Disagree with me all you want, but don't fucking argue with me. Because I'm right and so are you.
No. You can stop them. You can pop their eyes out with your thumbs. It takes 11 pounds per square inch to detach an ear and only three for their balls. The throat is constructed such that you can actually wrap your fingers around a trachea if you're determined enough and squeeze for all your worth. You have teeth, use them. Ever had your nose broken? It's distracting as hell, use your head to do it if he has your hands. Bite his tongue off. Get angry. Get violent. Give him what he's trying to give you. Remember that you are an animal with teeth and claws and a great deal more strength in your muscles than you realize so use it. Survive.
And if you can't stop him? For the sake of not letting him do it again, GO TO THE FUCKING COPS while you're still in possession of DNA evidence. No possible social stigma is worth another woman going through what you went through so don't let it happen.
So now it's May. Yay May.
That means April is over. And while no one should ever for a minute forget about the violence that is such a common part of women's lives, I can stop blogging about it now.
Thank you all for reading. Thank you all for donating. Thank you RAINN and Carly and the Grassroots Blogger Book Marketing Campaign for your worthy efforts. I hope the goal was reached and we can continue to fight the good fight.
My LJ is now going back to lock down. I'm not a people person see, and I've been posting on an out of town friends only filter for awhile. I only came out to do this RAINN thing and now I'm going back. This is not to say that I'll never post publicly again. I may well do so. I may post funny ranty shit publicly and everything else on the filter. But for the time being I'm off to Crowlandia once again where it's nice and quiet.
Goodnight everybody. Thanks for comin' out.
I can't find any news of it though. Maybe there was no body. All I know is gunshots and fireworks don't sound the same and nobody was setting off fireworks around midnight to one last night no more than two blocks away from my house. Sweet.
I thought I'd moved into a less sketchy neighborhood.
Hah! Foolish mortal.
For those of you already acquainted with this rant, feel free to pass it by. But since there are about three thousand new faces around these days, I thought it would be ok to repost this sucker.
"What's with all the 'how to's' Crow? D'ya think we don't know how to fuck?" Well I'll tell you. While I'm sure everyone who reads *my* LJ is a god/dess in the sack, I don't know anyone who doesn't have a fistful of horror stories about lousy sex, oral, anal, het, queer, et cetera. So there is a higher percentage of sexual morons out there than not. Hence, just in case anyone knows someone like that and wants to give them a hint without the onerous duty of being the bad guy, you can blame it on me. Because I don't know you and I don't care. Cheers!
A Guide To Basic Sodomy:
1) The Golden Brown Rule
Ok, the first thing to remember before you slip it in the back door is what? ASK FIRST. Anal is not one of those wacky surprises you want to spring on your partner. "Surprise! It's a puppy!" and "Surprise! It's my dick in your ass!" are going to be met with very different reactions.
Communicating your intentions is absolutely the first thing you need to do before doing anything that may cause your partner pain or push their boundaries. Not everyone is comfortable even considering taking it in the ass much less allowing you to actually do it. Some people have tried it and are done now thanks. So talking about it first is very important if you don't want a surprise head wound.
2) Virgin Bum
Many ladies and gents enjoy a nice rousing chorus of buttsecks. But there's a first time for everyone and you should go about taking the rear cherry carefully. Any virgin, fore or hind, will be a bit nervous about the whole thing, so an extra long bit of foreplay is recommended. You may want to pave the road before the magic night by getting your partner used to fingers or toys in there. The anus is loaded with nerve endings that can do truly amazing things for a person when manipulated correctly. So tongues (after a shower!), fingers and bum appropriate toys are a great idea for starters.
NOTE: I mean toys. Butt plugs, vibrators, what have you. NOT fruit, household items or anything made of glass (I mean glass glass, not pyrex sex toys). Please let it never be said that one of my rants sent anyone to the ER with a light bulb, the car keys or little Jimmy's hamster lodged in their colon.
When the time comes, start with fingers or your favorite toy. Lots and lots of lube is essential. A water based lube is good, but will need to be reapplied often. Best go with silicone. It's condom safe and lasts longer. Your LPS (local porn store) will have what you need. Start slowly, giving your partner plenty of time to get used to the sensation. There will be discomfort, and possibly pain. You should make sure your partner knows to communicate with you about their level of discomfort and you should take any directions they give and comply immediately.
Much like taking the more usual cherry, once the initial pain and strangeness is over, you can proceed CAREFULLY. The ass is more delicate than the pussy. Those tissues were never meant to deal with what anal requires of them so caution is good. Go slowly, watch your depth, and listen to your partner at all times. And warn them when you get close, as many men tend to speed up their movement the closer they get to climax and your partner may want you to finish in some other place the first time.
3) "Put It In Mah Fuckin' Booty!"
Since nobody is psychic, at some point you will have to have a conversation with your partner expressing your desire to either put it, or have it put, in the pooper. Look, there is no Billy D way to do this. You can't be smooth about sodomy (well I can't, more power to those who can). So I suggest you get the fuck over it. Don't blush, don't be shy. Own your desire to take it in the butt or put it in the butt and speak frankly to your partner about it. Use grown up words and don't pussyfoot around the issue with idiotic euphemisms and analogies. There is nothing wrong with wanting to have anal sex. Lots of people enjoy it every day. If your partner treats you differently for wanting to have it they are a douchebag and you should leave them in the uptight right wing joyless hell hole they came from. That said, you should also not get on your partners case if they don't want to try it. Everybody has their limits and preferences and if you prefer someone willing to let you stick your dick in their pooper or vice versa, you should go find them and not guilt trip someone who isn't interested in your back door love.
4)Icky! Poo!
All the joys of guiltless sexual expression aside, the ass is where poo is. Poo is dirty. Poo is full of bacteria. Just ask people in third world countries who regularly have dysentery with breakfast. So if you're gonna play with the place where poo is, you should follow some simple rules to ensure you don't end up in the ER with another condition of the colon entirely.
We had the no double dipping discussion already. That goes for yer dick too. The pussy/mouth to ass road is one way. You can start in the pussy/mouth and move to the ass but NOT THE OTHER WAY AROUND. Fingers, peckers and toys don't go from da butt to anywhere but da sink. Unless you want to wrap everything in latex of course (the dick goes without saying because we're all smart adults who do the safety dance, but the other stuff can be wrapped too). Even then I tend to urge an extra bit of caution when there is poo involved, but you can be your own judge on that.
5) The Reach Around
What are your hands doing while you're plowing the back field? What *should* they be doing? While some people get off without any other stimulation, most don't, so if you are not busy with a hand job you are not allowing your partner to have as much fun as you are. That is lame. Learn to multi task you selfish bastards.
So other than these few points, buttsecks is much like the other kind of sex. I may be forgetting something so feel free to add to this in any way you feel is needed. I don't care for anal and have only personally engaged in it enough to determine that I don't like it, so it is very possible that I'm leaving things out. Also, not being the owner of a prostate I am at a physical disadvantage when it comes to the finer points. Either way, it should be a comprehensive enough primer to get the novice started. If any of those even read this stuff. I assume most of my readership to be totally filthy, but there are always those lurkers in Weblandia who might be too shy to say hello.
During the entire month of April, I am blogging for RAINN (Rape And Incest National Network) in support of National Sexual Assault Awareness and Prevention Month.
At least once a week all month long I’ll be blogging about sex and sexual violence as part of a contest through the Grassroots Blogger Book Marketing Campaign.
While reading these posts, you should think about donating to RAINN so they can do what they need to do to keep more women from falling prey to sexual violence. When you donate, if you could mention "GBBMC:08" and “captain_snarky" in the "In Honour Of" box, it will allow them to track my posts and the donations that those posts generate. If you want to donate but think I'm an obnoxious cow who shouldn't be allowed to win prizes, fuck you, but thanks for donating and feel free not to mention me if it offends you.
