Monday, October 31, 2005
"Ms. KAR" (Part 1)
After graduating from film school I enrolled in a director's workshop out of UCLA. I wanted to learn more about working with actors. The teacher let me in as the lone female director, but he suggested I try my hand at acting along the way.
This was how I met a dear friend who became more than that, Ms. KAR. Another director in the workshop approached both of us to appear in the armwrestling scene from the movie, "Personal Best." It was one of my favorite films from the time, and I knew the scene very well.
It is a love scene between two female athletes, and it comes at them from out of the blue as virtually a complete surprise.
K did not know the movie, or the scene, but the subject matter didn't seem to bother her. She was here to learn acting too, the content did not phase her one bit.
K was around 25 when I first met her. She had been recruited as a model right out of college in Fresno, California, and ended up in Tinseltown trying to segue into acting.
She had a great look, shoulder length dark hair, brown eyes, a softer looking Demi Moore. It was fun being out with her and seeing the reaction of the men. This chick could stop traffic on a dime just about anywhere. Contrary to what people may think about us Angelinos, we are not totally blase yet about all the beautiful types circulating amongst us.
There's always room for one more. That was K's attitude anyway, she had a somewhat ballsy personality at times. Any girl giving blow jobs to Michael Ovitz probably has a ballsy attitude from the get-go.
We started out as friends and peers during the rehearsals. Early on, our director rehearsed us with a couple of joints. The scene actually occurs late at night when both the athletes are unwinding. They light up a joint and proceed to get shitfaced. Then the scene turns gradually more erotic.
From the minute K and I lit up, we clicked really well as friends. We were seated on the sofa, something was said, something innocuous, but we both turned and looked at each other. One of those little moments of awareness when both parties know they are a good match. "You're right next to me in the Zodiac," she exclaimed, she being a Taurus and me a Gemini. We started hanging out together a lot, and smoking more pot. It was an incredible icebreaker between us. Before long, we left our director (married male) back down the road somewhere. He probably hoped he could jump K's bones too, why not, everyone else did. But instead he witnessed the two of us moving closer together as the rehearsals went on.
The night arrived when we were to put on the scene in the workshop. K and I decided we were going to stay "in character" and we smoked a joint first. The scene went off really well. We were both zonked out of our minds. It's amazing we remembered our lines. But we were so connected that the scene resonated well with the audience.
They thought we were going to have sex right there, as one woman told us later. There was some nervous rustling among the audience. Our teacher had little to say afterwards to correct anything; it was a perfectly played scene. He rarely did such a thing, but for us, we each got a big hug. He advised me to forget about directing and focus on acting. We were selected later to play the scene in front of the cameras, for a video class at UCLA. That went off well too.
And Ms KAR and I were well on our way to becoming...well, it gets complicated.
TO BE CONTINUED
This was how I met a dear friend who became more than that, Ms. KAR. Another director in the workshop approached both of us to appear in the armwrestling scene from the movie, "Personal Best." It was one of my favorite films from the time, and I knew the scene very well.
It is a love scene between two female athletes, and it comes at them from out of the blue as virtually a complete surprise.
K did not know the movie, or the scene, but the subject matter didn't seem to bother her. She was here to learn acting too, the content did not phase her one bit.
K was around 25 when I first met her. She had been recruited as a model right out of college in Fresno, California, and ended up in Tinseltown trying to segue into acting.
She had a great look, shoulder length dark hair, brown eyes, a softer looking Demi Moore. It was fun being out with her and seeing the reaction of the men. This chick could stop traffic on a dime just about anywhere. Contrary to what people may think about us Angelinos, we are not totally blase yet about all the beautiful types circulating amongst us.
There's always room for one more. That was K's attitude anyway, she had a somewhat ballsy personality at times. Any girl giving blow jobs to Michael Ovitz probably has a ballsy attitude from the get-go.
We started out as friends and peers during the rehearsals. Early on, our director rehearsed us with a couple of joints. The scene actually occurs late at night when both the athletes are unwinding. They light up a joint and proceed to get shitfaced. Then the scene turns gradually more erotic.
From the minute K and I lit up, we clicked really well as friends. We were seated on the sofa, something was said, something innocuous, but we both turned and looked at each other. One of those little moments of awareness when both parties know they are a good match. "You're right next to me in the Zodiac," she exclaimed, she being a Taurus and me a Gemini. We started hanging out together a lot, and smoking more pot. It was an incredible icebreaker between us. Before long, we left our director (married male) back down the road somewhere. He probably hoped he could jump K's bones too, why not, everyone else did. But instead he witnessed the two of us moving closer together as the rehearsals went on.
The night arrived when we were to put on the scene in the workshop. K and I decided we were going to stay "in character" and we smoked a joint first. The scene went off really well. We were both zonked out of our minds. It's amazing we remembered our lines. But we were so connected that the scene resonated well with the audience.
They thought we were going to have sex right there, as one woman told us later. There was some nervous rustling among the audience. Our teacher had little to say afterwards to correct anything; it was a perfectly played scene. He rarely did such a thing, but for us, we each got a big hug. He advised me to forget about directing and focus on acting. We were selected later to play the scene in front of the cameras, for a video class at UCLA. That went off well too.
