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Training To Be A Submissive

January 19, 2010 Daisy, Diary 1 Comment

Sir M is an elite Master in L.A.’s BDSM scene and is training me to be a submissive. After meeting with him and learning his rules of protocol — and imagining the consequences for disobeying them — I agreed to join him for a “play session” (yes, whips and chains and more) the following night at a familiar dungeon party.

I had prior plans to go to a birthday party first, so I wore a fashionably fetishy outfit that I hoped would cross over for the dungeon party. I slipped on a black leather overcoat over a sheer black top, waist cincher, tight silver pencil skirt, garters and opaque black stockings with a swath of fishnet weaving up the back. I then pulled on platform ankle boots that make my legs look impossibly long, and headed out.

My First Dungeon Party With Sir M

I tried deep breathing to fend off nerves. Sir M had warned, “no booze or pot tonight; I want to see how you react when you are sober,” so I had neither of my familiar crutches. He instructed me to meet him at the front of the club at 11:00PM.

When I saw him walk toward me I instinctively smiled and started to say hello, then remembered to look down and not speak. I’m not allowed to address him until I’m spoken to. He was dressed in the standard sadist fashion: black collared shirt, black leather pants, shiny black leather boots. He scanned my outfit. “Hmm… I like mini-skirts with no panties better. But we’ll work with this.”

We walked into large, dimly lit playroom to find a location for our “scene.” About eight other scenes were going on in the room; some people were chatting, others were watching. A foot fetishist lounged in a chair on the periphery getting a foot massage from a woman wearing only a slave chain around her waist. Loud whacks and occasional screams melded with The Crystal Method track blasting from speakers.

Sir M chose a spot-lit corner with a large wooden frame in front of a mirrored wall. He sat in a leather armchair in the dark facing the platform and instructed me to stand in front of him.

“First take off your jewelry, then take off every stitch of clothing. Slowly.”

I am somewhat self-conscious about being naked publicly and I pouted. He agreed to let me keep on my panties — this time — since I asked his permission correctly. I slowly peeled off each layer of clothing, folded it and handed it to him piece by piece. My undressing was not very sexy, in my opinion. But I looked down and he was gazing straight up at me and smiling. I also saw the outline of his hard cock in his leather pants. I could look at that and avoid looking him in the eye.

I am Here For His Pleasure

“Do you know why you’re here?” I didn’t know how to answer and nearly panicked. “You are here for my pleasure. And this is pleasing me very much.”

I was slightly relieved and embarrassed.

Next, he ordered me to stand on the platform facing out, feet shoulder-width apart. This is his favorite stance and it gives him easy access to inspect between my legs if he desires.

He buckled leather cuffs lined with soft red sheepskin around each wrist and chained my hands up to the frame, elbows parallel to shoulders like a bodybuilder’s pose. He grabbed my hair at the crown and then slipped a foam-padded blindfold on over my head. Standing behind me with one arm securely around my chest, he slipped his fingers under my panties and stroked the lips of my vagina. His middle finger darted inside me briefly, checking to see if I was wet.

For a while he left me there: silent, chained and blindfolded. Terror rose in my throat, my skin crawling with goosebumps. What would he do to me? What the hell had I gotten myself into?

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.

To Sir With Love

January 12, 2010 Daisy, Diary 2 Comments

My boyfriend/owner (S) and I recently separated and I found myself unowned and uncollared. An old lover showed up soon after for lots of sex, but I still missed S’s loving torture.

And then Sir M entered my life.

A self-described “hedonistic sadist,” Sir M is a highly regarded VIP in the local BDSM scene. He looks for “play partners” (for BDSM play) and has trained many people like me to be submissives or slaves. We traded several e-mails and a friend in the scene gave him a great referral so I felt more comfortable. We agreed to meet and discuss. I’m rather new to this so I had no idea what to expect.

I Met Sir at a family restaurant right off the 405

He sent me precise instructions of where and when to meet him. Finally–a man who can make decisions for me! I love that. I hopped on the 405 to rendezvous at a nondescript family restaurant.

He had instructed me to sit on the bench and wait. This positioned me facing the restaurant, with my back to the parking lot so I couldn’t see who was approaching me. I arrived first, terrified of what punishment I might suffer if I was late. Sir M was coming on the 405 from the opposite direction, and got caught in some traffic. I waited nervously, texting friends and family with double entendre greetings like “sorry I couldn’t call yesterday–I got tied up!” Suddenly I realized He was behind me, trying to read my texts over my shoulder.