Before, being hit hard enough for a black eye would have made me go away. Today, I didn't even have to talk myself down.
Eat it you sons of bitches. What you did, I have undone.
I win.
Yeah, this is about sexual assault. Some of you know what I'm talking about. For the rest, I'll figure out how to explain it later.
1. “Thank you Madame Easter Bunny, may I have another?”
What happens when you cross masochism with an early childhood sexual identification with your teddy bear? Perhaps you get a Slave To The Wabbit.
There is a whole subset of kink kind known as Furries. For those of you innocent of the term, a furry is someone who likes to dress up as a giant anthropomorphic critter for the purposes of personal gratification or enjoys personal gratification with someone doing said dressing up, even though they themselves do not. Mind you, the latter may have a different designation but since I only have the most basic knowledge of that particular kink I lump for ease of identification.
Now, I get manimals. My first crush was on Chewbacca and don’t even get me started on Ron Pearlman’s character from that shite TV show Beauty and the Beast (oh the canines on that manimal ::drool::). But I will admit to not even being able to grasp how a purple cat in lingerie, Rocky Raccoon or a giant bunny rabbit can possibly be construed as sexy. But mine is not to reason why, mine is but to spank and get paid. So that’s why I put on the bunny suit, full head gear like a fucking puppet person at Disney and everything, and spent an hour flogging a lawyer I had tied to a post wrapped in ribbons to look like a Maypole. At least with the rabbit head on I could smirk all I wanted.
2. Stevie Homemaker
We had one customer who only came in about once a month. Sometimes less. But when he did come he spent all day there. And I mean from the butt crack of dawn to well into the night. He was also the only one we didn’t charge a dime. Why, you may ask? Well I’ll tell you.
Because his fetish was to dress up in a maid’s outfit and clean. Just clean. He expected to be ignored, so we did. He just went about his business while we went about ours. But boy did he fucking clean. He got up on ladders and did the fans, he did the grout in the showers, he de-calcified the shower heads, cleaned the dungeons, dusted light bulbs, conditioned leather, sponged upholstery, beat carpets, repainted the fire escape when it started to get rusty, and ended his session with a round of cocktails for everyone still in House when he was through. He never spoke a word, got positively panicked looking if you spoke to him, and left while no one was looking. He did a better job than a hired service could have, so after a few months of his extraordinary skills, Madame stopped charging him. She figured she was getting it in trade anyway.
You wanna know the best part? He was using all natural cleaning products well before it got hip to do so, so the House always smelled like a fucking English garden when he was done.
3. Hail mighty Quetzalcoatl!
We had one guy who, no shit, wanted to stage an Aztec sacrifice with him as the victim. Obviously without the actual ripping out of the heart bit. So Madame, ever the creative one and having the added advantage of being friends with an absurd number of useful people, she contacted some associates and we made him one for the next performance event. It went off rather well actually. We managed to get decent costumes going and it was just gory enough to satisfy the sacrifice part without getting an excessive amount of blood all over the audience. We even managed to find a “priest” who spoke some Nahuatl. Never let it be said that a massive South American community isn’t useful in the strangest ways.
4. Mrs. Claws.
There was a fair sized social club in the bd/sm community that put on a yearly x-mas benefit in a big warehouse/rave club thing for various worthy charities. One year, Madame and a passel of her prettiest bitches got up in a sleigh for the event. It was the bitches’ idea. Three of them were in a poly relationship and had always wanted to do the pony thing but nobody ever had the excuse to go all out with it. So for the benefit, they borrowed a sleigh (I have no idea where from. Where the hell does one *borrow* a sleigh?), trussed the bitches and some of their friends up in red patent leather pony gear with red and white feathers and everything, and hauled Madame and some “elves” around for half the night taking pictures for five bucks and giving rides for ten, all in the name of charity. The lead pony? Wore a red rubber nose. Ho’, ho’, ho’.
5. The Mummy
Not too many people are into being mummified. Not too many people are into having their life literally in someone else’s hands. But some people are into both and they pay us a lot to make them happy. So we do our best.
Mr. Tut liked mummification and breath control. He kind of freaked me out to be honest. It takes more trust than I will ever have in another human being to put yourself in a situation of total helplessness and dependence like he did. But he did and he liked it so there you go.
We would zip him up in what is basically a modified body bag, and tighten a couple dozen buckled straps till it was good and tight. Then we’d attach the mask thingie and he got to breathe when we let him by means of a pump attachment. It was like meditation for him, or so I assume by the look of calm contentment he always came out with. Boring sessions for us, because all we got to do was sit there and let him breathe, but hey, at least I wasn’t getting tennis elbow smacking the crap out of some business tycoon.
And here children, is where I will pause. I have a week to go and on the off chance that next week leaves me similarly lacking in inspiration as this week did (whaddaya want? It's finals!) I shall save the last few tidbits for a rainy day.
Or a RAINN-y day. Heh.
Wow. Sorry. It was just there. I had to.
During the entire month of April, I am blogging for RAINN (Rape And Incest National Network) in support of National Sexual Assault Awareness and Prevention Month.
At least once a week all month long I’ll be blogging about sex and sexual violence as part of a contest through the Grassroots Blogger Book Marketing Campaign.
While reading these posts, you should think about donating to RAINN so they can do what they need to do to keep more women from falling prey to sexual violence. When you donate, if you could mention "GBBMC:08" and “captain_snarky" in the "In Honour Of" box, it will allow them to track my posts and the donations that those posts generate. If you want to donate but think I'm an obnoxious cow who shouldn't be allowed to win prizes, fuck you, but thanks for donating and feel free not to mention me if it offends you.
I'm no longer going to pay an exorbitant tuition to be driven closer and closer to needing a prescription for prozac.
As of today I'm a fine arts major.
I can't draw. I've never painted. And the last time I sculpted anything was when I was 17. But fuck it. If I'm determined to allow Gajelandia to suck my soul out of my rectum at least I'm going to get to play with paint while it does so. I could suck. But the beauty of art is that it's art even when it's ugly. And thanks to Dadaism there is a precedent for crap being called art. Not that I approve of crap as art, but at least I don't have to fear failure as much because of it.
Cuz believe me I'm kinda freaked out. I know I can read. No major ever scairt me before because whether or not they liked the way it worked, I gots a big ol' brain. Just because I hated all of it didn't mean I couldn't do it. I've been on a deans list every single semester. Now? Who the hell knows. It could still be craptastic. I'm not even thinking about being optimistic yet. But at least I'll never have to read about fucking post colonialism ever again.
Firstly, we want to thank you again for participating in the GBBMC 2008. The response has been overwhelming, and we're so appreciative that you're a part of this.
We wanted to let you know that unfortunately, RAINN's donation site has a glitch in it that won't allow people who donate using PayPal to enter anything into the "donation in honor of" field. Anyone who has donated using a credit card hasn't had this issue, however, so it's just affected the PayPal users. In order to calculate the winner for the grand prize, it would help us if you could ask your readers to share with you their donation amount and transaction number for their PayPal donation. We realize this is somewhat inconvenient for you, but we only learned of this issue last week, and are hoping to work with RAINN to have it solved soon (though that may not happen before the end of the fundraiser.)
Please let us know if you have any questions, and once again, awesome work. We've really been enjoying reading you!
Best,
Kevin and Carly
This was emailed to me today. I have no idea if it applies to any of you. I don't think I'm in the running for any prizes. But I don't know if it's going to fuck with their chi either. So if it does apply to anyone here, please email the information requested to mistresscrow at yahoo dot com. If you're comfortable doing so that is. I'm not sweating it. As long as the donations happened then my purpose is accomplished.
End PSA.