And Ms KAR and I were well on our way to becoming...well, it gets complicated.
TO BE CONTINUED
Thursday, October 27, 2005
Fit To Be Tied (Pt.6)
Since I began these notes on the Citadel in San Francisco, I spoke with a new friend R, who gave me his own input on the place.
"I keep telling them," he says, with some agitation. "If you want people to have sex, you gotta heat the place up." D and I thought they managed to get that right, but apparently it's been a problem before tonight.
But R feels like we did that they don't take proper steps to make the place more conducive to fucking. They need a few more "horizontal" areas. The fact that the one regular-looking bed is way off in a corner does not send a good message that sex is ok in this place.
And yet R claims the owners of this club want to encourage more fucking. That's good to hear, and I can only hope this attitude will be reflected more decisively in the decor in the near future.
Perhaps another improvement they could consider is whether to reduce the size of the place to something a little cosier. Frankly it is a little too huge, too like a warehouse. You want a little more intimate feel, and it wouldn't have to compromise the space of those people who might like more room.
"I keep telling them," he says, with some agitation. "If you want people to have sex, you gotta heat the place up." D and I thought they managed to get that right, but apparently it's been a problem before tonight.
But R feels like we did that they don't take proper steps to make the place more conducive to fucking. They need a few more "horizontal" areas. The fact that the one regular-looking bed is way off in a corner does not send a good message that sex is ok in this place.
And yet R claims the owners of this club want to encourage more fucking. That's good to hear, and I can only hope this attitude will be reflected more decisively in the decor in the near future.
Perhaps another improvement they could consider is whether to reduce the size of the place to something a little cosier. Frankly it is a little too huge, too like a warehouse. You want a little more intimate feel, and it wouldn't have to compromise the space of those people who might like more room.
Another change I would consider is ways to socialize the guests a bit better. You've got people wandering around in a large area and it is not the easiest thing to connect. Perhaps a few hostesses, as they have at other parties sometimes, to get the people together. More games for people to play?
Unfortunately, as of the date of this column's publication (October 2005), the Citadel I hear is losing its lease.
When I checked their website this week, the facility's management announced that they were moving to a new site close by, still in the Mission District of San Francisco.
- - - - - -
Monday, October 24, 2005
Fit To Be Tied (Pt.5)
We are visiting the Citadel, a bondage club in San Francisco, for a "queer play party." Having described much of this place in less than flattering terms, you may ask, would we go back to this party? I am unsure, because I am unsure where I could fit into this whole "scene." Maybe I need a woman to take me under her wing - or whipping arm, if you will - and introduce me to the joys and tribulations. Right now, I am not sure who I would be there. I am willing to explore, but I am really a person not into physical pain. I've had enough of that, and I can't visualize getting aroused by pain per se. Maybe there's another way into this scene for me. I need to understand more the kind of head it takes to do this stuff.
My intuition is that I am probably opposed to it, I take too direct an approach to sex when I play with D. More the way another man would be. I am reading Camille Paglia these days, and in her "Sexual Personae" book she argues that women cannot emotionally fetishize to nearly the same degree that males can. So this "scene" will probably always seem more an arena for males to enjoy than other women. Of course I am always happy and often thrilled to be proved wrong(!)
So after D and I spend several hours roaming around this rather large arena, wondering how and what we should be doing here, we debate whether we want to go off somewhere a little more private. We suddenly got the novel idea of having REAL sex! Oh my God, what a thought.
The only room though set up for this is way off in a corner, with just a bed and a heater. Not too inspiring, since it's apparent we will have to turn the heater on and come back later. The room is freezing. When we return later, we discover two girls there, sitting on the bed, talking. Negotiations, or just chat? Hard to tell, we leave them to it. We decide against having sex anywhere else, it would probably scare the other patrons. And anyway, the mood is fast leaving us behind now.
The oddness of the whole evening is rather offputting. This is too cool, too distant, too studied. But then, maybe it has to be. You need to take a little thought before you end up killing your partner.
But a good old-fashioned orgy of people in a pile in a room. Well, that's something else, and we've decided that's what we really prefer.
My friend L, a bi woman now paired with an FTM, keeps chiding me for putting down BDSM activities. "There's more to sex than just fucking, for Christ's sake," she often yells at me when we debate this topic. Well, having thought about the matter some, I have to say, for me there is only fucking right now. At least for this point in time. Playing with a cat-o-nine tails could be foreplay I suppose, but it has to go somewhere. I don't want to wait until I get home to get fucked, drawing on my stored up memories of the evening's entertainment at this club.
If it's "play" you want, then come on over. But if want actual sex, you would be happier probably somewhere else.
TO BE CONTINUED
My intuition is that I am probably opposed to it, I take too direct an approach to sex when I play with D. More the way another man would be. I am reading Camille Paglia these days, and in her "Sexual Personae" book she argues that women cannot emotionally fetishize to nearly the same degree that males can. So this "scene" will probably always seem more an arena for males to enjoy than other women. Of course I am always happy and often thrilled to be proved wrong(!)
So after D and I spend several hours roaming around this rather large arena, wondering how and what we should be doing here, we debate whether we want to go off somewhere a little more private. We suddenly got the novel idea of having REAL sex! Oh my God, what a thought.
