clit-think

Papal Trouble

2008-12-30T12:19:00.000-08:00

'Tis the season to be jolly. Not just about the sheer bliss of custard-drenched banana cake but more importantly about my pre-adolescent intellectual escape from shame-drenched Catholicism. I got to spend my holidays celebrating love, family, friends, giving, gingerbread, Christmas trees and lights rather than crusading on behalf of the gender binary and patriarchy. Hallelujah!

By coincidence, I just so happened to be re-reading Gender Trouble when the Pope committed his offending pontification. I didn't spot anything as threatening as rainforest destruction in the book. Except, well, maybe the pages themselves which I guess were made from trees which may or may not have been from a rainforest somewhere; mea culpa, hail mary and all that but since I'm a hellbound atheist now, I'll save any actual flagellation for my next visit to Subversion and just try to recycle better til then.

None of us have much voice when it comes to disagreeing with the world's biggest cult, of course. And we can't all write like Judith Butler. But in the privacy of my home, I do get to celebrate the transliciousness of my sexy partner and enjoy hir beauty. And perverted, damning, gloriously queer gender-fucked fucking. Which is more than the Pontiffa ever gets to do, despite prancing around hir city of men in designer ruby red Prada shoes and sequined dresses.

So who looks like a bigger, scarier threat to the world: Rosadita or Benedict XVI ?

Hint: the pretty one isn't responsible for blocking progressive health legislation while South American teenage rape victims bleed to death from botched black market abortions.

The photograph of Pope Benedict XVI was produced by Agência Brasil, a public Brazilian news agency. Their website states: "O conteúdo deste site é publicado sob a licença Creative Commons Atribuição 2.5 Brasil" (The content of this website is published under the Creative Commons License Attribution 2.5 Brazil. The photo was downloaded from Wikipedia: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:BentoXVI-30-10052007.jpg

Dildos of Antiquity

2008-08-11T17:01:00.000-07:00

I visited the Ashmolean Museum and I have to say, forget Guy Fawke's lantern and double-sided mummy portraits. Far more thrilling for anyone as sex-enthused and juvenile as I am were the DILDOS I found in the Ancient Egyptian section:

Wooden ones. Think about that for a moment. Really. Then imagine putting one of those in your cunt/ass. And then join me in thanking Pasta that we live in the age of silicone and will probably never experience genital splinters.

Apparently, the Ancient Egyptians weren't the first to use them. According to Wikipedia "The world's oldest known dildo is a siltstone 20-centimeter phallus from the Upper Palaeolithic period 30,000 years ago that was found in Hohle Fels Cave near Ulm, Germany."

Interesting. As is the last name of the woman who donated them (heehee):

Butt Plug Condom Collage

2008-07-29T18:01:00.000-07:00

More sex toy art. Hehe. Cool, huh?

I actually paused a hot threesome to take this photo because the combination of this glowing butt plug with the coloured condom was too gorgeous not to record and share with others. I also felt the condom and plug would both be more photogenic before fulfilling their destinies as instruments of sodomy.

Cyber sofas aren't quite as comfy

2008-07-21T05:44:00.000-07:00

I love CCK. Hot beverages, comfy chairs and a fetish-friendly ambience coalesce to make it the spot to meet your new fuck buddy; chat with a friend; read a cozy novel; casually chill in your latest kinky costume; or grope your Daddy. It's the only fetish space I've found that caters to non-drinking kinky geeks like me who prefer sugar to booze and conversing to yelling over loud club music. It's also ideal for those with my Cinderella complex: I prefer fetish nights that end before midnight because getting home at 5 or 6am full of pent up horniness and then trying to shag is kind of torturous, in a bad way.

But I guess all good things must come to an end. CCK is closing and I am in mourning. It isn't clear whether it will actually re-open in a new location. Their online newsletter announced that they will continue trading as long as they can...and, rather confusingly, added:

Whether or not Coffee, Cake & Kink comes back as a social space depends largely on the success of the online shop, and how well we are able to demonstrate that the loss of the premises has not diminished your faith in us. So far you have voted with your feet, now you can vote with your mouse! With every order placed online, a deposit for new premises builds up and our customers show that they want us back.