I don't like large gatherings, because I can *feel* all those people around me. They make a racket in my head you wouldn't believe. Hissing noise and static and sandpaper inside my skull. It's why I put myself against a wall in places where people gather and focus on you and only you. I'm trying to shut the noise out of my head so I can be normal. Otherwise I start shouting and no one can figure out that I'm talking over a great deal of chatter they can't hear.
I've been added to the cast of this play, but no one gave me a script. They just turned on the lights and said "Go!". I have no idea what I'm doing here. I will say something incorrect.
This is what being crazy is like sometimes. It's nothing personal. It comes and goes. Sometimes I am a Crow Girl. Sometimes I am a zombie. Sometimes I am a clever trick, an illusion with nothing of substance behind the pleasant smile and attentive expression. Sometimes I am tasting your blood while I talk to you. And sometimes I can't make myself be human for the length of time it takes to have a nice cup of tea, so she can't come out and play today. I'm even just like you sometimes. On the days the chemical soup doesn't lack any key ingredients, I am a real girl. The rest of the time, you'll just have to excuse Crow from class. She's under some weather. I'll make sure she has a note.
This, in case anyone wondered, is why I miss living in the woods. The trees don't care what you are and there aren't enough people to fill your head with the infernal noise any kind of city produces.
So, just where is the yin when you need it, huh?
But this, fascination, shall we say, didn’t bloom into a full on fetish till I encountered…Father Tasty.
If you recall the first episode of Tales, I mentioned changing some names to protect identities, including those of clergy members. Well he’s the one I was referring to. Father Tasty (not what we really called him you understand) is a real live Catholic priest. Don’t ask me how in the world he makes going to a pro all right with the Jesus but he was a regular.
Father Tasty has an odd problem. He feels the need for purification through mortification, but can’t bear to hit himself because he’s afraid he won’t do it with the appropriate amount of gusto required by god (I’m guessing), thereby cheating himself out of some divine cookie or whatever it is you’re supposed to get by fucking yourself up for religion. Also? The Vatican has frowned on flagellants for some time now and I imagine getting caught doing such a thing would not go well with his superiors. So he hired a dom to do it for him at a location far from his normal haunts. There really is a service industry for everything, isn’t there. You see children, this is what happens when you mix religion and masochism.
There I am, having a nice cup of coffee in the house part of the House one day, when Madame comes in and asks me for a favor. I wasn’t working that day, just hanging out and helping to hang a wall (the House is a converted warehouse so walls had to be made and she wanted a bigger living room that day, so my assistance was requested). The favor in question involved taking over a certain client for a spell. She tells me he requires a great deal of vigorous flogging and she damaged her shoulder (playing twister while drunk, I shit you not) so didn’t feel up to it. No problem.
I figure it’s going to be the usual. You know, tie ‘em to something, smack ‘em around a bit and call them names. The bread and butter of BD/SM. Not exactly, this guy’s a special case. She hands me my outfit for the session. I look at it. It’s a nun’s habit. And not a naughty nun either. No PVC, no latex. An honest to shit nun’s habit. And a single tail flogger. Ouch. Those fuckers hurt.
“So, what’s his deal? Interesting time at Catholic school?”
She smirks. “Nope. He’s a priest.”
Bullshit.
“Nope, no bullshit. He’s a Catholic priest.”
Jaw. Floor.
The deal is I have to do this dressed as a nun, because he wants it to not be a sex thing because he’s a priest and if I’m dressed like a nun he won’t think of sex. Maybe *he* won’t, but I’ve known a few guys...
I’m not to say anything, especially none of the dirty talk we use with our normal customers. I’m just to whip the shit out of him while he meditates or whatever till he tells me to stop.
I am overwhelmed by the certainty that I’m gonna die. Right there in front of a customer, suffocation due to laughing my ass off. I’m picturing this stodgy old priest who in my head looks like John Cleese, and is like, super god man by day but when god’s not watching is secretly a dirty dirty kinkster getting his ya yas out being abused by a hot chick dressed as a nun. Dude, how am I going to keep from cracking up?
“I can’t do this with a straight face” I inform Madame. I can’t tarnish her reputation by asploding with laughter while disciplining a priest for fuck sakes. No matter how rightly funny it is.
“Don’t worry. You’ll be fine” she tells me. She always tells me that. She’d been right up till that point but I was afraid her record was about to be broken.
Whatever. She’s the boss.
So I get up into this habit thing. I don’t know how they do it. Nuns I mean. That thing sucked stale communion wafers dipped in yak pee. It was binding, itchy and hot. This from the girl who was regularly wearing rubber corsets. Right? So you can imagine!
Anyways, I drag myself and 600 lbs of god’s polyester down to dungeon number 5. It’s the all purpose room. Looks a bit like a semi posh English study. We’ve found no one really objects to staging anything in a semi posh English study so we use it for almost everyone who doesn’t require heavy equipment like a cross, pony, maiden or whatever other large piece of furniture we may need to tie them to.
Deep breaths. No laughing. No snorting. No smirking. No indications that I notice what simply MUST be a stunning resemblance to John Cleese, I’m psychically sure of it. No Fish Called Wanda quotes. I am a professional. Om, om, om.
Composure firmly in place, I enter.
The first thing that pops into my head is, “Where’s the priest?”
The second is the realization that that *is* the priest.
Kneeling in the middle of the floor wearing his tight black pants but no shirt (because it is folded neatly, collar up, on a chair) is just about the most delicious slab of man candy I’ve laid eyes on since the first time I saw Brad Pitt with his shirt off. Some flavor of Brown person (he could have been Arab, Indian, Hispanic. I couldn’t tell), hair and eye lashes you’d cut a bitch for and a body only 20 year olds have without trying (which is about how old he looked). And he’s kneeling on the floor, eyes closed, muttering to himself and clutching a bible. Waiting. For me. Like a naughty present wrapped in layers of piety.
Nono! Om, om, om. I’m a professional…
Nnnn-om nom nom. Tasty little...
Shit!
I looked up at the CTV camera because I knew my sadistic whore of a boss lady was watching and gave her the finger. And I got to work.
I was told not to say anything, just get started. So I did. I laid into his shoulders with the flogger. No warm up, no chit chat. I tried to work up a rhythm so I could sort of zone out rather than stare at that finger lickin’ Jesus twinkie because that line of thought was counter productive in the extreme, when his muttering starts to pick up the volume.
I can tell he’s really starting to feel it. He’s shaking, all his muscles are standing at attention, he’s broken a sweat and his skin is turning Barbie pink. Then I start to make out the muttering.
He’s PRAYING.
In *Latin*.
::dies::
So here I am in a nun’s habit flogging this gasping, caramel colored dirty thought who is praying non stop in Latin (::whimper!::) and all I could think was that if he didn’t yell ‘safeword’ soon I was going to get fired for knocking a client down and fucking him during a session. Not to mention the special hell I’m sure Satan has for sex workers who force themselves on unsuspecting clergy that I’ve got juuuust enough Catholic upbringing left in me to believe I will go to.
I had just about decided I didn’t give a crap when he raises one arm, signaling me to stop. Not our usual signal, but I’d been told he wouldn’t say anything much and to just watch for him to gesture when he was ready to quit.
He’s a wreak. I’m no slouch when it comes to my flogging and single tails are nasty business . His back looks like a stop light. He’s covered in sweat, shaking and gasping for air on his hands and knees.
Having been told I was just supposed to make my way out when it was over and leave him to his ruminations, I stepped around him and got ready to leave.
One of the things Madame is psychotic about is not leaving anyone in what’s commonly known as “sub-space” (basically a mega endorphin high) alone without making sure they’re on their way back. Some folks like their quiet time after though and that’s ok. And someone is always watching on the CTV so no one is ever really alone. But still.