The only room though set up for this is way off in a corner, with just a bed and a heater. Not too inspiring, since it's apparent we will have to turn the heater on and come back later. The room is freezing. When we return later, we discover two girls there, sitting on the bed, talking. Negotiations, or just chat? Hard to tell, we leave them to it. We decide against having sex anywhere else, it would probably scare the other patrons. And anyway, the mood is fast leaving us behind now.
The oddness of the whole evening is rather offputting. This is too cool, too distant, too studied. But then, maybe it has to be. You need to take a little thought before you end up killing your partner.
But a good old-fashioned orgy of people in a pile in a room. Well, that's something else, and we've decided that's what we really prefer.
My friend L, a bi woman now paired with an FTM, keeps chiding me for putting down BDSM activities. "There's more to sex than just fucking, for Christ's sake," she often yells at me when we debate this topic. Well, having thought about the matter some, I have to say, for me there is only fucking right now. At least for this point in time. Playing with a cat-o-nine tails could be foreplay I suppose, but it has to go somewhere. I don't want to wait until I get home to get fucked, drawing on my stored up memories of the evening's entertainment at this club.
If it's "play" you want, then come on over. But if want actual sex, you would be happier probably somewhere else.
TO BE CONTINUED
Friday, October 21, 2005
Fit To Be Tied (Pt.4)
We're at the Citadel tonight for a bondage play party, and I was describing last time how D and I were watching a tall redhead getting the business from her partner. Red is a tall girl, with a lovely, curvaceous body and incredibly white skin. Those redheads! And her partner was rather fetching too, a strong-looking brunette dominatrix who seemed to know her stuff. We liked watching both of them, because they were really into it.
Which brings up an interesting thing about sex parties in general. The best entertainment, from the standpoint of both doing and watching, is when there is a connection between the players. That's what people respond to when they say, "Oh, it was really a hot scene to watch," or to be a part of. It can't just be about mindless fucking. There has to be some connection, emotionally, between the parties for it to rate the label, "hot sex." That's what these two women exuded as we watched them play. For all we know, they may not even be dating. They may only come here to play as a couple, and that's the extent of the involvement. You never know. And it wasn't a good time to ask them, either.
The dom took her flog, and trailed the tips of the cat-o-nines over the redhead's labia. Then she fastened clamps on the labia, and also to her nipples. Ouch, I'm thinking. This is a bit dicey for me to watch. I'm feeling a chill, yet the air down in the basement here is warm, quite warm. Apparently enough people yelled at the management to get them to crank up some heat. I had attended the Power Exchange back when they did the ladies "Wet Wednesdays," but the atmosphere was literally and figuratively cold. Very dark looking too, and rather industrial in tone. Maybe that's why hardly anyone was playing there on that night. Too damn cold.
What's the first thing you need for a sex party? Well, after you land the space to party, that is. You need HEAT. That should go without saying, and yet that is sometimes not the case.
Another scene draws our attention at the far end of the basement room. Several butches are playing with a middle-aged guy, who is getting humiliated right and left. The butch in charge is kind of interesting looking, dressed in jeans and workshirt, her short dark hair slicked back over her ears. She whips on a condom over the dildo she's wearing in a harness, and has the guy suck her off while the others watch. Nice! Having indulged in this little activity myself rather recently (sucking girlie cock that is, for the first time), I am really enjoying this part of the movie!
It seems the "doms," be they butch or femme, have brought their trainees along tonight. Almost every scene has someone hanging close to the dom, watching her, learning about how and where to hit someone where it won't hurt. D says I would be fun to practice on, since there are not many places on my body with enough padding to take a blow. Or two. My sinewy frame would indeed represent a challenge of sorts.
Speaking of blows and whips and whatnots, it was interesting to note how people arrive with their "baggage." Going to a dungeon raises a few questions, like, how do you get your gear through city streets without scaring the locals? Well, various transporting devices make appearances, like little suitcases on wheels, or large backpacks, containing all the bondage toys one could possibly need for an evening out. Several people also arrived with long leather quivers slung over their shoulders. Suddenly I am back to my youth, playing Robin Hood with my bow and arrows.
These guys and girls know how to pack! I want to speak with them before my next long trip.
TO BE CONTINUED
Which brings up an interesting thing about sex parties in general. The best entertainment, from the standpoint of both doing and watching, is when there is a connection between the players. That's what people respond to when they say, "Oh, it was really a hot scene to watch," or to be a part of. It can't just be about mindless fucking. There has to be some connection, emotionally, between the parties for it to rate the label, "hot sex." That's what these two women exuded as we watched them play. For all we know, they may not even be dating. They may only come here to play as a couple, and that's the extent of the involvement. You never know. And it wasn't a good time to ask them, either.
The dom took her flog, and trailed the tips of the cat-o-nines over the redhead's labia. Then she fastened clamps on the labia, and also to her nipples. Ouch, I'm thinking. This is a bit dicey for me to watch. I'm feeling a chill, yet the air down in the basement here is warm, quite warm. Apparently enough people yelled at the management to get them to crank up some heat. I had attended the Power Exchange back when they did the ladies "Wet Wednesdays," but the atmosphere was literally and figuratively cold. Very dark looking too, and rather industrial in tone. Maybe that's why hardly anyone was playing there on that night. Too damn cold.
