Vanilla Serial

This past week I went on three, count them, three e-dates through OKCupid. As I related a post ago, OKCupid is a free, non-fetish, dating site that rates personalities and matches people according to answers on multiple choice questions. In a section of a person's profile, characteristics are expressed in a bar graph against a "norm" of OKC members. For example, someone may be more aggressive, cool, spiritual, or adventurous. A blue bar stretches out to the right of the mid-line expressing how much "cooler" you are than the normal OKC e-dater.

BTW, isn't "OKC" pretty sceney? Like "Over-The-Knee Cupid"? She-Who-Visits actually thought that was what it stood for. Don't I wish!

Anyway, I test off the charts for more "kinky" than the normal OKCupid hopeful, so I figure they must be doing something right. But as I've come to learn this week, what I think is kinky and what OKCupid rates as kinky are two very different things. OKCupid thinks you're kinky if you're bi; or don't believe in monogamy; or would date someone who had sex with a member of the same sex. So there's a gulf, to say the least.

But it has been lots of fun. All three women were smart, thoughtful, funny, and very respectful of my desire to meet a dommy girl. The one on Friday night even reached over and kissed me, on the mouth with tongue, in the dark hors d'oeuvres bar where we met and then dared me to try and turn her on. There she sat, directly opposite me; her arms folded to wield her ample decolletage! Now, since I have a way with words, if I do say so myself, I succeeded in meeting her hot challenge - or so she said. But she was already seeing a Mennonite and I suppose dating me would be like going out with a Pigalle street walker by comparison.

She messaged me this morning that it seemed to her I wanted to hook-up with someone who wanted to live "the lifestyle" and she simply wanted to meet someone she liked and who liked her. It was clear, however, that somewhere inside, percolating like an errant underground spring; she had a kinky streak. She just didn't want to go there. She wanted the Mennonite.

I like this serial vanilla dating because these women reflect me back at myself and push me to really think about what it is I want. My kink is pretty manageable I think. 24/7 slave? No way. A completely female led relationship? I've always had a problem with authority. I can tick off a list of preferences, none of which are particularly involved, but I think it's the connection and the attitude that really takes me there.

And I'm not going to compromise or settle. That's not to say that in the day-to-day clinches of a relationship I wouldn't give. I have a giving and accomodating nature. Just ask She-Who-Visits! Nobody grovels like me, says She. In the end, I'm looking for a somewhat scene savvy, dominant woman who wants to invite me to share her unique adventure - and together we'll make it ours.

I'll know her when I see her. I've given up too much and come too far to not keep looking. Ya might even say I've fought for my right to be chosen by the domme girl of my dreams.

The Art Of Baking Humble Pie

So what's on your menu? That was essentially the focus of my recent interview with the lovely, obviously talented, and oh-so-smart certain someone who shall remain anonymous until she gives me permission to share her identity. As we virtual chatted about the origins and manifestations of my kink, her very attentive and perceptive questions honed in on what it is I really like and why. While I've ruminated, analyzed, and pondered this stuff for sometime now, I'd never really had someone inquire and follow the thread of from whence my desires issue in quite the same consistently thoughtful way. Save for my shrink - and I've known her since I was two - or so it sometimes feels.

So when the certain now nameless someone began to ask me about my thing for humiliation I was really challenged to deconstruct and elucidate a deep, erotic drive that is, in so many ways, the essence of what makes my kinky second hand sweep. For me, the image of the snarly domme, barking and spitting about my flimsy, flaccid, farce of an excuse for wood is just so much ill informed hamfisting. It's the mainstream media archetype. It conjures images of a cowering, embarrassed, weak, submissive who craves feeling bad about himself.

Now, if that's your thing, more power to you. But for me, my need for a humiliatrix is all about love, romance, sex, empowerment, redemption and transcendence. I've done an awful lot of sexualizing difficult situations in order to feel good about bad stuff. From mother stuff, to a classically unhappy adolescence, to a completely failed vanilla sex life - I've eroticized the emotional malfunction of mommy dearest's disparagement and life's disappointments in general.

Why, you may ask, if I understand this can't I get the cure and just be normal. Well, being a pervert is much more interesting, it feels way hot, and it just plain is who I am. It is by seeking the replication of disapproval and transcending it that I am redeemed. My domme values my need because it permits her sadism. Together we fit perfectly and it is there in that pain space that I am capable of tremendous intimacy and romance. It's pretty counter-intuitive but I know surely in my heart that it is true for me.

On a breezier note, we chatted about my thing for vintage lingerie. Give me a nice black Rago Shapette open bottomed girdle and a long line bullet bra over leather any day of the week. Not that there's a problem with leather. There's just something about lycra and support circling when baby's got back that sets my heart aflutter. Just what did Katie do, anyhow?

What's A Little Ironing Among Friends

I must have She brain. My wonderful friend Crimson was here last week and all I write about is She. I suppose it's understandable. It's Day Sixteen of on my honor chastity. I'm lucky I remember my own name. I pulled out the CB-3000 last night, but the damn hinge ring is just so bloody uncomfortable I put it away like an old pair of jeans that used to fit, that you want to have fit, but the butt isn't doing what yer mind wants it to.

Anyway, I was supposed to pick Crimson up at LaGuardia but her plane was rain delayed and I didn't get to see her until Friday morning. She was staying in a nice East Side hotel that has a great rep, but she said was a bit of a dowager. She had invited me to have breakfast. She also offered to let me do her ironing for her. I mean what's a poor, out-of-town girl to do? Maidless, she was faced with the unimaginable prospect of doing her own ironing. Out of the question. She told me it had been years since she touched an ironing board, to say nothing of spray starch.