So the last thing I do before I leave any recently beaten up person to collect themselves, is do a quick check to make sure they’re not in shock or about to pass out or something. I wasn’t supposed to touch him, so I checked him out visually. Watched the pulse in his neck was strong and steady, listened to his breathing to make sure it was beginning to slow down and he wasn’t starting to hyperventilate or anything, checked his color (going pale is baaaad), and just made sure he looked like he was coming around.
Satisfied he was gonna live, I straighten up. That’s when he looks up at me with these huge, I mean *huge* chocolate eyes and whispers, “thank you” in that tone only a well fucked (or flogged) male speaks in. I blushed. Hard. For one of two times in my life, I fucking blushed.
Then I died. Right there. No really.
Ok not really. I was however, fast on my way to beginning to drool in front of a stranger, but my partially psychic Madame buzzed me (all the rooms had intercom for emergencies) at that moment. Good thing too. I was like, rendered utterly retarded. Erogenous zones I didn’t know I had were ringing bells and no one had touched me. Come on guys, Latin? How can I be expected to maintain my composure? I bloody can’t that’s what.
So I remember to remember myself and leave the room with some degree of dignity intact. I didn’t start licking him so I consider that a win.
And there’s Madame, grinning like a jack-o-lantern, waiting in the hall so she could catch my expression before I put a face on to avoid embarrassing myself.
Cocking that ironic eyebrow of hers, “Tasty, no?”
Going to hell going to hell going to hell going to hell.
“Fucking tasty.”
During the entire month of April, I am blogging for RAINN (Rape And Incest National Network) in support of National Sexual Assault Awareness and Prevention Month.
At least once a week all month long I’ll be blogging about sex and sexual violence as part of a contest through the Grassroots Blogger Book Marketing Campaign.
While reading these posts, you should think about donating to RAINN so they can do what they need to do to keep more women from falling prey to sexual violence. When you donate, if you could mention "GBBMC:08" and “captain_snarky" in the "In Honour Of" box, it will allow them to track my posts and the donations that those posts generate. If you want to donate but think I'm an obnoxious cow who shouldn't be allowed to win prizes, fuck you, but thanks for donating and feel free not to mention me if it offends you.
1. The voices sound like warm molasses. For whatever reason having to do with genetics or language I don't know, but the huskiness and melody of them is sweet and yummy in my ears. It's like wrapping yourself in a sun warmed auditory blanky.
2. The music is all very peppy no matter what they're singing about. Just look at Sarafina. Depressing as fuck. I can only imagine the lyrics were morbid. But it all sounded very cheerful.
3. I can't understand the words. I love music where I can't understand the words. I can just enjoy the sounds everything makes if I don't have to get bogged down by trite love songs or political bullshit. I will rue the day I finally learn Arabic for the sole reason that I will have to stop loving Amr Diab. Cuz I know that metro bitch is singing some crap, but since I currently can't understand him I don't care.
So, Crow's recommendation for the day; if you're grumpy, put in some Ladysmith Black Mombazo. Also, Tom Jones works in a pinch, but may draw unwanted attention as you lose all decorum and start singing at the top of your lungs while driving down the street. Since I can't sing, this is particularly disturbing to the villagers.
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chowyunsmut.Ya shoulda known I couldn't leave a meme alone. I *should* be reading about Egyptian politics right now. But since I don't care about Egyptian politics I procrastinate easily.
THREE NAMES YOU GO BY:
1. My actual name which I don't use in Weblandia.
2. Crow
3. Madame Dictator
THREE SCREEN NAMES YOU HAVE HAD:
1. Mistress Crow
2. Captain Snarky
3. Uh, I don't have a third cuz I'm not particularly net savvy.
THREE PHYSICAL THINGS YOU LIKE ABOUT YOURSELF:
1. Mouth
2. Mah bitchin guns
3. Eyeballs
THREE PHYSICAL THINGS YOU DON'T LIKE ABOUT YOURSELF:
1. Body hair. Which unlike Chow Yun's is excessive cuz I am a spic and we tend towards fuzzy.
2. My feet. All feet really. But mine hurt cuz of funny bones.
3. I'd say my ass, except it doesn't exist.
THREE PARTS OF YOUR HERITAGE:
1. Cuban
2.Uh, Cuban.
3. Whoever made Spaniards look the way they do. Mostly Arabs with the odd wave of Celt I think.
THREE THINGS THAT SCARE YOU:
1. Being in the spotlight in any way.
2. Being upside down.
3. Not being able to remember if I'm 31 or 32. Suddenly I can't remember that and it's really freaking me out. Does anybody know how old I am? No um, seriously.
THREE OF YOUR EVERYDAY ESSENTIALS:
1. Coffee
2. Food
3. Toilet paper
THREE THINGS YOU ARE WEARING RIGHT NOW:
1. Black sweat pants
2. A Bristol faire t-shirt
3. Boxer shorts
THREE OF YOUR FAVORITE BANDS OR MUSICAL ARTISTS:
1. Nustrat Fateh Ali Khan
2. She Wants Revenge
3. Depeche Mode
THREE THINGS YOU WANT IN A RELATIONSHIP:
1. Good conversation
2. Honesty
3. Courtesy
TWO TRUTHS AND A LIE (in no particular order):
1. I love rice noodles.
2. Chickens freak me out.
3. I wanna be a supermodel.
THREE PHYSICAL THINGS ABOUT THE PREFERRED SEX THAT APPEAL TO YOU:
1. Lips
2. Hands
3. Teeth
THREE OF YOUR FAVORITE HOBBIES:
1. Reading
2. Knitting
3. Martial arts
THREE THINGS YOU WANT TO DO REALLY BADLY RIGHT NOW:
1. Take a vacation
2. Have breakfast at Blue Plate.
3. End the reign of mankind for all time.
THREE CAREERS YOU'RE CONSIDERING/YOU'VE CONSIDERED:
1. Forensic scientist (alas, I can't count)
2. Trophy wife of a soon to die millionaire with no living relatives.
3. Rennie
THREE PLACES YOU WANT TO GO ON VACATION:
1. Morocco
2. India
3. Brazil
THREE KIDS NAMES YOU LIKE: I'm never having children, but if I could name someone else's...
1. Sasquatchanda
2. Pubert
3. Accident
THREE THINGS YOU WANT TO DO BEFORE YOU DIE:
1. Live
2. End the reign of mankind for all time.
3. Live
THREE WAYS THAT YOU ARE STEREOTYPICALLY A GIRL:
1. I love MAC.
2. I own a great deal of pink.
3. I love baby animals.
THREE WAYS THAT YOU ARE STEREOTYPICALLY A BOY:
1. I'm good with power tools.
2. I'd rather sleep than cuddle.
3. I don't understand why you'd want to cuddle in the first place.
THREE PEOPLE THAT I WOULD LIKE TO SEE TAKE THIS QUIZ NOW:
Oh I'm not tagging anybody. Last time I did they ignored me so I give this unto all those who may, like me, have better things to do but don't want to do them.
But I digress.
One of the students shared a story with the class last week, and I'm going to share with you.
I'm going to name these people in order to ease the flow of the telling. I don't know the name of the student or her friend, who this event happened to. But giving them names will be easier than saying "the girl in my class" or "the friend of the girl in my class". A little license won't kill anyone. So I'll call the student Sarah and her friend, Jane.
Sara has a friend named Jane. Jane is a ballet dancer. One day Jane is driving her car a little too fast and gets pulled over by two NOPD (New Orleans Police Department, for all you new readers who don't live here) officers. Her license and other information is taken. The cops are checking it out for a very long time. When they finish, they ask her to step out of her car and into theirs. She is afraid because she doesn't know why.
Once she's sitting in the squad car, in the back with the doors that don't open from the inside, the cops start talking to her. But not about her speeding. They accessed all sorts of information with her ID. It's not hard. They asked her if she was very flexible because she was a ballet dancer. They taunted her with sexually explicit comments and threatened her with rape. They drove her around in their car for several hours, *showing her off* to other cops. Parking in a deserted parking lot and threatening her some more.