What's the first thing you need for a sex party? Well, after you land the space to party, that is. You need HEAT. That should go without saying, and yet that is sometimes not the case.
Another scene draws our attention at the far end of the basement room. Several butches are playing with a middle-aged guy, who is getting humiliated right and left. The butch in charge is kind of interesting looking, dressed in jeans and workshirt, her short dark hair slicked back over her ears. She whips on a condom over the dildo she's wearing in a harness, and has the guy suck her off while the others watch. Nice! Having indulged in this little activity myself rather recently (sucking girlie cock that is, for the first time), I am really enjoying this part of the movie!
It seems the "doms," be they butch or femme, have brought their trainees along tonight. Almost every scene has someone hanging close to the dom, watching her, learning about how and where to hit someone where it won't hurt. D says I would be fun to practice on, since there are not many places on my body with enough padding to take a blow. Or two. My sinewy frame would indeed represent a challenge of sorts.
Speaking of blows and whips and whatnots, it was interesting to note how people arrive with their "baggage." Going to a dungeon raises a few questions, like, how do you get your gear through city streets without scaring the locals? Well, various transporting devices make appearances, like little suitcases on wheels, or large backpacks, containing all the bondage toys one could possibly need for an evening out. Several people also arrived with long leather quivers slung over their shoulders. Suddenly I am back to my youth, playing Robin Hood with my bow and arrows.
These guys and girls know how to pack! I want to speak with them before my next long trip.
TO BE CONTINUED
Monday, October 17, 2005
Fit To Be Tied (Pt.3)
Two stations held our attention for a while. A girl was strapped up against the wall, her arms held in leather cuffs over her head, her legs were spread. Right away I notice her cute little shaving job. A little tuft of hair covers her pubic bone area, but she's shaven over the lips and further below.
Now I happen to notice this because lately I have been conducting my own informal little survey among the dyke crowd: Who Shaves and Why, Who Doesn't. Time was when nearly all the women I dealt with were hairy little beasts. Somewhere, that changed. Now I gather most dykes seem to shave themselves, at least to some degree. In fact, hairy girls like me are disappearing fast, I gather. What's this all about? Even a couple of the guys D and I have encountered in our threesomes prefer the girl shaved. Hell, a lot of the guys shave themselves now, which really looks too weird for me anyway. But a lot of guys still like hair, and I like a man who knows all about jungles and the joy of wading through them.
One woman I met recently on Yahoo pounced on the dark eyebrows in my profile picture and asked me if I had the hair down below to go with it. I never made the connection before. I guess I'll have to start.
Hair is nice, because it looks intriguing, you can't quite see all that's there, but you know it's there. And it holds the scent of the person better, and that is part of the total experience. Involve all your senses, I say, why not the sense of smell to go with that of touch? It looks great to see a nice bush, be it male or female, with a glowing sheen of perspiration layered over it, like a fine mist. There's nothing more erotic, for me, than seeing a woman's clothes come off and your eye can go right to the bush and there IS a bush. It's so disappointing to see nothing there at all, and even if you can see the lips and even if they're large, it's still a disappointment to not find the hair.
Recently, D and I rented the movie, "The Swimming Pool." A hottie little European film with women and sex and sex and women and writing thrown in for good measure. My kind of movie. There's a scene late in the film, when the heroine (Charlotte Rampling) strips and lies down on her bed for the old Spanish gardener, who is invited in to gaze upon her. Here's this gorgeous actress, who was a real flamethrower in her salad days, for sure, now pushing 60, like me, and she's got this great hairy bush. Wonderful! It made my day when I saw that.
My reasons for growing my hair also include the fact that it covers somewhat the dacron graft the doctors installed in my groin area after my aneurysm surgery. It's a tubular structure suspended down internally from my heart that crosses the groin and feeds adequate blood to both my legs. I suppose I felt a bit self-conscious at first, because the tube - which is about 6 inches long, nearly an inch wide and about half an inch tall - makes it look like I have acquired...well, an artificial dick all my own. I should ask women that in future. Do you like my built-in toy? If I were a normal sized person, the tube would mostly be covered. But I am thin, so it's on prominent display. Having a nice layering of hair conceals it somewhat. But people still get curious. One of my friends took the bull by the horns and asked me, during our spa visit, "What's THAT?" Now this was a girl who would probably LOVE a built-in toy herself, and we joked about it. Is the tube useful in any way? Well, having given the matter a little thought, I would hope someone someday is going to climb on top of me, at a slight angle, and rub herself off against it. I'd like to try it myself, but unfortunately one of the things about Being Me is that I won't be able to do myself, at least not that way.
I'm always on the lookout though for new and interesting ways to get myself off. Given enough time, I will figure this one out too.
TO BE CONTINUED
Now I happen to notice this because lately I have been conducting my own informal little survey among the dyke crowd: Who Shaves and Why, Who Doesn't. Time was when nearly all the women I dealt with were hairy little beasts. Somewhere, that changed. Now I gather most dykes seem to shave themselves, at least to some degree. In fact, hairy girls like me are disappearing fast, I gather. What's this all about? Even a couple of the guys D and I have encountered in our threesomes prefer the girl shaved. Hell, a lot of the guys shave themselves now, which really looks too weird for me anyway. But a lot of guys still like hair, and I like a man who knows all about jungles and the joy of wading through them.