We had a “getting to know you” discussion, and then he let me know what I’d be in for if I chose to train with him to be a submissive. The idea is that he would train me and help me look for a new “master,” at which time the new guy would take over. In the meantime I’d be under Sir M’s “protection” and any guy in the scene would have to approach me through him. Also since he pretty much knows everyone, if I see someone I’m interested in, I could ask him to approach the guy. It sounded like an old-fashioned and highly ritualized kinky method of courtship.

Sir M has three basic rules for me

Sir M explained his basic rules of protocol:

  1. When addressing him always begin or end each sentence with “Sir.”
  2. Always walk 1-2 steps behind him on his left side. I become his left hand, opening doors for him, holding things, etc.
  3. Then he looked me straight in the eye and told me his third rule:

  4. NEVER look him in the eye. Look down at his shoulder level.

I immediately snapped my gaze down from his. Talking to someone’s shoulder is a challenge when you’ve been making eye contact all your life. But in being forced to speak that way my character immediately changed–my voice got quieter, my speech less assertive. It did help put me in the submissive mindset.

The hardest thing was to keep from giggling when inserting “Sir” into every sentence. Jumping into this role-playing while at a family restaurant at lunchtime made me feel like a delusional gamer confusing World of Warcraft with real life.

“YOU THINK THAT’S FUNNY?,” he barked when I stifled my giggles into my hand and turned away.

He got up and grabbed my chin, smacked my cheek, and repeated, “YOU THINK THAT’S FUNNY?”

Stunned, I mumbled, “No Sir,” with my eyes fixed on the table. He walked off to the restroom.

My cheek stung and heart pounded. I got my first taste of how it would be in training with Sir M.

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.

Musical Imagery: Carved in stone?

January 7, 2010 Diary 1 Comment

We have all been there before… or at least, to God, I hope you have been.

You will be completely focused on a task at hand–working, playing, creating, fucking–whichever, and then it happens. Regardless of your level of concentration or amount of enjoyment, a song will come on, randomly, that brings you to your fucking knees. Whether it is the first darkly familiar strum of a guitar, a beautiful raspy voice delivering a resonating lyric, or a bridge and chorus that rattles your mind and heart, it just doesn’t matter.

Music affects us all in different ways, and the instant a song comes on that has served as a backdrop to something magical, something memorable, or something terrible, we are immediately brought right back. The time warp is immediate, and the memory will be as clear as a bell. And, depending on how life altering or monumental the soundtracked experience was, an entire scene will flash before your eyes, in your mind, and you will be rendered incapacitated.

There are many songs that are special to me. All for different reasons and different chapters, but I’m not about to get into each and every one. However, there is something interesting that very recently happened to me regarding this phenomenon, and I wanted to explore.

There is a particular song by Nine Inch Nails, which was played for me by my first girlfriend when her family was moving away, and we knew it was the end for us. Now, you must understand that I was infatuated with this girl through and through. My first love, and it was all encompassing.

We lied side by side on the floor of her room on her last night before the move. The lights completely off. Darkness blanketing us with only the sounds of our breathing to be heard against the cold silence. Then it began. The haunting piano notes mixed with the deep and disturbing bass chords, sending a feverish chill toward those areas reserved for the most exhausting of emotions.


I still recall the taste of your tears
Echoing your voice just like the ringing in my ears
My favorite dreams of you still wash ashore
Scraping through my head ’till I don’t want to sleep
Anymore.

These chilling lyrics are the start of Trent Reznor’s epic ode to insatiable desires called “Something I Can Never Have” If you know it… then you get it. If you don’t, stick to Britney Spears–it is much safer for you.

I haven’t thought back to that night in a very long time. As a matter of fact, the song had been dubbed completely off limits for a fair amount of time–once I decided I had enough of the soul tearing tears of a flickered first love. I would do my best to re-create the entire scene…darkness, quiet, the smell of her perfume… everything but the girl beside me. It got to the point that I no longer even needed the perfume. All I needed was the song, played at incredibly loud levels to vibrate my being, and it brought back everything I craved. Her beautiful scent would fill my entire existence.