They held her prisoner in the back of their car for a total of three hours while verbally abusing her the entire time. Thankfully, she was not raped. She was returned to her vehicle and warned not to do anything about what had happened to her.
She didn't. She was too afraid. They knew where she lived, where she worked and went to school. They had guns.
Sara, the girl in my class, knows three women who have been raped by New Orleans police officers. This isn't counting Jane, who was not raped, just held hostage and threatened.
As women, we have fewer rights than 13 year old boys, who are free to wander the streets of this city at all hours without fear of assault. As women, we can't trust those sworn to protect us. These are officers of the law. Granted, in this city that doesn't mean much. We have the highest murder rate in the country. But they're not just failing to prevent the crimes, they are committing them. And they are doing it with impunity.
Do your part. Stop this.
Some days I'm so sickened by humanity that it's not worth taking my next breath.
During the entire month of April, I am blogging for RAINN (Rape And Incest National Network) in support of National Sexual Assault Awareness and Prevention Month.
At least once a week all month long I’ll be blogging about sex and sexual violence as part of a contest through the Grassroots Blogger Book Marketing Campaign.
While reading these posts, you should think about donating to RAINN so they can do what they need to do to keep more women from falling prey to sexual violence. When you donate, if you could mention "GBBMC:08" and “captain_snarky" in the "In Honour Of" box, it will allow them to track my posts and the donations that those posts generate. If you want to donate but think I'm an obnoxious cow who shouldn't be allowed to win prizes, fuck you, but thanks for donating and feel free not to mention me if it offends you.
Some of you know (some of you don’t) that I worked a brief stint as a stripper. I needed a large chunk of cash in a short amount of time and my friend convinced me that that was the best way to acquire it. She was right.
“But you have stage fright Crow” you say. Correct. I have a serious aversion bordering on phobia to being stared at or paid serious attention to by more than a few people at once. Hence my adverse reaction to what I’m sure was intended as a compliment with the whole metaquote thing. However, I am nothing if not practical and a rennie will adapt when enough cash is on the table.
And I drank. A lot. Alcohol was the main reason I was able to get up on a stage. Controlled self medication is the only way to get through life’s little trials sometimes and anyone who tells me different can blow me.
You may imagine that the employees of a strip club are mostly semi to seriously coked out morons with eating disorders looking for their sugar daddies. You would be correct in many instances. But like any other place of business, a lot depends on the management. We had an ancient, retired Mafioso running the ship, and while he liked his drugs sold under the table in his establishment, he did not like them taken by his employees. So most of the girls were young ladies working their way through masters programs or single moms raising children. And a good healthy dose of immigrants legal and otherwise. It was really a nice place to work once you figured the customers out of the equation.
One of my coworkers was particularly fascinating. I will call her Olga. One, because I’m not going to use her actual name in a public forum and I’m sure the name she went by wasn’t it in the first place, and two because she was of Eastern European extraction and Olga sounds like a good name for someone from over there in that cold place.
Olga had regulars. Tons of them. I could never figure it out. It’s not that she was unattractive per se, but she was very plain. No amount of makeup could glam her out. Mousey hair, uneven features, looking like a hard forty something. She was one of those women who’s bodies did not bounce back after childbirth. And she couldn’t dance worth a damn. I’m not being mean, she admitted it herself. Could not hold a beat to save her life. Looked like she was having a seizure.
But the men loooooved her. Olga’s stage was packed every set. You couldn’t see the bar for all the men standing there waving dollars at her. I was baffled.
So I asked. I mean, I figured she had to be handing out VIP “dances” like Halloween candy in the back room for this kind of popularity to center around an aesthetically unremarkable woman with a serious rhythm defect.
I took Tawny (there is *always* a stripper named Tawny) aside one night and asked her what was up with Olga’s insane fan club.
Her face lit up and she started laughing.
“You haven’t seen her set?”
“From across the room, sure”
“No way! You’ve gotta go right up to the stage and watch. You’ll understand.”
Hmmmm. I resolved to investigate further next time she was up on stage.
My opportunity came not half an hour later. I excused myself from the customer I was chatting up and made my way over to Olga’s stage. It was even more insane close up. These guys were freaking out. Waving fives and tens and the odd fifty for fuck sakes, just waiting for Olga to do her thing. Whatever that was.
Out she comes, doing this horrific bump and grind sort of to the music.
She does the dancy dancy thing for a bit and I’m just standing there waiting for I don’t know what. Then she shuffles (it wasn’t the sexy stripper walk we are all familiar with. You’d think by the movement she was wearing bedroom slippers, not four inch heels) over to the edge of the stage and begins to sort of squat down right over some guy’s beer bottle. I think she’s going to bounce around in the general area, you know, mimicking the fucking of the beer bottle, like you might. But no. She pulls her g-string aside and…well, inserts it.
And I think “EEEEWWW!!! OMG that thing still had the cap on! She’s going to fuck herself up with that thing!”
All the guys are cheering their heads off right? And she stands up with this bottle still up her snatch and starts sort of sashaying around the stage with it dangling out while the guys are hooting and hollering and shoving money in her g-string. All the while with this naughty smile on her face like she’s about to tell the best joke ever.
She gets back around to the guy who’s beer she, borrowed (?), and stands in front of him swaying a bit. She grabs the bottom of the bottle, gives it a sharp yank forward and pulls it out of her pussy.
And it’s been opened!!!!
The crowd goes nuts. I nearly faint when the thought of what that had to feel like hits my poor brain. She’s grinning like crazy while she ejects the cap into her palm and flicks it at the dude.
And the act goes on! I notice that all the beers on the stage have their caps still on which means (holy deep fried Jesus) she’s going to do it again.
Well I can’t watch. I’m all in a tizzy now heading back to the dressing room. My brain asplode. I think I might puke.
I get back there and breathe a bit. Then I rationalize. There’s no way she’s opening those beer bottles. They’re rigged. The bartender must take the caps off and just sort of lightly jam them back on for the act. That’s it. Ok. The world makes sense again. Whooo, that was scary for a minute.
So I’m alright now and getting ready to head back out onto the floor to do what strippers do between sets. That is pretend you think some paunchy advertising exec is hot so he’ll run up a huge bar tab and make your boss some money.
That’s when Olga walks back into the dressing room organizing the mind blowing wad of cash in her hand and humming to herself.
I can’t help it.
I’ve just *got* to ask.
I introduced myself (I hadn’t been there long and we hadn’t really met), and complimented her on her…talent. She was very friendly and pleasant. Her accent was thick but she spoke perfect English. Then I broached the subject at hand.
“So, how do you do it? The caps are rigged, right?”
“Oh no. I open them in there.”
I’m sure my eyes bugged right out of my head at that moment. I must have looked a fright because she started laughing her head off.
“Oh NO!” She says, “Not like *that*.”
That’s when she reached down to pull her g-string aside and like spitting a luggie, her pussy hawks a round bottle opener out and into her palm.
“See? I hold it inside and open the bottles. Nobody can tell!” she says with the pride of someone who has accomplished the best magic trick EVAR.
Oh. My. God.
Olga, single handedly keeping Monistat in business since 1987. Raise your glasses kinksters. Whatever your thoughts may be, nevertheless that lady deserves a toast.
To Olga.
During the entire month of April, I am blogging for RAINN (Rape And Incest National Network) in support of National Sexual Assault Awareness and Prevention Month.
At least once a week all month long I’ll be blogging about sex and sexual violence as part of a contest through the Grassroots Blogger Book Marketing Campaign.