One woman I met recently on Yahoo pounced on the dark eyebrows in my profile picture and asked me if I had the hair down below to go with it. I never made the connection before. I guess I'll have to start.
Hair is nice, because it looks intriguing, you can't quite see all that's there, but you know it's there. And it holds the scent of the person better, and that is part of the total experience. Involve all your senses, I say, why not the sense of smell to go with that of touch? It looks great to see a nice bush, be it male or female, with a glowing sheen of perspiration layered over it, like a fine mist. There's nothing more erotic, for me, than seeing a woman's clothes come off and your eye can go right to the bush and there IS a bush. It's so disappointing to see nothing there at all, and even if you can see the lips and even if they're large, it's still a disappointment to not find the hair.
Recently, D and I rented the movie, "The Swimming Pool." A hottie little European film with women and sex and sex and women and writing thrown in for good measure. My kind of movie. There's a scene late in the film, when the heroine (Charlotte Rampling) strips and lies down on her bed for the old Spanish gardener, who is invited in to gaze upon her. Here's this gorgeous actress, who was a real flamethrower in her salad days, for sure, now pushing 60, like me, and she's got this great hairy bush. Wonderful! It made my day when I saw that.
My reasons for growing my hair also include the fact that it covers somewhat the dacron graft the doctors installed in my groin area after my aneurysm surgery. It's a tubular structure suspended down internally from my heart that crosses the groin and feeds adequate blood to both my legs. I suppose I felt a bit self-conscious at first, because the tube - which is about 6 inches long, nearly an inch wide and about half an inch tall - makes it look like I have acquired...well, an artificial dick all my own. I should ask women that in future. Do you like my built-in toy? If I were a normal sized person, the tube would mostly be covered. But I am thin, so it's on prominent display. Having a nice layering of hair conceals it somewhat. But people still get curious. One of my friends took the bull by the horns and asked me, during our spa visit, "What's THAT?" Now this was a girl who would probably LOVE a built-in toy herself, and we joked about it. Is the tube useful in any way? Well, having given the matter a little thought, I would hope someone someday is going to climb on top of me, at a slight angle, and rub herself off against it. I'd like to try it myself, but unfortunately one of the things about Being Me is that I won't be able to do myself, at least not that way.
I'm always on the lookout though for new and interesting ways to get myself off. Given enough time, I will figure this one out too.
TO BE CONTINUED
Thursday, October 13, 2005
Fit To Be Tied (Pt.2)
Last time I began talking about the Citadel, a bondage club in San Francisco. Now we're taking a tour....
The place is fairly large, two stories worth. We climb a flight of stairs to the check-in area, where clothes can be left, fetish outfits put on, whatever. Entry fee is the usual twenty clams. They give you a brown paper shopping bag to stash your clothes and valuables in. Sounds iffy, but it works. Then you round a dividing wall and enter the place proper.
A large wrestling mat is the first thing one sees inside. And real live wrestling was going on throughout the evening. Again, wrestling that was just wrestling, grappling, writhing around. Not even an attempt at playing grab-ass. The cutest guy in the place was there, clad in jeans but no shirt, with a cowboy hat. But no sex play at all.
We migrate further along, the main floor here is set up for the whitebread activities. Noshing on snacks, drinking coffee, hanging out on the sofas chatting. Most of the people here seem to know each other, which makes for breaking in as newcomers a bit tricky. D and I are about the only male-female couple here tonight.
D is already getting a bad feeling about his possibilities for the evening's entertainment. He sees maybe two or three guys he may be interested in. He really wants the Cowboy. But the Cowboy's not for burning. Er...fucking. He's not even wrestling steers, dammit! He's just wrestling. There was more heat back in the old "Rawhide" series.
As D eyes the boys, I'm checking out this slim squeak of a girl dressed all in black. We saw her at the front door and smiled as we arrived together. I watch her throughout the evening, wondering what kind of scene she's looking to hook into. I am uncertain what she's after. But then, people probably thought that of me.
I mean, here I am, with a guy, wearing an outfit that probably sends mixed messages. I have a thick collar around my neck, the kind with the three rings. D bought this for me a while back. I added soft leather straps, which hook into the collar rings and drop down across my naked chest, and loop into the top strap of a harness (toys removed, yes thank you), which I am wearing to cover my privates. They do, barely. It's quite a nice looking outfit, rather beautiful in a way or so one woman told me.
But is it signalling that I'm a top, or a bottom? What's the big deal? Well, in THIS place, or similar, it becomes a big deal. My body type is very lean and sinewy with definition, so that probably says "top" all over the place. But yet I'm wearing the collar. Several girls have also come in with collars. Actually, they were led in by their respective female partners. Leashes were attached to their collars. I had no such leash, and I'm with a guy, so God only knows what the crowd thought. I am probably more than likely to be Bottom Material, at least at this early point in my budding career as Party Slut. I will probably develop into a top, of sorts, as I move along through trials and tribulations. Is this what they mean by the Wonder Years?