So, with She's permission, I agreed to help a girl out. I wrote about ironing in a post last year entitled "Kink In A Christmas Table Cloth". This was the A-side of the record. It was way fun. I ironed in my suit. Well, I did take my jacket off. But she was lying on the bed, her corset was hanging in the closet, and I got to iron a number of silky little nothings, including the pretty summer dress she wore the next day to our oh-so-organic, tofutti, Saturday morning brunch in the East Village.

My friend Crimson is so hot. She's now a strawberry blonde and despite a grueling work schedule, she was looking very Joan Holloway curvy. I love that we are friends. She's really been a key person in my feeling great about being a submissive man. I told her I had some pictures to show her. She sort of froze and asked if they were going to ruin her breakfast. I told her I hoped not. Well, she allowed, often the pictures guys showed her were not best viewed before eggs, or in her case some weird but healthy vegan concoction.

I told her the pictures were chronological. The second was more dramatic than the first and the first might rob the second of some its impact. I suggested she view the later picture first. She braced bravely. I handed her the framed photo. It was me at twenty five. She brightened, visibly relieved.

"Oh ... oh i definitely would have hit on you", she laughed.

I sit in an old, damask upolstered, Victorian chair; one leg crossed at the ankle over the knee of the other. I wear a pair of tight roll legged jeans; a loose river driver shirt, open at the neck; black high top Chucks; and a very goofy grin. In my lap is a gallon of ice cream. With hair tied back from my shoulders, a scruffy goatee, and spoon in hand; I attack my sweet quarry. A seventies hipster, alt-rockeresque vision of a dude in need of a bath.

We had a great time talking, laughing and conspiring. She might move here. I really hope she does. I love Crimson. I have a real scene friend.

As we hugged goodbye the next day, she said she'd always want to see me when she came to town. She told me I was delightful. Fancy that, a hot domme thinks I'm delightful. Well, she's delight-fuller.

Here's some Joan for ya Crimson, I miss ya girl.

Ties That Bind

Yesterday I went to the RopeShare Dojo. It was amazing. I learned so much about basic rope play and the teachers, assistants and fellow students were all great. That I could just walk off the street into a beautiful studio and be among other friendly, accomplished, funny, smart, kinky people interested in rope play was transforming. Up until this class I'd pretty much been a reasonably educated consumer of an occasional tie down. Rope bondage has not been a regular menu item among the wishlists I've presented to prodommes I've sessioned with over the years. But two experiences gave me rope on the brain.

First was a couple of years ago in the embryonic throes of my one of its kind relationship with "She-Who-Visits". She and her husband were going to a city out of town for the weekend. They were planning on a fun fullfilled romp and she said she was packing her jeans, her little black dress and lots of rope. I flat out ached with jealousy!! Second was being tied to a cold steel St. Andrew's Cross at L'Oeil Cache by an amazingly creative young domme who has a passion for rope. She was the first I knew of to lash me down with hemp rope. Inspired by this transcendent scene I wrote these lines on The Hang:

Can we find true romance, new millenium style, on the toll road to heaven... or is that best left in the pile of hemp rope, cut from a chest ... fallen on the dungeon floor?

A day or so later we met for cookies and milk at a local bakery she favors. She very genuinely chided me for suggesting that she'd actually had to cut her hemp rope off me. "That was the twine", she indignantly corrected. I mumbled something about creative license, but after RopeShare I understand the skill and pride a top rope domme takes in her craft.

The class was divided into beginners, intermediates and black diamonds with icy moguls. The lovely and charming Yin, our hostess with the mostest, taught the black belts. Andy Weiner guided the intermediates and my basic noobie course was taught by the incomparable Delano. And somewhere, the oh-so-hot Michele Serchuk assisted. Really, I totally confess I was kinda smitten by her.

Delano taught us safety, safety and more safety. Watch your bottom for body temp changes. Bottoms don't wimp out and not sing out if your hands or feet start to tingle and get numb. Keep EMT shears handy and don't be afraid to use them. In an effort to come to class with "safety shears" I had pathetically bought a pair of little plastic kiddie scissors. At least my face saving joke that no, I wasn't intentionally trying to combine ageplay and rope bondage got a classmate to laugh. We learned about hemp, cotton, nylon, jute and polypropylene. I now know from rope burn rate. We learned four basic ties - quick release two column tie, two column lock down tie, sling tie, and my fave, the very sexy spreader bar tie. We learned the importance of communication.

It was a major stretch for me to do the tying. But look ma, there I was - the life long bottom - dancing the top part. Unnatural as it felt, I really saw first hand the knowledge, practice and experience that goes into serious rope bondage. I got big time new respect and admiration for dommes who perfect the choreography of the tie down. Just controlling the rope is a major deal. Our graduation exercise was working all four ties into a creative rope bondage experience. Delano's demonstration of the spreader bar tie as gag was just a flat out "take-me-out-to-the-ballgame-and-buy-me-some-peanuts-and-crackerjacks" experience. It just made me wanna play ball!!

We all donated some money to the National Coalition for Sexual Freedom and had a grand old time. I definitely want to go to some more rope play classes. I loved the no ego, laboratory experience and the friendly manner everyone involved had. And it just made me want to get into even better shape, do my stretches, my yoga and get more flexible. Ya never know when Ms. Right will come outta nowhere, because;

You can make this beggar a king
A clown or a poet - poet, poet, poet.
I'll give you all that I own.
You got me standing in line
Out in the cold
Pay me some mind.

Gotta love 60's lypsyncin' don't cha?