Am I the only one to have a mixed reaction to this? We have to earn back CCK and fund its re-opening by shopping? Surely its re-opening is just based on economic viability... determined from its success (or not) on Endell Street; I already voted with my feet on that count, by going to CCK every time I came to London. I happily paid slightly more than I ordinarily would for tea, coffee and cake in order to support its existence, which seemed well worth it for such a special queer space. But voting with my mouse strikes me as another story. CCK's online shop, swish as it is, doesn't offer a unique space or anything else I actually need and is mostly out of my pay bracket. Pressure to shop there to "demonstrate" my desire for CCK's return seems to blur the line a bit between loyal custom and charity. Although Alana and Sonja, who own CCK, are wonderful and I absolutely want them to succeed, they aren't a charity.

Okay, that said: the online shop really does have some nice items and I do hope it succeeds on its own merits. You, dear readers, should shop there!!! Hehe. And feel free to buy me stuff too. Maybe my bitter criticism is simply born of my loss of cake, tea, and sofas compounded by my inability to afford the Nexus Vibro as sweet consolation!

What I really really wish CCK would do is offer their services on the fetish scene. I think CCK corners at Torture Garden, Subversion, Fetish Fairs, etc. would be fantastic and hugely welcome. I know I could certainly use a good cup of coffee by 4 am; dozey Domming is positively dangerous. And cake would surely be gobbled down by the crowds after all that prancing, dancing, beating and writhing. I would happily loosen my corset for a slice of the hot fudge chocolate in particular. And who could resist collapsing on a nice soft sofa after a long, hard spanking?!

This gangbang is so awkward

2008-07-15T18:59:00.000-07:00

Anything new and kinky generally starts in my head as a masturbation fantasy. Then it occurs to me I could do it, if I really wanted to. I mention it to Stud/Rosita. We discuss. Agree. Arrange. Implement. And then my brain's take on the event usually determines how fun it really is.

There's a kind of Zen to enjoying kink. Well, I find Zen imperative to enjoying all aspects of life: you'd never guess it from this blog, but zazen is how I (try to) train my brain to shut up sometimes so that I can be present and actually experience the moments of my little life. Sometimes I even succeed.

Is that harder to do when it comes to sex? I definitely used to detach and mentally check out when I was younger. I assumed it was to do with my history of abuse and gradually overcame it as I overcame the feelings of shame that surrounded my sexuality. Now, I often cum together with Stud, feeling intensely present and aware without any conscious effort.

But there's something about orgies that combines social functioning with sexual functioning in a particularly unsettling "Ultra Zen Challenge" kind of way which I suspect many of us experience. Can I remain congruent, present, truly myself, aware in the moment? Can I get my brain to remain unruffled or will I dwell on my damn ass pimple right as the hot guy gets ready to rim me?

So beware and take it from me, the evangelical Buddhist: hours of meditation are well worth it. Not merely to live your life more fully, escape suffering, or become a Bodhisattva but to ensure that you never end up in a gangbang with Jennifer Aniston feeling like this.

Sex Addiction: The Pass Around Girl

2008-06-30T10:21:00.000-07:00

I was sent this from BMEzine: an interview with Michelle, a sex addict with verbally explicit tattoos. I find their defiance refreshing and initially saw them as unapalogetic expressions of self-acceptance, but it seems from the interview that they are either a form of self-harm, constructive coping, escapism, shame or pride (perhaps all).

The pain that motivated them is evident and now I feel guilty about having celebrated them as Slut-Pride Art. On the other hand, they do seem to have effectively drawn attention to two important points Michelle tries to get across in the interview:

(a) “sex addiction”–unlike mere slutdom—has serious, life-altering negative consequences

(b) women can be sex addicts too, but this is widely overlooked; there are consequently fewer facilities for helping them and they are not taken seriously

An ongoing bout of misanthropism leaves me pessimistic about the extent to which Michelle’s messages will actually be attended to: because she’s hot and her problem titillates men, she seems more likely to be objectified and debated than heard.

I felt cheered by her assertion of her feminist right to do what she wishes with her body and definitely admire her guts and forthrightness. I also really feel for her and everything she has gone through because of her addiction: losing every job she has had, inflicting domestic violence, ruining her marriage, ending up in mental institutions, being unable to get through a day without having sex, cheating on her wife. Hopefully, people like Michelle speaking out will raise awareness of how serious sex addiction is; so many people use the term casually and what is actually means is rarely discussed.