Downstairs we go, into the heart of the place, where the fun stuff goes on. It's a long rectangular room, with various stations on each side. You can pretty much see from the front end all the way down to the rear. Spectators can move along and watch the action on both fronts, as it were.
They have flogging stations, St. Andrews crosses (an x style, rather than a T cross), spanking benches, bondage tables, several leather slings are suspended from the ceiling.
There's a "puppy cage," and you forgot to bring your pooch. There's also a stand-up cell, somewhat misnamed, because you can't quite stand up in it, nor can you lay down quite fully. Cages designed to make you cringe.
We also saw a pommel horse device, where a lovely woman was bent over, her naked ass in the air, getting paddled for what seemed like ages.
Is it the exhibitionism? The enjoyment of having your naked butt hoisted in the air in public? Is it the thrill of the spanking? Take your pick as to motives, they're probably all good.
TO BE CONTINUED
The place is fairly large, two stories worth. We climb a flight of stairs to the check-in area, where clothes can be left, fetish outfits put on, whatever. Entry fee is the usual twenty clams. They give you a brown paper shopping bag to stash your clothes and valuables in. Sounds iffy, but it works. Then you round a dividing wall and enter the place proper.
A large wrestling mat is the first thing one sees inside. And real live wrestling was going on throughout the evening. Again, wrestling that was just wrestling, grappling, writhing around. Not even an attempt at playing grab-ass. The cutest guy in the place was there, clad in jeans but no shirt, with a cowboy hat. But no sex play at all.
We migrate further along, the main floor here is set up for the whitebread activities. Noshing on snacks, drinking coffee, hanging out on the sofas chatting. Most of the people here seem to know each other, which makes for breaking in as newcomers a bit tricky. D and I are about the only male-female couple here tonight.
D is already getting a bad feeling about his possibilities for the evening's entertainment. He sees maybe two or three guys he may be interested in. He really wants the Cowboy. But the Cowboy's not for burning. Er...fucking. He's not even wrestling steers, dammit! He's just wrestling. There was more heat back in the old "Rawhide" series.
As D eyes the boys, I'm checking out this slim squeak of a girl dressed all in black. We saw her at the front door and smiled as we arrived together. I watch her throughout the evening, wondering what kind of scene she's looking to hook into. I am uncertain what she's after. But then, people probably thought that of me.
I mean, here I am, with a guy, wearing an outfit that probably sends mixed messages. I have a thick collar around my neck, the kind with the three rings. D bought this for me a while back. I added soft leather straps, which hook into the collar rings and drop down across my naked chest, and loop into the top strap of a harness (toys removed, yes thank you), which I am wearing to cover my privates. They do, barely. It's quite a nice looking outfit, rather beautiful in a way or so one woman told me.
But is it signalling that I'm a top, or a bottom? What's the big deal? Well, in THIS place, or similar, it becomes a big deal. My body type is very lean and sinewy with definition, so that probably says "top" all over the place. But yet I'm wearing the collar. Several girls have also come in with collars. Actually, they were led in by their respective female partners. Leashes were attached to their collars. I had no such leash, and I'm with a guy, so God only knows what the crowd thought. I am probably more than likely to be Bottom Material, at least at this early point in my budding career as Party Slut. I will probably develop into a top, of sorts, as I move along through trials and tribulations. Is this what they mean by the Wonder Years?
Downstairs we go, into the heart of the place, where the fun stuff goes on. It's a long rectangular room, with various stations on each side. You can pretty much see from the front end all the way down to the rear. Spectators can move along and watch the action on both fronts, as it were.
They have flogging stations, St. Andrews crosses (an x style, rather than a T cross), spanking benches, bondage tables, several leather slings are suspended from the ceiling.
There's a "puppy cage," and you forgot to bring your pooch. There's also a stand-up cell, somewhat misnamed, because you can't quite stand up in it, nor can you lay down quite fully. Cages designed to make you cringe.
We also saw a pommel horse device, where a lovely woman was bent over, her naked ass in the air, getting paddled for what seemed like ages.
Is it the exhibitionism? The enjoyment of having your naked butt hoisted in the air in public? Is it the thrill of the spanking? Take your pick as to motives, they're probably all good.
TO BE CONTINUED
Thursday, October 06, 2005
Fit To Be Tied (Pt.1)
The Citadel is a fairly new dungeon space in San Francisco (opened Dec 2003), which has sucked away a good deal of business from the other facility in town, the Power Exchange. My partner and I attended a "queer play party" there recently. This after going to several other sex parties around town, many of them with a lot of hetero action going on. This night was different in that everyone in attendance was/looked pretty damn queer. Coed too, probably with a few more women than men. But queer. Hetero guys could fit in here, if they are into diversity. That quality we liked about the place. And I especially liked that I was starting to see - in this crowd of all places - the sorts of women I find attractive, namely lean and fitter types. Perhaps the BDSM "scene" promotes more of this type of look.
Unfortunately, the place was just too weird. And in the end, just too asexual for sluts like D and I.