Once it was declared dead to me, there were times its airing could not be prevented, and depending on the situation, shit would just get uncomfortable. Over the years, I heard it less and less, the impact of the song dwindled as my memories of the girl faded away. I still remember her, and I remember how she captivated me…but the effect of the song was eventually no longer there.

And this is where my questions lie. Are musical memories carved in stone for eternity? Or, like anything else, do they fade? Is it possible for a song to provoke different and new imagery from what it originally fueled?

I’m leaving those answers up to you, the readers. However, I will share one more little tidbit.  Many years after my first girlfriend played the NIN song for me, I met a woman for drinks while we were both spending some time in another city. Conversations were had prior to the meeting, which gave us an inkling of the chemical potential, but completely unaware of the eventual flammability of our mixtures. Long story short–we drank, we ate, we fucked, we caressed, and then we fucked some more and more. We connected on levels I won’t even begin to disclose for this entry, frankly, because you have not yet earned those types of details.

But, as we laid there, side by side, with the cityscape through the window, her dark hair contrasting against white sheets, I decided to make a new stone carving. I reached over to the iPhone dock, scrolled to the Ns, and pressed play. She exhaled and sent a dramatic plume of smoke into the air, as the haunting piano mixed with the deep and disturbing bass began to fill the room. She closed her eyes to take in the music like she just took a bite of pancakes and syrup on a Sunday morning. I closed my eyes as well, and took in the musical imagery. And at that moment, that incredibly memorable instance… I smiled at the beautiful scent of a new perfume, now filling my existence.

I <3 Being Owned

January 5, 2010 Daisy, Diary 1 Comment

I love being owned. I submit any time and any place to my lover. In return, I’m disciplined and banged hard with his hand throttling my neck, the way I like it. I was in service to S as his owned and collared pet. Nothing made me happier than to kneel down in front of him, forehead pressed against his taught stomach as he padlocked my collar around my neck. My buttocks stung as they rested on my heels, making me smile, because it reminded me of the bruises left by his riding crop and the power he had over me.

The Collar

The collar signifies that one is property, a possession like a car or house. I had many with S and they looked damn sexy on me, like I was born to be collared. My every-day collar was black leather with a big O ring in the front for easy access so I could be locked up to a cage or torture device. I had a sleep collar made from a delicate but menacing-looking wire cable with a heart-shaped lock. I also had a fancy collar for show, black patent leather with gold trim, purchased at a big leather convention in Texas. I was pampered and well taken care of, as a good pet should be.

The electrifying appeal of completely submitting to a lover as his possession is something I can’t explain rationally but it allows me to worship and respect my lover for being able to conquer me. There’s a certain amount of objectification that goes along with it, where I become a walking fucktoy for him. As a feminist, I know in theory this is all politically incorrect and wrong on many levels, but that just makes it hotter. As S’s pet I was perpetually sexually charged and satisfied in a way I’ve rarely experienced in my many years.

Backtrack

By now you are doubtless wondering what kind of person I am and how I got to this point. You may know me and not realize it. In daily life I’m strong-willed and assertive; I bend to no one. I am a self-made business owner and former corporate executive, head of family, role model, trend-setter, mentor, good neighbor. I was respectably married once to a man we’ll call C. My ex-husband, a deeply brooding repressed intellectual, was controlling in some ways but acquiescent in others. I became increasingly sexually frustrated as his chronic melancholy snuffed his libido and we drifted apart. Eventually the power balance shifted to me and I came to resent him for it. He seemed less manly if I could call the shots.

It played out in this way: I got swept up into a madly passionate affair with H, a young, hot, sexually evolved man with a beautiful cock and many lovers. He reawakened my sluttiness and taught me the divine ecstasy of complete surrender. He owned my pussy and dictated who and when I could fuck or if I could even look at another guy, including my husband. I’d never been happier. H would greet me at his door showered, shaved, cock hard, ready to toss me over his shoulder and slam me on the bed and fuck me mercilessly. I always screamed loud and hard with orgasms that seemed to last for hours and nearly rattle the windows out of their frames. I’d return home giddy, cheeks flushed.

After about a half year of that the passion died down a bit and reality made it difficult to continue at that level. I went back to being the dutiful but sexually-repressed wife, living for the next tryst with H. Always wanting to be dominated, again–in that way.

I met S online

S came into my life nearly a decade later, long after my divorce. We met through a “vanilla” dating site, not a place for kinky people. He wrote me a very sweet note and I read his profile. Divorced, devoted dad. Scientist. Avid cyclist. Good cook. Tattooed. And a BDSM enthusiast. Wow! I hit the jackpot!

