it was of the moment, totally unexpected. I was suspended in time, blissed out and unaware of anything in the world… except the cock in my mouth.

Somehow, one rainy afternoon we were cooped up inside with another plan entirely. I smoked some pot, got more comfortable, and soon was spilling all kinds of sexual confessions. I completely opened up to him about my sexual history — which has been quite extensive. We found we shared some common ground, including hyper-sexual appetites and the desire to explore new realms.

Soon he’d thrown a pillow down on the floor and instructed me to kneel on it so I could be treated to the pleasure of sucking his cock. I’d been rather cock-deprived and teased with sexual stimuli for some time so I threw my all into the task and enjoyed every second of it. His cock was still flaccid when I grabbed it with my left hand. I kissed the head to honor it, tasting a big drop of his pre-cum. The first lick kick-started my raging libido into high gear and soon I was like a wild animal. Sucking, licking, kissing it, rubbing it all over my lips and face and hair; rolling it on my breasts. With my face smashed against his soft groin, I took it deeply and hungrily.

Cock ecstasy

I already know this about myself. I love cock. Truly love it. I could never be a lesbian because I’d miss it so. I’d miss the feeling of the smooth tip of the head touching the back of my throat, I’d miss the smell of it, the taste of it, the changes in mood and personality of each cock I encounter. I can’t imagine life without cock. I love the energy it transmits and the inspiration I draw from it. I love the effect I can have on it and the way I can control a man through sucking on his cock.

On this day, however, he was in the driver’s seat. He exercised extreme self-control to make it difficult for me to get his cock hard. He didn’t want to give it up to me easily. I had to work hard for my “gift” of a nice thick, solid cock. I focused all my thoughts and energy into the organ in my hand, ready for the challenge ahead.

Sometimes he’d grab me by my hair and face-fuck me forcefully — but not so violently that it would incapacitate my jaw. Smart strategy, because I couldn’t have sucked him for four hours as I did if he’d forced me too hard. In this instance, being face-fucked was an intense turn-on for me and each time I’d feel my juices flowing and pussy getting really wet. I kept hoping he’d notice how wet I was.

Sexual electricity off the grid

My nipples cried for attention as I was increasingly aroused. They craved his lips and his tongue and my pussy craved him even more. But he intentionally withheld his lips and cock from my genitals like an expert tease. And that turned me on further. So I’d suck his cock even more fervently and work myself into a frenzy.

This escalated as we fed off each other’s sex energy. Sometimes I find the sexual tension of being denied sex can be just as titillating as the actual act. It forces that intense sexual electricity to course through my body with no release, so it increases and grows exponentially stronger. Eventually the sexual current raging through me is so tangible that it radiates out through every pore in my body. It is incredibly powerful, feels like I’m on fire, and fuels me on to greater heights. And in this case, to greater cock-sucking.

Trancing out to cock

He’d get really hard and I’d get even more turned on. I had many periods of going deeply into a blissful trance state, where everything else in the universe melted away but the cock. It feels like a nearly religious experience to be in that state. I become a passenger in an incredible journey and the cock guides me to new heights. It’s a beautiful thing for me and for the receiver.

I’m not sure how long or how many times I stayed in this state but I do know from later being told that I was oblivious to everything else going on. I was somewhat aware of his finger working its magic inside me, coaxing orgasm after orgasm out of me by massaging my G-spot in just the right way. And of course that inspired me to suck his cock even more passionately.

I like to carry on with cock worship for many hours and eventually my worship transcends the cock and expands to include worship of the entire body, sometimes extending to the mind and spirit. I find that the cock is a portal for the sensual body and the sexual energy, an entry point for the profound energy exchange. After all, as I suck and worship, I am responding to the way he reacts to me, the way he grabs my hair and breast for leverage and forces his cock down my throat, the way he is always fully in control, and the way this makes me happily submit to him.

Squirting and gagging

After several hours of this he prodded me to ejaculate. I gushed so much liquid, it made a wet spot on the bed three feet in diameter. This excited him and hardened his cock again. He pushed further and got me to cum, squirting what seemed like buckets of ejaculate, over and over and over. I amazed myself — didn’t even know I was capable of this.

He’d give me short breaks and then bark “down bitch!” until I got his cock deep into my mouth again. He enjoyed shoving it all the way to the back of my throat to see if I’d gag and break out into goose bumps. That also gets the really thick saliva flowing, and it’s a wonderful lubricant for his cock. Each time he hit the back of my throat, my pussy would clench around his finger. His cock was thick and fleshy and filled up my mouth perfectly. And I continued to have orgasms that spread out through my body and beyond with concentric rings of warmth.

His orgasm was intoxicating

After many frenzied hours of this sex play, he decided it was time for him to cum. Although my eyes were shut I was aware of a beautiful white light of energy beaming from his groin into my mouth and down into my heart. My heart sent that white light of energy back into him. Everything glowed and I felt transported beyond the physical to a place of beautiful calm.

He clamped my head in both hands and went in deep, ejaculating straight back in my throat. I was so connected to his orgasm that I shuddered and screamed, writhing with a full-body orgasm. Time expanded and this continued as he pumped more cum into my throat and I responded accordingly. He tasted delicious. I kept his cock inside my mouth, I didn’t want to let it go and neither did he. I was profoundly grateful to have received his essence and wanted to prolong the experience for as long as possible.

At that moment, I felt unconditional love and respect for his cock and that’s a magnificent feeling. I quivered and twitched as multiple little orgasms continued to radiate out through my body.

And so we went on, unrelenting. It would have been easy to just keep up this frenzy for a few days, abandoning all responsibilities and shutting off phones. But we eventually had to tear ourselves apart.

Daisy TraLaLA (@daisytralala) is a saucy Angelino kinkster who glides with ease between the worlds of tech, art, cuisine, electronica and dungeon parties. Check back every Tuesday for posts from her journey to the most divine surrender.

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Sex and the 405 is what your newspaper would look like if it had a sex section.

Here you’ll find news about the latest research being conducted to figure out what drives desire, passion, and other sex habits; reviews of sex toys, porn and other sexy things; coverage of the latest sex-related news that have our mainstream media's panties up in a bunch; human interest pieces about sex and desire; interviews with people who love sex, or hate sex, or work in sex, or work to enable you to have better sex; opinion pieces that relate to sex and society; and the sex-related side of celebrity gossip. More...