Actually, that ignorance is no doubt partly to blame for the general pathologising of enthusiastic female lust and sluttiness. In my pre-Stud single sluthood days, I often heard I must be a sex addict and/or suffering from low self-esteem; more recently, I’ve been asked to consider “getting help” because I’m in an open relationship. Surely I realise that promiscuity is unfulfilling?

Promiscuity is only unfulfilling if you expect it to give you self-esteem, happiness, intimacy, love (or Love), romance, meaning, security, spiritual awakenings etc. If, on the other hand, you expect it to give you fun, fresh experiences, new friendships, physical pleasure and a giggle—then it’s absolutely effective and fulfilling. And certainly beats a wank hands down (hehe).

Addiction involves loss of control, loss of judgment, the inability to make safe decisions and the damaging consequences that ensue. I identified with what Michelle said as an addict in recovery from drug addiction, but not as a slut. I’ve never felt a loss of control over my sexuality. I don't hurt others, lie, steal, miss work. Unlike getting high, sex is healthy and my enjoyment is based on approaching it responsibly and taking care of myself.

All long-winded intellectualising aside, I really enjoy Michelle's tattoos. Maybe it’s time I get a new, more exciting one? Being such a clean living mujer, I'm really rather at risk of blandness.

Faster, faster...harder, harder

2008-06-20T14:16:00.000-07:00

I'm not sure why, I posted this and must have accidentally taken it down again. Sorry... am out of practice with this blogging thing, clearly.

So yeah, those aren't actually my running shoes and I would never run to a sub slut; s/he can come running (or crawling) to me. Maybe Stud was holding up a Nutrageous bar when this photo was taken.But I have become nearly as enthusiastic and obsessive about running as I am about sex. I read an extract in the Guardian from Murakami’s latest book What I Talk About When I Talk About Running (due out in August) which inspired me to try blogging a bit again.

My favourite bit:

As I'm jogging along the Charles river, girls who look to be new Harvard freshmen keep on passing me. Most of these girls are small, slim, have on maroon Harvard-logo outfits, blond hair in a ponytail, and brand new iPods, and they run like the wind. You can definitely feel a sort of aggressive challenge emanating from them. They seem to be used to passing people, and probably not used to being passed. They all look so bright, so healthy, attractive and serious, brimming with self-confidence. With their long strides and strong, sharp kicks, it's easy to see that they're typical mid-distance runners, unsuited for long-distance running. They're more mentally cut out for brief runs at high speed.

Compared with them I'm pretty used to losing. There are plenty of things in this world that are way beyond me, plenty of opponents I can never beat. Not to brag, but these girls probably don't know as much as I do about pain.

Yep, it's true. I'll try paraphrasing: "When I’m jogging along the Thames river, girls who look to be new Oxford freshmen keep on passing me; I’m not blond, don’t run with strong, sharp kicks and compared to them I’m pretty used to losing; there are plenty of things in this world that are way beyond me; these girls probably don’t know as much as I do about pain, sex or how to most effectively combine these." They irritate me in their Barbie-ness. I like thinking they kind of irritate Murakami too. And it's comforting that he feels 'less than' in some way at times (in spite of his literary divinity) and then legitimises my mental coping tactic of feeling taking refuge and somehow gaining strength from all that I have been through. I do feel bummed, on gloomy self-pity days, that there are no prizes and ribbons for surviving painful experiences intact. Clearly that's far more difficult than any essay or race?

ANYways, the current weather means I’ve been scampering about in short-short running shorts. Lyrca: always so sexy. Well, I hope I look kind of foxy from behind, pony-tail a-swishing and showing more leg than I ever do otherwise (except in slutty-school-girl skirts at Subversion or TG).

But back to pain: my front-view is anti-sex, with a tomato (on the vine) face and boob-crusher bra. I sweat rather than glow and sometimes even pant-grunt (more Monica Seles than Jenna Jamison). All of which would be fine in the privacy of my own home. Or even on the deserted cross-country trails I escape onto for long runs, only startling the occasional dog-walking pensioner. But some of my running is sadly done hamster-style at the gym.

This appears to be where the freakishly flawless folk spend their time: women with gravity-defying ski-jump boobs, winter tans, and blemishless bouncy butts. I'd love to lick the barely-legal boyz with lean, glistening muscles, clearly capable of marathon fucking.