He romanced me slowly. I encouraged him to write me explicit emails detailing his plans for me and seducing me with his intimate knowledge of the BDSM lifestyle. On our third date, he wore leather pants and a tight shiny black t-shirt that made him look cruelly handsome. It was tight enough that I could make out the silhouette of his nipple piercings underneath. He chomped on my neck all night in such a way as to leave no mark but make biting sensations that lingered for days.

With those lingering bites, my pussy throbbed and I ached to have him throw me against a wall and penetrate me deeply. He fully owned me. I became his pet.

Being a Pet

My duties as a pet were to give him love, companionship, and serve him sexually in whatever ways he might want (all within the bounds of prior negotiation). I could be caged, chained up by the collar, lovingly tortured. The collar was my uniform signifying that I was “on duty” to him. Wearing it transformed me into what I believe was the embodiment of femininity–soft, sweet and surrendering with no hard edges. Once it was locked on, I shifted gears from being the one in charge to happily relinquishing all control.

I wore the collar at home with him at all times and also at kink events, where S liked to show me off on a leash (which made me feel humiliated, thrilled and turned on all at once). A few times I nearly wore it to a suburban supermarket or Target because he was gone for the day and I couldn’t find the key. Or I’d just forgotten I was wearing it. The collar signified our private world.

When S grabbed me by the ring on the collar and dragged me to the bedroom, I went limp with pleasure.

Erotic Torture

Our dynamic was one of bondage and discipline (B&D), not hard core sadomasochism. Some members of the BDSM community follow stringent rules in a master-slave relationship but we scoffed at such conformity. B&D is less about pain and more about the dominant/submissive relationship. It’s about restraining the submissive in some way, either physically or emotionally, and then ‘training’ them to behave in certain ways (to paraphrase Jay Wiseman in SM 101). There is some light S&M involved, but we consider it erotic torture.

I am not a masochist. I crave intense sensations. I love the rush of getting into a nearly scalding hot bath or biting into Thai food laced with super-hot chilies. S explored harnessing these intense sensations, as there are different kinds of pain to distinguish and much of it has to do with context. Our “torture sessions” were about pushing boundaries and embracing more creative forms of eroticism. S was calculated and thoughtful when giving me erotic pain.

Pampering Me

Like any good master, S took good care of his possessions, including me. He often surprised me with creative gifts like fancy collars and nipple clamps. He ordered an electrical stimulation device made by a medical supply company and adhered the stimulating pads to the outside lips of my vagina to give me some loving torture. He loved fiddling with those controls like a mad scientist. With every whipping, there were interludes of tender caresses and kisses.

If I arrived at his house wearing panties I was punished. Of course, I loved the punishment so sometimes I would taunt him by wearing panties. Ouch! Our role-play sessions were our kinky foreplay, always culminating with hot sex. A spanking and whipping session made me my juices gush more than any tongue-to-clit action. Crazy love, that’s what it was for me. Cuffs, gags, ropes, nipple clamps were all instruments of pleasure. The brushing of his nipple piercings against mine with a clank of stainless steel, the flash of his pierced tongue as he fucked me–it made my nipples pop up even more erect and propelled me into intense shivering waves of ecstasy. My body continued to quake long after he had finished.

His Hobby is Building Dungeon Furniture

S prided himself in his woodwork. Sometimes the spanking horse was set up for me in his office when I came over. With my collar, hands and feet locked to it he could efficiently whack my behind with a paddle, cane, crop or his bare hand. Another advantage of his spanking horse design was that it positioned me at the right height for him to have his way with me as he pleased. He could stuff his cock in my mouth or walk around me and spank some more.

He called another homemade torture device of his own design “the trap.” It incorporated a set of medieval stocks with an upright v-shaped construction for the legs. He had this and many more devices, which he kept disassembled and hidden far in the back of his suburban garage.

My Screams Turned Him On

In me, S found an open-minded and willing subject for his experiments. I am quite vocal and he would get incredibly turned on by all the noises I made–the little whimpers, gasps, screams and louder cries. Part of my enjoyment was the glorious release of being able to scream and let everything go like that, whether I am getting tortured or fucked.