While reading these posts, you should think about donating to RAINN so they can do what they need to do to keep more women from falling prey to sexual violence. When you donate, if you could mention "GBBMC:08" and “captain_snarky" in the "In Honour Of" box, it will allow them to track my posts and the donations that those posts generate. If you want to donate but think I'm an obnoxious cow who shouldn't be allowed to win prizes, fuck you, but thanks for donating and feel free not to mention me if it offends you.
No more of that please, my overzealous eavesdropper. Had you explained what that was I'm not sure I'd have allowed it. There is a reason I don't, say, write for a newspaper. I object to being talked about. Talked to is fine, about, not so much. I loathe gossips and have stopped talking to several otherwise lovely people because of that particular human addiction and that's exactly how that community comes off to me.
So, in case anyone else thinks I don't dot my fucking i's...
The Chicken Man was of sound mind. We made reasonably sure of it. We don't contract with anyone with a fetish that intense without a psyche profile. He was also willing and able to utter his safeword at any time. If a grown man understands the possible consequences of his actions, whatever they may be, and chooses to engage in said action anyway, that is his choice. We play an elaborate game in a dungeon. It takes both parties to consent to any activity. Our lovely Chicken Man expressed his delight at the task he was given when he made his next appointment. It made his month. I can not pretend to understand such a pathology. But it's not for me to judge it. He contracted us to do a service and we provided that service to the extent he was willing to let us and no more.
Some people think pissing on a person is going too far. Some people think that's not far enough. The fact is that sexual aberration exists in forms the average human can not even conceive of let alone comprehend. Anywhere from a penchant for naughty undies on the mild side, to pedophilia, necrophilia, infantilism, et cetera on the severe side. Our client would have engaged in these activities with our without our say so. And we managed to channel most of his needs into forms less likely to get him in trouble. He was taken to bars and events where a strangely dressed man wouldn't raise as many eyebrows. Have you seen how drag queens dress? Been to a gay pride parade? What I didn't mention (but perhaps should have because everyone is so damn tense about it) is that most of these shenanigans took place in Boy's Town. Barely anyone batted an eye. It wasn't about the crowd's reaction, just his.
I realize we don't all know how I roll. So fyi, Chicken Man was not branded a sex offender. He has too many relatives in the right places for that. A fact we were well aware of because he made sure to let us know that he could get away with a great deal of shit. He was given a drunk and disorderly slap on the wrist and sent on his way after an embarrassing few hours explaining how the bachelor party he was at got out of hand. A story corroborated by several witnesses and a couple of strippers. He paid a hefty fine and got his rocks off on all the humiliation.
Our clients are not retarded. Just weird. They are not children who don't know any better. Submisives are not stupid, helpless or mentally deficient in any way. They are normal people. Capable of judging right from wrong and just how far they want to push the envelope. Some mentally ill people are sexually deviant. But not all sexual deviants are mentally ill. Most of them are regular people with a strong moral compass and all their marbles intact. Most of them are very clever and meticulous in fact, having grown up hiding their fetishes from a world that can't understand differences in race or religion for fuck sakes, let alone get why someone would want to dress up like Dolly Parton and dance with snakes or what have you.
I get so pissed off when people assume we have some mind control over our clients, or that subs can't understand the consequences of what they're doing. They're not babies, they're adults with adult brains that function! They are in control of their sessions from start to finish.
Sure people can be manipulated. Cult leaders do it all the time. So does our government. But we're not cult leaders and our clients are not idiots. Put away the misconception that we have control over anybody such that we can make them go against their good sense or instinct for self preservation. We are playing a game. A game the sub has the ability to stop or alter as they see fit. Why? Because they're paying us! That's why! We are doing a job for them. We are not on a power trip, we are their employees. This is not about us. This is about the wants and desires of somebody who has paid us to fulfill them. And should we judge them fit to make such decisions, that's exactly what we'll do. CHRIST!
Can everyone accept that some people will do shit for the purpose of self gratification that you will not be able to wrap your brain around, and they do it while totally aware of what they're doing? Good.
The Most Annoying Things Done To Me During Oral Sex:
1) Give A Dog A Bone.
What's with the rapid shaking of the head some guys do in the midst of perfectly good oral? Like a wet dog shaking the water out of it's ears. It's happened to me twice. My pussy is not a dog toy. I don't get that. Did someone see it in a porno once and decided that because the porn stars seemed to be having fun it looked like a good idea? I've seen pussies being smacked in porn and I'll tell you right now, first motherfucker thinks that's a fine way to make sweet love to me is going to find out what his spleen tastes like. I'm not sure what the purpose of that maneuver is Scooby, but I can tell you it is just retarded.
2) The Dreaded Hangnail.
Trim. Your. Fingernails.
If I have to explain this, you don't deserve to see a woman naked ever again.
3) Do You Have A Map?
Ok, the G-spot discussion has to happen because more men have fucked this up than is ok. Lemme break it down. The inner two thirds of the vaginal canal has few if any nerve endings on the average woman (exceptions to every rule occur). The front one third however is chock full of them. This is the location of the famous G-spot. Just inside and at the top. You may have to poke around a bit but you'll know when you find it by the gasping. Important information here; not every woman has one. Not every woman needs one. Yes it's there on many women and if you find it great, but don't ram half your arm up my snatch looking for it because trust me all you'll find way back there in the back is a cranky cervix that doesn't like being poked. And if you don't use your fingers at all during oral you should be shot. Ok, that's a little harsh. If a man doesn't use his fingers *on me* during oral he might get shot. I can't speak for other women.
NOTE:
Not all women enjoy or require G-spot stimulation. For some girls, it just makes them feel like they have to pee. Figure out which preference your woman has and you will reap the rewards later.
4) The Magic Button.
Many men seem to think the clit is the magic button. As long as you keep sucking on that thing there a girl will be happy as a clam, right? Oh my god wake up and smell the poontang! Are you content with a woman only sucking the head of your dick? I didn't think so. Here's where you get to use all that tongue you thought was ok in the mouth bone head. All over the place. In, out, up, down, harder, softer etc. Just remember, start nice and soft and build your pressure and speed slowly. The key to most wimmins orgasms is rhythm. The key to a good rhythm is a good build up. Listen for the gasping and moaning. If she's doing that you're doing fine. By all means vary the tempo as much as you like, but when she grabs the back of your head and starts grinding her pelvis into your face for gods sake just keep doing what is obviously working because now is not the time to get creative or lazy.
5) Double Dipping (warning, this one is kinda gross)
Not everybody likes a finger or tongue in the ass. Some do, some don't. The anus is full of nerve endings that for some people feel delightful when played with. However it's not for everyone and to each their own. But you know what's not for *anyone*? Bacterial vaginosis. It even sounds gross huh? Well that's what happens to girls when boys double dip. That is, put a finger in her ass and then get it anywhere near her hoohoo before washing the hands. It requires a trip to the doctor and a 'scrip to deal with too so if you don't keep latex gloves or some other digital condom by the bedside, or are willing to possibly break the mood by jumping up to scrub, just don't put 'em in the pooper huh?
6)UTI Guy.
I've had more than one guy get all whiny when I jump up and pee after oral. I guess they take it personally or something. So it's like this boys, a woman's urethra (where pee comes out of) is right on top of her clit. All the stimulation of her clit makes her wanna pee. This is actually a handy biological quirk because it so happens that saliva contains all sorts of lovely bacteria. Bacteria that is more than happy to make a new home inside the plumbing of a woman. Once it does that it becomes a urinary tract infection and is annoying, painful and can be dangerous if it moves into the kidneys because no amount of cranberry juice is going to fix it then, and for those of us who can't afford a hospital visit that is no good.
7) One Finger Willy.
Many men I've encountered are more than happy to finger a gal during oral. Understanding that it's a bit like patting your head and rubbing your tummy at the same time, I appreciate that it takes concentration to work the magic on two fronts. Don't tell me I don't know boys, I have eaten pussy on more than one occasion.