It's damn hard to flirt successfully drenched in non-sex-induced sweat and a red face, but my obstinant gym will not put a treadmill in a corner facing the wall so that only my behind is on display. So a couple times a week, I get to feel the sweet sting of shame each time another tasty morsel starts checking me out, sees my panting face and registers alarm rather than lust, attempting to recoil as far as anyone can on a stationary machine. That said, I’m pretty sure there’s one brave brunette who wants to learn more. Kinky girl, she's no doubt domme despite her perkiness.

Having already scared the vanilla gymsters, I add on the agony of a tenth mile sprint...because not to brag or anything, but I do sometimes like a bit of extra pain. Of course, by that logic really fast distance runners must all be subs. But their bottoms are generally too scrawny to be worth spanking. Doh, now I'm just rambling stupidly. Maybe all this gratuitous physical activity is turning me into a jock.

Gourmet Sluttery

2008-02-07T14:24:00.000-08:00

There’s lots of confusion about what it means to be a slut. Take, for example, the ubiquitous myth that women dressed like tramps are ‘asking for' or provoking rape by confusing men with their appearance of sexual availability. A recent UK poll by Amnesty International found that a third of British adults are stupid or ignorant enough to believe that women are 'partially responsible' for being raped if they were flirtatious.

The underlying assumption is that a woman who visually declares her sexual desire must desire anyone. That’s quite a leap of logic! Yet I've heard it expressed by both men and women. It's pretty common. And dangerous. Every woman, however slutty or sexually available, retains her right to choose which person to fuck…and how, when, where etc. Sad that it even needs to be said!Which brings us to a related problem: is having low standards a definitive element of sluthood? Note the lack of any such implication in the male term ‘stud.’ Grrr.

Here's the pickle: I'm awfully picky and awfully promiscuous. But we lack a vocabulary for distinguishing between the sexual versions of gluttons and foodies. I suggest nymphomaniacs (gluttons) and sluts (foodies). And I’m pretty squarely in the latter category. I'd rather eat than have a lame fuck and I'd rather be fucking than eating junk. All in all, I'd always rather find something better to do than settle for mediocrity in any sphere of pleasure.

As I see it, I have a limited number of meals and fucks left in my short life. Why waste precious moments on sub-optimal experiences? I reserve my limited stomach and cunt space for quality consumption! If only there were a Harrod's Stud Court too! Still. The people and foods that make me salivate may be exceedingly rare, but they are worth finding and savouring wholeheartedly.

Speaking of the gourmet and delectable—I tried a new delicacy a couple of weeks ago at an unexpected ten-hour sexual banquet with Stud and a friend.

J. came dressed in a luscious dark grey suit and thick white cotton shirt (with cufflinks, hehe); while presentation isn’t as critical as taste, his did whet my appetite. I’ll spare you the blow by blow (with two cocks, there are always plenty); suffice to say, the threesome was made rather spectacular by intimacy. We found tenderness went awfully well with horny abandon and break for tofu peanut satay.

We ended the evening/marathon with J. giving us a taste of Japanese rope bondage. It proved a rather delicious (not to mention aesthetically pleasing) dessert. Being tied up usually triggers flashbacks for me, but J. did it without actually restraining me. His ropes were slippery, silky nylon, snaking across my skin to form a gradually tightening web. As I submitted to each knot, I slid steadily into psychological capitulation, until I found myself surprisingly bound—I could move freely, but the unyielding ropes created a kind of physical and emotional embrace, squeezing my body each time I inhaled.

So would I like seconds!? Yes, please.

Post-Holiday Proselityzing

2008-01-12T14:33:00.000-08:00

My base materialist self is quite a fan of Christmas. Don’t get me wrong—I would never ask someone to wear a crown of thorns and die on a cross just so that I could get days off work, showers of presents, lebkuchen, and mega-sales. But since Jesus went and did it anyhow, the least I can do is revel in the bounty.

Watch me revel! Here’s my choice pick from this year’s loot: my new Agent Provocateur panties (merci beaucoup, Monsieur).

Of course, what my inner glutton prefers to ignore is that Christmas is essentially about those who already have a lot giving and getting more while the poor stay poor. The world’s resources are limited (a giant “oops” for capitalism) and our unsustainable first world lifestyles use 3-5 times our share of those resources. Yet corporations and the advertising industry are like cheerleading squads for lemmings, urging us to jump off the cliff of consumption.