In being owned I found liberation because I could at last completely be myself. When I am in a safe place with him I could shut off the conscious mind and reach a realm of nirvana akin to Tantric sex. The spanking might hurt the physical body but it propels me into a mind space where I just want more. I’d arch my buttocks up to receive the strike of the riding crop sooner and focus all my being on its reverberations. I’d writhe around, digging the ropes deeper into the flesh of my wrists but I didn’t care. The rope marks look nice afterward.

And so I’d find myself there again, cleaning up his entire kitchen just for fun, wearing nothing but my collar, a little sheer apron and high heels. The act of service showed my devotion to him even if he never acknowledged it. And it made me wet. I never bother to ponder the question, “why does an intelligent, desirable woman like me revel in being owned like a slave?”

Why, indeed! To serve is the purest form of love.

Daisy TraLaLA (@DaisyTraLaLA) is a saucy Angelino kinkster who glides with ease between the worlds of tech, art, cuisine, electronica and dungeon parties. She’s currently unowned and uncollared. The image used in this post is from Daisy TralaLA.

An Observation about Libras

January 4, 2010 Arrow, Diary 2 Comments

I’ve gotten intimate with a few Libras and I’ve found a pattern.

Libras like to arouse a man via his nipples with their lips and teeth. And they do it fantastically well. Enough to get a guy really hard without even going down. Talk about seduction.

I love it and it drives me nuts. A friend told me it’s just better to arouse a guy by giving head. Yeah, sure, that works too, but the sensation is different. I’ve had other women try to arouse me via nipples, but it hasn’t worked — perhaps because they were not Libras.

So Libra women out there, if you don’t do it, do it. And if you’re not a Libra, please prove me wrong about your sign.

The Oral Festish Sub

December 28, 2009 Arrow, Diary 1 Comment

I’ve spoken about The Spanko already, but the Oral Fetish Sub, a 5’11″ beautiful Italian girl, homegrown in the Valley really brought out the Dom in me. The great thing about it was that it was never expected, talked about or anything. It just happened. It was natural.

She and I met on a website under the premise of friends with benefits. Before my first time with her, the only forewarning I had was that she liked to rip clothes off and fuck immediately, screw the foreplay until after (dessert before dinner).

Immediately, I knew this was rough and wild, lots of movement. For some reason in the middle of sex, I just blurted out, “do you do anal?” She said yeah and in seconds we were doing just that.

She liked it abusive. I found out by pushing the limit, seeing if she would retract or not. Chocking, check. Ass slapping, check.

Then came the true test. She liked oral later in sex and as she was going down on me on the bed, I moved her aside and laid her body down on her back with her head hanging off the side of the bed. I stood over and put my cock inside her throat, deep down, pushing it in and out, slapping her breasts, chocking her with my cock, making her gag. She loved it, I loved it. It was hot, period. Then we went into the shower, finished the night off.

In the mornings after I slept over, she loved to give head — it got her off when it got me off. Then I would drive home in morning rush hour traffic. Lucky for me, home and work was opposite of traffic, so I cruised with a smile on my face.

My Reality Check

December 23, 2009 Adora, Diary No Comments

I’m a risk taker. At times, I have been a daredevil. I’m no angel, and I am definitely a siren. As I get older, I wonder if should start being more cautious about the kinds of shenanigans I get myself into on a bi-weekly basis. Should I not have gotten involved with the most pungent playboy at my film studio? Should I not have moved back to Los Angeles on a whim and a precarious livelihood? Should I look before I leap? 

Well, ever since I was old enough (a toddler) to look people in the eyes, smile at them, and jump into their laps at the doctor’s office, looking before I leap hasn’t deterred me from going for it.

We are all here for a reason, if not many. If one of my purposes in this lifetime is to be a warrior for love and all the wild at heart, then I must. I must keep dating in Los Angeles. I must be open to different kinds of men–even reality TV stars.

As I’ve written in a previous post, I fell in love with a rock star not long ago. The experience was wonderful and horrible, and decadent and deadly, and surreal and like living the truest truth I’ve ever felt. If I could do it all over again I would–minus his public arrest and my weathering integrity.

You’re probably thinking, after such a disruptive dating debacle, why on earth would she ever want to get involved with someone in the entertainment industry again? 

I don’t go seeking out these men, I swear. It. Just. Happens. I’ve known “Reality” for a couple of months now. When we met some definite sparks flew, but I wrote him off as a cheesy talk show host, who was just another notch on Hollywood’s belt of shame. But then I had an actual conversation with him, and my cynical lamp post knees began to bend, at least half-way.