However, the boys that take their index finger and just stick it in and out repeatedly like they're poking an elevator button? What the hell is that?
First off, if you recall the G-spot portion of the discussion, it's at the top of the vaginal canal. So the movement you want to make with your finger is "here kitty kitty" not, "poke poke". And a vagina is designed to work best when a full sized penis is inserted. How often have you heard it's all about the girth? Exactly. There is a reason the term "pencil dick" is not a compliment.
Set your minimum at two digits and you'll probably be ok.
8) Nice Rims.
If you're going to attempt to rim a woman whose feelings on such things you don't yet know, ASK FIRST, WARN HER, or in some other way INDICATE YOUR INTENTIONS before doing so. If you fail to do the above, do not be surprised if you receive a CONCUSSION or a FLESH WOUND for your lack of forethought.
During the entire month of April, I am blogging for RAINN (Rape And Incest National Network) in support of National Sexual Assault Awareness and Prevention Month.
At least once a week all month long I’ll be blogging about sex and sexual violence as part of a contest through the Grassroots Blogger Book Marketing Campaign.
While reading these posts, you should think about donating to RAINN so they can do what they need to do to keep more women from falling prey to sexual violence. When you donate, if you could mention "GBBMC:08" and “captain_snarky" in the "In Honour Of" box, it will allow them to track my posts and the donations that those posts generate. If you want to donate but think I'm an obnoxious cow who shouldn't be allowed to win prizes, fuck you, but thanks for donating and feel free not to mention me if it offends you.
As you may expect with a job like that, I saw some hi-larious shit. And here, I will share. Names changed of course to protect various businessmen, cops, clergy (yup), politicos, and yes, members of the Chicago mafia. Hey, I don’t judge a healthy fetish. We didn’t mess around with infantilism or anybody wanting us to pee or poop on them. Everything else was perfectly acceptable.
Today boys and girls, we will tell the tale of the Chicken Man.
The Chicken Man had been coming to see Madame for about a year. He was into being humiliated. That wasn’t the weird part. The weird part was that it had to be in front of at least a moderate crowd, and it had to be a different thing every single time. She paraded him around Grant Park on a pink collar and leash wearing nothing but a tiger striped Speedo and a horse tail. She made him play fetch like a dog with a dildo on a busy street on a sunny afternoon while wearing Armani. She dressed him up like Barbara Eden in “I Dream of Genie” and made him give out table dances at a gay club. She had made him wear an actual outfit from Swan Lake (tutu and everything) in a bar on karaoke night and ordered him to sing “I Got You Babe” in falsetto. These are just a few of the many hideous humiliations she devised for the Chicken Man. He ate it up. This guy came once or twice a month and dished out a pretty fat wad per session. But after a year of this, she was running out of ideas that weren’t going to get one or both of them arrested. The guy had no fucking threshold.
So one day, I was only scheduled to take a couple of clients. Easy ones. Tie ‘em up, spank ‘em till they cried and bid them a good day. I was done and gradually liberating myself from the absurd amount of PVC and zippers I’d been prancing around in all morning, when Madame flings herself on the couch and lets loose an impressive string of expletives.
“Fucking Chicken Man (not really what we called him you understand)!” she shouts.
Our bouncer Ham gets this look on his face that’s like half horror and half “I’m going to blow up laughing RIGHT NOW”.
I have no idea what she’s talking about at this point.
“What’s up with the Chicken Man?” I ask innocently.
It may have been wiser if I’d kept my mouth shut, because at this point I’d only been at it for a short while and was in no way equipped to deal with this particular type of specialist. One who requires so very much creativity on the part of his top. But who said I had a brain?
So she gets this “Ah HAH!!” look on her face and tells me it’s *my* turn to take the Chicken Man. New blood, fresh eyes, yadda, yadda. She gives me a run down on what the guy is about and starts zipping all my zippers back up.
Well I’m freaked right out. It’s one thing to do this in the privacy of my own place of employment. It is quite another to tart up some strange man in god knows what and take him outside for fuck sakes! And I had no idea whatsoever what I was going to do with him. She gave me a tiny synopsis of some of the things she’d done in the past so I wouldn’t repeat them (as if it would occur to me to dress a middle aged man like a cheerleader and attempt to sneak him into a convention and pass him off as the “entertainment”). She then pushes me out into the hall and points to dungeon number 2 and tells me he’s waiting for me. Gee thanks.
This guy has never met me, and so the first thing he does when it’s not his usual abuser in the door way is ask who I am. I’m wiggin’, but you don’t get paid what I was getting paid to hesitate, so I cracked my crop against the side of my boot and told him that if I wanted to hear his voice I’d cut his dick off so I could listen to him scream.
I told him that Madame was bored with him, and since he was such a disappointment to the Lady of the House, I was sent to punish him. Mind you, at this point I had no fucking clue what to do. Usually I looked to my surroundings for inspiration when I started to run out of steam, but we were in the Interrogation Room. Concrete walls and floor, plain fluorescent bulb on the ceiling. You know, where you go to play Gestapo or cops and inmates or whatever tickles their fancy.
I did the only thing I could do. I fucking stalled. I told him to strip down to his knickers and wait on his knees like a good monkey till I got back. Fortunately, this flavor of sub would contentedly do that for quite awhile before even showing agitation, much less getting up and investigating what might be keeping me. So I hauled ass back to the house part of the House where I could possibly get some opinions on just what I should do with the Chicken Man.
I burst into the apartment desperate for some kind of idea. There is Madame, calmly putting honey in her tea and Ham, calmly giggling at what I’m sure was a priceless look on my face.
“So honey, how’s our Chicken Man?”
Oh fuck you both. Then it hit me. Honey.
Ya ever get one of those lightning to the brain moments of utter brilliance? Yep, one of those.
I grabbed the honey out of her hand, riffled the cabinets till (hallelujah!) I found another bottle of the stuff, then stripped her bed of all it’s pillows and ran back to room 2 to complete my plan.
I stalked in, dropped my burdens, backhanded the Chicken Man for twitching when I entered and got to work.
I made him stand in the middle of the room while I emptied two bottles of Sue Bee honey on him, and had him smear it around for good measure while I got to cutting the pillows open. Then I covered him in four pillows worth of prime goose down. It’s what the bitch gets for sticking me with the Chicken Man.
All done, and he looks like Big Bird with glasses and tighty whiteys. He’s all into it too.
“Now, pig. Leave.”
He just stared at me.
“Are you deaf?”
“No Ma’am. You want me to leave?”
“Yes. Leave this House and go get arrested.”
“Arrested?”
“Are you stupid as well? Yes, arrested. You are not to return here or go home until you’ve been arrested. I don’t care if it takes all night.”
I kid you not, he got this glowing look of utter contentment as he made his sticky feathery way out the door.
And did exactly as I ordered him to.
During the entire month of April, I am blogging for RAINN (Rape And Incest National Network) in support of National Sexual Assault Awareness and Prevention Month.
At least once a week all month long I’ll be blogging about sex and sexual violence as part of a contest through the Grassroots Blogger Book Marketing Campaign.
While reading these posts, you should think about donating to RAINN so they can do what they need to do to keep more women from falling prey to sexual violence. When you donate, if you could mention "GBBMC:08" and “captain_snarky" in the "In Honour Of" box, it will allow them to track my posts and the donations that those posts generate. If you want to donate but think I'm an obnoxious cow who shouldn't be allowed to win prizes, fuck you, but thanks for donating and feel free not to mention me if it offends you.
Losing my virginity in the manner I did was, unfortunately, not my only damaging experience. I went into a pretty self destructive funk for the next few years after, drugs (loooots of drugs), booze, whole bit. Couple it with the fact that once abused you are likely to be again, contributed to the events that followed. There is something in the body language of a victim that is like candy to predators. You have to stop being one before they will stop sniffing you out and that comes from internal change. No amount of pepper spray or self defense classes will cover the scent of easy meat you exude until you yourself decide you’re a lamb no longer.