Sadly, I’m as pathetically susceptible to self-centred greed as anyone else: I may cycle, recycle and eat vegan but I also shop, travel by air and receive presents with much delighted hand clapping and sometimes even a shag. I really want to hit the after-Christmas sales! I love prancing around (and cumming) in all the lovely things my lovers buy me. Damn me, I want to celebrate Christianity's single silver lining with unadulterated glee. So I’m part of the problem. And, like many of you, I’ve been racking my brains for a way to exorcise my guilt while still getting my kicks.

A recent encounter inspired what I think might just be the solution: I need a beautiful Domme to tie me up and whip me with the pain of global realities, stuff my overpriced designer lingerie into my mouth and review the nitty-gritty details of life as experienced by the disenfranchised women of India and China who made the above mentioned lingerie. That would certainly be more painful and sting more deeply than any cane? I bet if she was hot, I’d still cum. And that is seriously wrong.

Epilogue and Fuck Lists

2007-12-04T20:05:00.000-08:00

Here’s a quick epilogue for my previous post/rant:

This Be The Verse
They fuck you up, your mum and dad,
They may not mean to, but they do.
They fill you with the faults they had
And add some extra, just for you.

But they were fucked up in their turn
By fools in old-style hats and coats,
Who half the time were soppy-stern
And half at one another’s throats.

Man hands on misery to man.
It deepens like a coastal shelf.
Get out as early as you can,
And don’t have any kids yourself.

Extreme pessimism! As a life-loving hedonistic optimist, I’m not sure why I love Larkin so much. Maybe because his sarcastic bluntness and brutal bitterness are refreshingly unadorned and a good antidote to the saccharine crap we’re swamped with through popular media.

Larkin is especially good when I’m having a misanthropic episode—he helps me snap out of my snivelling. And he is on my Celebrity Fuck List. Well, he’s on my Impossible Celebrity Fuck List at any rate; I have the rather unfortunate habit of falling in lust with dead people. My top five are:

Richard P. Feynman enthusiastic, joyous, funny, funky, free-thinking…and a slut like me. Not to mention cute, from the pics I’ve seen of him when he was young. I wanked over his memoires…in spite of his accent.

J.S.—well duh. What a hot hunk of brain.

Richard Dawkins

—Okay, he’s not actually dead and in fact lives just down the road. But hot Young Dawkins in his fuckable prime is. So close, and yet so far! Which is a total bummer because he was pretty cute. Quirky eyebrows and crooked smile, like Feynman. Love those. Sigh.

Emily Dickinson

Oooh, the repression! The turbulent storms raging beneath calm clipped riddles! The wry humour! I’m pretty sure she was the kind who wandered about her garden with no panties on.

Alan Turing

Gay + dead = double whammy. Utterly impossible. But he presses so many of my buttons!!! Supreme geek, socially awkward, shy yet outspoken, genius, reserved, repressed, unconventional… and at least a little horny (tragically for him…which makes me so sad I sometimes come close to crying when I read about him).

I also have another Fuck List reserved for those pedestal’d people who are still breathing:

Ben Goldacre

‘Bad Science’ gets me so hot and excited. Plus, he is really cute with his almost-jewfro hair. Tragically for me, there is a Mrs. Bad Science (I am assuming they’re in a closed relationship…while clinging to hope that they’re not).

I got so wet in her lectures!

I got so wet in his lectures!

she was so fresh-faced and succulent, I am tempted to hunt her down and teach her a whole new kind of methodology (oh yes, I do know where she did her post-docs and now lectures…)

Most of my crushes are on brilliant, original scientists whose lectures I have attended. I long for the day when someone makes Academic Porn for people like me. Stud has dubbed my ‘serious’ vibrator (the non-sparkly one shaped like a cock rather than a dinosaur) ‘Professor’ in reference to my most common fantasies.

So really, what am I doing reading Larkin?

I gotta forget Mothila and go back to the Feynman Lectures so I can give Stud a warm, wet welcome when he gets back from work.

¹ Brain size is only roughly correlated with intelligence and the prefrontal cortex isn't the whole story. If you're truly that geeky: Kane et al. (2002) Psychol. Bull. 9, 637-671