Let me tell you about this scene. It's not really about sex at all. That was probably our first and biggest discovery of the evening, much to our mutual disappointment. People come here it seems to stage their respective "scenes," their floggings, spankings, whatever. But only one couple was having sex, a dyke couple where the butch was fucking her partner in a leather swing. I guess it could pass for sex, even though there's a toy involved, not a real penis. Nonetheless I found myself watching them rather lustfully, imagining myself as the bottom. I have always wanted to get schtupped by another woman with a strap-on, in public, yes, thank you. Definitely atop my "to do" list. Afterwards I would want to switch and be the top. These two women were going at it early in the evening, and about forty five minutes later when I checked back they were still at it.
Hence the term given to this night as a "play party" (sounds nicer I suppose than calling it a sex party). Play there was, in ample amounts, but that's all it was. Just play. Didn't even serve as foreplay. Doesn't play go somewhere, we wondered. From point A to B. But here at the Citadel, we start at point A and pretty much stay there. Nothing but play, unfortunately.
And quite in view of the paying public, as it were. People were watching if they weren't playing at their scenes. But this crowd did not seem interested in having sex. So if you are looking for a sex party per se at one of these dungeon events, you may want to really investigate what you're getting into. It may turn out to disappoint you as much as it did us.
Some of the types here were really something. Out of Charles Dickens by way of de Sade. Quaintness predominates. A large florid man, who certainly looked the part of a Scotsman, was running around in a traditional kilt and cap. I was holding my breath about the bagpipes. They did not appear out from under his drapery. I would have personally flogged him if he had started up with the music.
D was vastly amused by the guy, and made fun of him later to several friends, in his best Scottish accent.
"Do you wont to have a good wrestle?" he would ask people. That was the height of Negotiation Conversations for us that night. You know, the ones where people give up their kinks to their partners for the night, you tell me yours, I tell you my kink, you talk things over, who wants what. You find out how you get into it. Then you find out how you get out of it, if you choose to. You agree on your code words, the ones you use to warn your partner when things are getting, well, heavy, and could you stop now, pretty please?
But wrestling? Well, maybe it slides into the equation here somewhere.
But sex? You would be happier at another party, perhaps.
Having ranted on the place for a while here, let me say that, personally, I found it more hospitable appearing than the Power Exchange, which is like a setting out of the new Batman movie. Dark, industrial, chilly, both figuratively and literally. At least the Citadel has a pleasant, cocoon-like rosy hue going for it.
Next time, let me take you on a tour....
- - - - - -
Unfortunately, the place was just too weird. And in the end, just too asexual for sluts like D and I.
Let me tell you about this scene. It's not really about sex at all. That was probably our first and biggest discovery of the evening, much to our mutual disappointment. People come here it seems to stage their respective "scenes," their floggings, spankings, whatever. But only one couple was having sex, a dyke couple where the butch was fucking her partner in a leather swing. I guess it could pass for sex, even though there's a toy involved, not a real penis. Nonetheless I found myself watching them rather lustfully, imagining myself as the bottom. I have always wanted to get schtupped by another woman with a strap-on, in public, yes, thank you. Definitely atop my "to do" list. Afterwards I would want to switch and be the top. These two women were going at it early in the evening, and about forty five minutes later when I checked back they were still at it.
Hence the term given to this night as a "play party" (sounds nicer I suppose than calling it a sex party). Play there was, in ample amounts, but that's all it was. Just play. Didn't even serve as foreplay. Doesn't play go somewhere, we wondered. From point A to B. But here at the Citadel, we start at point A and pretty much stay there. Nothing but play, unfortunately.
And quite in view of the paying public, as it were. People were watching if they weren't playing at their scenes. But this crowd did not seem interested in having sex. So if you are looking for a sex party per se at one of these dungeon events, you may want to really investigate what you're getting into. It may turn out to disappoint you as much as it did us.
Some of the types here were really something. Out of Charles Dickens by way of de Sade. Quaintness predominates. A large florid man, who certainly looked the part of a Scotsman, was running around in a traditional kilt and cap. I was holding my breath about the bagpipes. They did not appear out from under his drapery. I would have personally flogged him if he had started up with the music.
D was vastly amused by the guy, and made fun of him later to several friends, in his best Scottish accent.
"Do you wont to have a good wrestle?" he would ask people. That was the height of Negotiation Conversations for us that night. You know, the ones where people give up their kinks to their partners for the night, you tell me yours, I tell you my kink, you talk things over, who wants what. You find out how you get into it. Then you find out how you get out of it, if you choose to. You agree on your code words, the ones you use to warn your partner when things are getting, well, heavy, and could you stop now, pretty please?
But wrestling? Well, maybe it slides into the equation here somewhere.
But sex? You would be happier at another party, perhaps.
Having ranted on the place for a while here, let me say that, personally, I found it more hospitable appearing than the Power Exchange, which is like a setting out of the new Batman movie. Dark, industrial, chilly, both figuratively and literally. At least the Citadel has a pleasant, cocoon-like rosy hue going for it.
Next time, let me take you on a tour....
- - - - - -
Monday, October 03, 2005
Loves Carbs, Devours Red Meat, Inhales
Dating women can send a girl around the bend. Now I understand how men often feel dealing with us. Sometimes - in a fit of funk, feeblemindedness, or just female loathing - I let fly with another personal ad, usually on Craigslist.