Don’t ask me when that point is or what happens in your brain. It just did. At some point you're just *done*. One day I was a walking target and then I wasn’t. Getting sober helped a lot.
The rest was about embracing the fear. Fear is a survival trait. It’s your monkey self telling you there’s a lion nearby. It’s good to have fear. But phobia is not particularly helpful, and that’s what you end up with when you let your triggers and the traumas that caused them rule your life.
I used to have a big time problem with guns. Once, I said ‘no’ to a certain demand and had a gun put to my head for my presumption. Needless to say, I decided that sucking the guy off was preferable to being dead. But it left me positively panicked whenever firearms were about. I mean I was panicking when I so much as saw the things. More people than you might think own guns, and every cop carries them so it was a problem.
A friend of mine happened to witness such an episode and we talked about it. Then he pulled his piece (which if I’d known he had I’d have freaked right the fuck out considering I couldn’t be in the same room where I knew a gun was), ejected the clip, and after much convincing (that is, yelling and crying on my part and the patience of Buddha on his part), I put one fingertip on the barrel of his glock (which sounds kinda dirty now that I say it). One fingertip. It was a bigger deal than it sounds like.
Unless you’ve had a full on phobia, you won’t understand the aversion the object of fear inspires. Like it’s got the worst cooties you could ever think of and just touching it will stop your breath and kill you on the spot. I told you it’s not a good survival skill.
Sparing my readers the tedious details of what is now known as habituation therapy in psychological circles, I’ll simply sum it up. It started with just getting to the point where I could put my hands on it. Gradually I moved to actually picking it up. Then I learned to shoot it. *Then* I fell in looooove.
And I kept shooting it and any gun anyone would let me shoot. I’m a pretty good shot these days actually. I own a shot gun. I’m going to apply for my concealed carry permit and own my own handgun as soon as I can afford to. I am now, in a complete turn around from full on phobia, a gun nut. I love shooting. The bigger the better. More bang is good. Mmmmm, Magnum.
My fear made no sense. A gun is an inanimate tool that needs will and intent in order to be dangerous. So I imposed my will and intent on the symbol of my fear until I made my monster my friend.
Even so, the first few minutes I have a gun in my hand I shake. Can’t help it. It goes away after a bit. But the residuals are still there. But fear, like anger or love, is a tool. Reminding me that the difference between predator and prey is only about what you use your fear for.
During the entire month of April, I am blogging for RAINN (Rape And Incest National Network) in support of National Sexual Assault Awareness and Prevention Month.
At least once a week all month long I’ll be blogging about sex and sexual violence as part of a contest through the Grassroots Blogger Book Marketing Campaign.
While reading these posts, you should think about donating to RAINN so they can do what they need to do to keep more women from falling prey to sexual violence. When you donate, if you could mention "GBBMC:08" and “captain_snarky" in the "In Honour Of" box, it will allow them to track my posts and the donations that those posts generate. If you want to donate but think I'm an obnoxious cow who shouldn't be allowed to win prizes, fuck you, but thanks for donating and feel free not to mention me if it offends you.
And if you're enjoying my rants, you may want to check out
chowyunsmut's LJ for a dose of her brand of hilarity. And it's all for a good cause. Yay karma!So here it is again, an oldie but a goody...
The Most Annoying Things Guys Have Told Me Girls Do During Oral:
1)The Piston.
For all the bitching girls do about guys focusing on the "magic button" to the exclusion of all the other bits we are equipped with down there, some seem to be unable to put their honey where their mouth is.
Listen up! It's not a ford engine ladies! If in and out was all he wanted he'd stick his dick in an accommodating piece of fruit. Boys, like girls, enjoy a little build up. If the head of the penis is like the clit (and it is, same tissue makes both during fetal development) then you can equate the rest of a man's parts to your own for the purposes of understanding what goes on down there. I have yet to meet a guy who doesn't like his balls (think labia) paid attention to.
If you're feeling ambidextrous, keeping a firm but gentle grip on them or some other finger play while doing other things generally produces an entertaining reaction. Ever hear of a teabag? They like that too. I know they're fuzzy, but get over it so are you. And some boys kindly shave them for your comfort and pleasure.
But don't ignore the shaft. It's not simply there to hang Kwanza ornaments off of. It's chock full of nerve endings too, and varied pressure from your hand, lips or teeth (if they like that sort of thing) puts a smile on his face. Use your mouth, your hands, your tits, your hair (yes your hair, it tickles and feels nice) vary the pressure, vary the speed. Basically do everything to them you'd like them to do to you and you'll be ok. But like women, when a man gets close, stop being creative and just hold that pace steady. Cuz if you think it's annoying to have your impending orgasm interrupted, keep in mind it's actually painful for them and let them finish at the pace they are obviously enjoying.
2) What About *My* G-Spot?
Men have a g-spot. No really, they do. It's called a prostate. Problem is it's only really accessible if you stick a finger in their pooper. Our culture is very ass shy. Not all women are willing to stick a finger in someone's bum and many, many men are afraid to let the ones that are willing try. It has to do partly with the same ick and ouch factors that we have, but also with a deeply embedded cultural taboo having to do with men not being allowed to like having things in their butt. So, proceed with caution. ASK FIRST. They are just as touchy about letting someone in their back door as you are about yours so be polite and indicate your intentions before trying it.
Also, trim your damn nails!
The tissue of the anus is much more delicate than that of the vagina so if you think long nails are a bitch in your pussy you don't even wanna know how it feels in the pooper. And if your lover wants you to stimulate the prostate while you dive, provided you don't have some issue with it beyond the poo thing, find a rubber glove if you're grossed out and do it. Why? Because it elicits almost the same reaction as g-spot stimulation in women and for those men who enjoy it it's like dialing the orgasm up a few notches. Like yours, their g-spot is in and up (towards the balls). However! Don't just go pokin' your finger in there willy nilly, you have to get past two rings of sphincter muscle first so go gently and use plenty of LUBE!
3) I SAID Harder, Harder, Faster!
I can't stress this enough. Pay. Attention.
Guys have a greater tendency to dirty talk than women. Don't ask me why, but a surprising number of men engage in it. However, there is a difference between dirty talk and directions and since guys also tend to be more comfortable with telling their partners how they like it than girls do, you must learn the difference, and ask for clarification if you're not sure. "I like it hard" might be part of his little scenario, or he might literally mean he wants you to employ your GI Joe Kung Fu Grip on his wang.
And boys, if you don't tell her what's up it's your own fault if she decides your babbling is just your own personal porno soundtrack and tunes you out. Keep in mind as well that silence is not golden in this case. To quote the wisdom of Mizs Salt and Peppa, "If you don't yell brutha how can I tell?" You don't need words to get your point across if she's paying attention.
4) Puking Is Not The New Black
Ah, the infamous deep throat.
Lemme break that down for you ladies. Beyond the visual stimulation provided by the sight of their cock being swallowed by some hottie, the muscles at the back of the throat contract on the head of their dick and feels rilly rilly nice. Now, everyone has a gag reflex. Some more sensitive than others. Everyone can also desensitize their gag reflex through practice. But this practice should probably happen in your kitchen with a handy vegetable or stunt cock made of latex or plastic rather than a living subject. Why? Your gag reflex is what makes you puke. That's only sexy for a select group of fetishists, not the average male.
5) Not Goal Oriented
Some guys, like some girls, just don't get off during oral. And ladies, it's not your fault. The penis also comes in varying degrees of sensitivity and the brains behind it has various things it thinks is stimulating. Giving yourself lock jaw trying to get a guy off that doesn't get off during oral won't get either of you anywhere. He'll stop feeling