Back when I watched MTV, I used to think Reality was funny, charismatic, light and bright, and in better shape than Michelangelo’s David. After meeting him in person, I can verify he is all of those things.

At a recent holiday party, our eyes locked as soon as I walked in the door, and as the old adage goes, “it was on!” 

So can I remain open, or will I shut down, affronting the face of potential romance and fun? Can I date more than one person for once in my life like all the dating experts out there say single women should? Can I manage to not put Reality in a box and toss it to the sharks? Can I dismiss the fact that girls young enough to be my daughter stop him on the sidewalk to get his autograph?

I’ll let you know in early 2010. 

The Sex Site Girl

December 14, 2009 Arrow, Diary No Comments

I only met one person when I tried out the notorious Adult Friend Finder. If you’re not a couple or a “Big black cock,” chances of meeting someone is tough. The naughty site, after all, is all about playing out fantasies. And here, women are the ones who call the shots.

One of them decided to meet me.

I was 24, she was 18. At that point in my life, I had had a lot of good sex, but I hadn’t had crazy sex until then. Not bad crazy, but as I look back on it, or in the moment, it is crazy good in a sort of funny way.

We were on the phone one night talking and she decided to meet right then — she was going to drive to my apartment from Culver City. She said there would no sex, just hanging out and I said that was fine. Of course, you know that never happens. We made out, I gave her head and then eventually, she goes, “I’m going to break my rule.”

She looked like Franka Potente from The Bourne Identity. Kind of punky, but with a baby face. That was hot — not to mention she had breasts worthy of magazine spreads.

We got naked, put the safe sex on and it was time. She wanted to be on top, so she could control the slow dance. The moment it all began, it was like she went on drugs and she started saying things she couldn’t remember. The first words after a moan: “It’s like you and me were meant to be inside each other.”

Dead serious. It was said in such a I’m-on-acid-and-live-in-the-1960s tone. I almost bust out laughing, but that wouldn’t be appropriate with someone I just was getting to know.

Over our summer of sex before she moved up to San Francisco, I gathered a good amount of quotes she would claim not remember saying. My favorite was when we, in pitch darkness, were going at it slowly, very passionately: “I love you,” she moaned, then a moment later, as she moved my body with all her force making me hit my head on the bed post, “I don’t love you, I don’t love you, I don’t love you.”

I remember a scene very much like this from a Red Shoe Diary episode on Showtime. The sex continued for a long time that night, became rougher, kinkier, but she said she never remembered saying and doing any of that.

The last time I saw her before she moved up north, we did not have sex. We made applesauce together and ate it.

The Spanko

December 7, 2009 Arrow, Diary 1 Comment

I met a Valley girl on Match. When I say like-OMG-Valley, I’m talking Arleta, pretty hardcore, leave the Valley accent to Encino and West Valley Jewish girls.

Anyway, our first date (we met once at a mall in public beforehand), I come to pick her up and she lives with dad. I walk up to the address given, see two men in the garage. I call out asking if this was her home and he asked if I was picking her up on a date. I said yes. He looked at the ground shook his head and grabbed a wooden baseball bat and started walking towards me — fast.

He saw my deer-in-the-headlights moment and started cracking up. I laughed a sigh of relief. Soon enough, she and I are on our way down to a choreographed jazz dance show in Leimart Park. I took the whitest girl ever (who would refer to Arabs as A-Rabs, ugh) to a very black community.

Once back at her place later that night, dad’s asleep, we start fooling around. Soon I get uncomfortable, she’s just lying there like a dead fish, I didn’t know what to do, it was weird.

Later, talking over IM, I find out she’s pretty submissive and this was my first true sub date. Actually, she was the spank-me sub kind. Hrmmm, I’ve never done that. And she was a virgin, too — like she wasn’t interested in sex. Spanking made her cum. So I tried and failed miserably. I was too light, then too hard. She said using a hair brush works. She wanted me to make her cry and I was all very new to this (young 20s and she was 19).

In the end, it didn’t work out after a bunch frustrating make out sessions that showcased my lack of apparent spanking skills.

Two years later, I had a moment of spanking inspiration, so I called her up, said “come over.” She did, we got naked, I bent her over my lap and spanked. I was a little better, but I don’t think I can force myself to sit there and spank someone sexually like you see in shots from the 1950s.