Here is one of them.
"Sarcastic, superfit older miscreant seeking sarcastic, physically fit but mentally questionable types, for useless bouts of hanging out, sneaking into artsy-fartsy foreign movies on one ticket and one ticket alone, scoping out nude beaches and tormenting Republicans. Along the way I can cook and feed you rather nice meals, rub your aching muscles (yes you should have some, and yes, they will ache after time spent with moi). I'm told I don't look or act my age, so with any decent luck you won't be the one to take up the slack.
5'6" almost, 118 pounds, lean tanned build, curly short blonde hair with no gray, thanks for asking anyway you're so sweet, piercing blue eyes. Swedish genes on one side, English on the other. Funny, that combo promises (usually) a sense of balance and decorum, neither of which I am happy to say that I possess. Not even a good scrap of Swedish furniture for you to sit down on, unless you're into Ikea.
To make matters worse (or to thicken the stew, depending how twisted you are), there's a younger Jew Boy in the mix too, also a Pole-Sitter. He hovers attentively in the B.G., packs my sex toys for me when I run out the door for my girlie rendezvous, but he won't bother you unless you insist on it. And knowing you, you probably won't. This is ok with me. He takes the high road and I the low. Somewhere Scotland awaits us. I'm Gemini, so don't bother telling me how bisexual I am, I know that already. Having discovered my mom's veggie section of the fridge at an early age (especially those fetching zucchinis), it was only a matter of time before hordes of men landed on my cute little ass.
Now I'm ready for the hordes of women.
I run around a lot doing disgustingly physical activities. You don't even want to know, but that's how I look so good. You should try it too. In amonst the Banana Boat SPF 15 and the Speedos, you will find a wild assortment of books, magazines, DVDs, art posters. Sex toys too. Eclectic and wide-ranging tastes, much of it in her mouth but nevermind. Berkeley grad, the infamous class of '69. Literature, followed by another equally useless degree in film writing at the AFI. Followed by several Grande Tours of Europe, the Middle East and Asia, where I lived, loved, worked and fleshed out those more atavistic impulses that you can never quite scratch on home turf.
After decades in L.A. hanging with film types, bicycle junkies and the really really useless crowds that hang in L.A., I've decided to head back to My Roots. I miss the Berkeley babes, they get me better up here. Looking to meet types with an attitude, who range all over the butch-femme-andro spectrum, who like energetic and physical lovemaking and can hold their own in any social setting. You don't have to be bi, or strictly gay, age is open too. Just understand that this is a woman seeking other women, so if you have a guy too hooray for your side, but check him at the door.
Cheers!
- - - - - - -
Here is one of them.
"Sarcastic, superfit older miscreant seeking sarcastic, physically fit but mentally questionable types, for useless bouts of hanging out, sneaking into artsy-fartsy foreign movies on one ticket and one ticket alone, scoping out nude beaches and tormenting Republicans. Along the way I can cook and feed you rather nice meals, rub your aching muscles (yes you should have some, and yes, they will ache after time spent with moi). I'm told I don't look or act my age, so with any decent luck you won't be the one to take up the slack.
5'6" almost, 118 pounds, lean tanned build, curly short blonde hair with no gray, thanks for asking anyway you're so sweet, piercing blue eyes. Swedish genes on one side, English on the other. Funny, that combo promises (usually) a sense of balance and decorum, neither of which I am happy to say that I possess. Not even a good scrap of Swedish furniture for you to sit down on, unless you're into Ikea.
To make matters worse (or to thicken the stew, depending how twisted you are), there's a younger Jew Boy in the mix too, also a Pole-Sitter. He hovers attentively in the B.G., packs my sex toys for me when I run out the door for my girlie rendezvous, but he won't bother you unless you insist on it. And knowing you, you probably won't. This is ok with me. He takes the high road and I the low. Somewhere Scotland awaits us. I'm Gemini, so don't bother telling me how bisexual I am, I know that already. Having discovered my mom's veggie section of the fridge at an early age (especially those fetching zucchinis), it was only a matter of time before hordes of men landed on my cute little ass.
Now I'm ready for the hordes of women.
I run around a lot doing disgustingly physical activities. You don't even want to know, but that's how I look so good. You should try it too. In amonst the Banana Boat SPF 15 and the Speedos, you will find a wild assortment of books, magazines, DVDs, art posters. Sex toys too. Eclectic and wide-ranging tastes, much of it in her mouth but nevermind. Berkeley grad, the infamous class of '69. Literature, followed by another equally useless degree in film writing at the AFI. Followed by several Grande Tours of Europe, the Middle East and Asia, where I lived, loved, worked and fleshed out those more atavistic impulses that you can never quite scratch on home turf.
After decades in L.A. hanging with film types, bicycle junkies and the really really useless crowds that hang in L.A., I've decided to head back to My Roots. I miss the Berkeley babes, they get me better up here. Looking to meet types with an attitude, who range all over the butch-femme-andro spectrum, who like energetic and physical lovemaking and can hold their own in any social setting. You don't have to be bi, or strictly gay, age is open too. Just understand that this is a woman seeking other women, so if you have a guy too hooray for your side, but check him at the door.
Cheers!
- - - - - - -