Don’t get me wrong, a good spank during sex in the moment when appropriate is awesome. But the pre-planned spank session is just not in me. I can be extremely dom with subs, but in a sexual in bed nature, not on the chair with no sex in sight.

It stings a little. She’s a classic next door neighbor brunette, slim, bountiful breasts, great lips, especially when she went down that one time — quite the tease.

I look back and am thankful someone was there to break my erotic spanking virginity. Now I know I don’t need to go back.

I’ll keep my spanking for “those moments,” thanks very much.

Newsflash: Yes, Fucking Someone Else in Front of Me is Insulting

December 2, 2009 Adora, Diary No Comments

“Didn’t you just fuck him last week?” asks my friend Tanya, as the two of us watch the last guy I had dinner with walk into a film industry wedding reception with a tall blonde, who was clearly his date. 

“Why yes.  Yes, I did.”

“The two of you have been spending a lot of time together.  Did he tell you he was bringing someone to the reception?”

“No.”

“Have you talked to him since he’s been back in town.”

“Yes.”

“Don’t you think he should have told you?” 

“Yes.”

Suddenly, my friend Kathleen runs up behind me and whispers anxiously in my ear.

“What the hell is Lucas doing?  Did you two have a falling out of some sort?”

“No, not that I’m aware of.  Last time we saw each other, we were having pancake breakfast at my favorite Los Feliz diner.”

“So what’s the deal with the two of you?” asks Tanya.

“The deal is over, apparently.”

“No, I mean did you like him?”

“We were just getting to know each other,” I reply before taking an extended swig of my cocktail.  “I wasn’t planning on anything developing other than friendship at first, but then it did.”

Our male confidante Patrick approaches us.

“Who’s the chic posing with Lucas?” he asks.

(Silence and frozen faces)

“Ah shit, don’t tell me one of you is sleeping with him,” Patrick says disapprovingly.

I look down at the ground.

“Jesus Adora, you know better than that,” he scolds.

“I just starting working at the studio a month ago, Patrick,” I say, starting to get annoyed.  “I didn’t know anything about him other than that I was starting to enjoy his company.”

Patrick shakes his head in disappointment.

“What is it with you women getting your hopes and expectations up over guys like Lucas?  Women are totally disposable to him.  That’s just how the dude functions. You should’ve known he just wanted a taste of the new girl on campus.”

Aggravation begins to flood through my veins.

“My hopes and expectations?!  My hopes were not to get seriously involved with a guy I just met a month ago, and my expectations were not to be exclusive after only a few weeks.  My expectations are to always be treated with respect, and he just slapped me in the face with the fact that he has none for me.”

I storm away from the group and head in Lucas’ direction.”

Tanya and Kathleen run after me.

“Adora, don’t do be upset,” Kathleen pleads.  “It’s not you.  This is just how Lucas is.”  

                                                                                                  ***

You’re probably all wondering what happened next.  Well, I asked Lucas why he didn’t let me know he was bringing a date to the reception.  He stared at me blankly, said he didn’t know why it even mattered, and that there was no reason for me to feel awkward because there was nothing between us.

                                                                                                   ***

We’re adults living in Los Angeles.  Casually dating more than one person at a time is completely socially acceptable behavior.  Losing interest in someone you’re seeing and letting that person know, so as to not lead him/her on is socially responsible behavior.  Showing someone that you’re no longer interested in him/her a week after you fuck him/her by bringing another man/woman to a social function is just plain mean.

There may be a number of sophisticated psychological reasons behind why people behave the way they do when it comes to dating and relationships.  Maybe they’re tortured individuals.  Maybe they fear rejection.  Maybe they’d rather go through men/women like tissues than ever risk breaking open because they can’t stand the thought of being happy.  Maybe they’re just unable to be sexually satiated by one person at a time.  However, giving someone a free pass to perpetuate his/her bad habits because that’s just the way he/she is isn’t something I can do. That’s just the way I am.

Lucas left me a voice message two days after the wedding.  I guess he grew a conscious over night.

“I hope I didn’t hurt your feelings or insult you in any way,” he said.

 

Dear Lucas,

Of course, you hurt my feelings, and of course, you insulted me.  I’m so happy I helped you get a taste of the new girl on campus.

-Adora

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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...