No No, NaNo! (or... Yes Yes?)

by Giselle Renarde

Like Lisabet, I've been doing far too much of nothing lately.

Not NOTHING, exactly. Try spending an entire day staring at a wall. I can manage that if I'm severely depressed, but that's not where I'm at right now. Still, I haven't been writing much of anything. Even typing this blog post right now feels a little strange. My fingers aren't accustomed to the work-out.

I used to be a prolific author. I've lost track of how many short stories I've written over the years. Hundreds, definitely. Possibly a thousand or more.

I've never been a big novel writer, but I think I've written at least a dozen. Lots of novellas and novelettes.

Recently, my rights have been returned to me on a number of works from a number of publishers. Sometimes it was the case of a publisher folding. Sometimes I asked for my rights back because sales were low. Sometimes rights were offered back to me because sales were low.

So in this anniversary year (10 years writing professionally!), what have I written?

Umm.... not much, actually. I've been editing, repackaging and republishing older works.

The last book I wrote was a NaNoWriMo novel, November 2015, working title: In My Stepbrother's Shadow. That will probably change to simply In Shadow. I was trying to write a simple Stepbrother Romance, because they were so popular waaaaaay back in November. But of course my unconscious took over and it somehow turned into an allegory about Canada's spectacular colonialist ability to both ignore and malign our Indigenous population. 

Not exactly what I was aiming for, but much more to my taste. Kind of sucks that I set out to write a book that could make me money and I ended up writing a book that'll only be purchased by five Jungians (and one of them will be me).

But that's how I operate. I'm constantly shooting myself in the foot financially. It's what I do. My sister says it's my Adult Children of Alcoholics inability to live an easy life. I always give myself problems to deal with. The second things start going well, I rip the carpet out from under myself.

I am my own best friend and my own worst enemy.

However... I got an email reminder that "Camp NaNoWriMo" is coming up in July. I've done the November one a few times, but never the summer session. I think it'll be a good idea for me.

I've spent far too long rehashing the past. It's time for something new.

(Although I will take this opportunity to let you know my erotic novel Anonymous is FREE right now at Amazon. You've got until Sunday to grab a copy for no money. Please do! Links are on my blog.)

The Interrupted Sentence with an Aside

I’m at the Starbucks and its raining outside. I’m using a very old laptop which I like because it has a huge screen and a lot of attitude. Its also prone to conking out.

I’ll be beginning with two elements and an idea. Its a form of writing practice that I do, the way a musician might practice his scales, except that this time I have an idea I’m interested in expanding all the way with. I may even have a writing partner for it.

First element; I choose a writing prompt from the book “A Writers Book of Days” by Judith Reeves. The prompt for June 6 is “You are standing on one side of a closed door”. The second element is a line from an out of print book on prose style called “Copy and Compose” by Winston Weathers. This is a much revered book which appears in PDF files around the Internet. It teaches a forgotten writing exercise that was once taught in public schools called “pastiche”.

The idea of pastiche is to take a well crafted sentence or paragraph from a classic work of literature or any piece of prose or poetry that knocks you on your ass - and hand copy it over and over until you feel that sound, that vibe and then try your own variation of it to get a feel for the nuances of language.

Looking at where I left off yesterday the sentence example for today is “Interrupted Sentence with an Aside”. The example is by F L Lucas from “Style” and goes “Even mathematical solutions (though here I speak with trembling) can have aesthetic beauty.”

So my challenge is to take those two elements and mix them together in a context. What context?

A while back a friend of mine left a voicemail on my phone. This friend thought the phone had been hung up but it wasn’t and the odd mumblings and giggles that followed during the live mike situation were pretty intriguing. There is something voyeuristic and interesting to experience people in the act of being themselves when they think no one is around. It has an erotic kind of intimacy. A kind of nakedness. It has been the undoing of presidential candidates.

So.

I unwrap my pack of Biscoff cookies, take a swig of coffee.

Here goes nothing-

Standing outside the closed door of her half lidded eyes he had no clue what she was thinking. Was she dissolved in her last wave of pleasure (she claimed to have orgasmed, but she always said that) and he hadn’t felt that special vaginal hug that confirmed - or reassured - his male prowess. Or was she silently judging him?

After all this time, he thought, I don’t know her. Fucking doesn’t tell you anything, not like people think. How to change that?  Punch through that smug wall?

It was the best he’d come for a long time. This because this familiar woman under him, with her familiar breasts, familiar skin, and the familiar warm press of her scalding hot belly squeezed under his rough thrusts, his tensing and his harsh grunt of release (all of this so very, very familiar) was different this time because it was noonday and a surprise and not the last thing before bed, and her eyes were so much the eyes of a stranger across the bed, looking up with that languid gaze.

“Gotta talk - oh. Fuck,” he said as one last, thick little burst wriggled gorgeously up the length of his cock and spurted into the condom impaled deep into the slick raw of her. It was endless, his orgasm. “Bitch,” he heard himself mumble, sounding drunk. “Gotta talk while I still got my dick up in your cunt.” He had never talked this way before (and why not? he thought), and he enjoyed the wrinkle of her brows, in fear or maybe disgust, but he had her attention.

He realized, to his surprise, he hoped it might be fear. Could he make her fear?

She said nothing. Opened her eyes a little wider. No longer in her pleasure but waiting for something, something.

He leaned into her, pressing his still rigid cock as deep as he could make it go, letting himself hang in the moment of belly on belly, hair meshed with hair, keeping that swooning, fat, snug moment for himself. “Fuck,” he said again, as if he couldn’t

My cell phone on the little chair next to my book bag rings.

“Dad?”

My son. “Yeah?”

“I just had my first car wreck.”

“Car wreck??? Are you okay?”

“Yeah.  You know.  Pretty much.”

He tells me where he is. He needs a ride. I tell him I’m on the way. Suddenly my story, which seemed to be going so great guns a minute ago recedes into the background as Life in all its implacable indifference to my genius puts its hairy hand on my shoulder. All those words sound dumb to me.

Crap.

I begin packing it all up. Its a good thing I’m not earning a living with this stuff . . . .

From No Ideas to Too Many Ideas

Back when I was an unpublished writer, I struggled to come up with ideas. I wrote a sci-fi novel and put it aside, then had a spark of an idea that led to my first erotic romance novel, Autumn Fire. After that sci-fi novel and Autumn Fire, I felt I was out of ideas.

Eventually, I came up with an idea that led to my free short story, Go Deep, and another idea that led to my second erotic romance novel, Silent Hearts. But once those were written and published, I was fresh out of ideas again.

Some time after that, I’m not exactly sure when, the ideas started to flow. But in order for them to flow, I needed a change in my mindset. Up to that point, I’d been thinking of writing as more of an art, something that requires creative vision, intricate plotting, fully realized characters, and a gripping narrative. And, back then, as a relatively inexperienced author, I struggled to write well. (Autumn Fire and Silent Hearts are in desperate need of a rewrite once my contract with my publisher expires.)

But after having written a few things and slowly changing my perspective, the ideas began to flow easier. While writing is and always will be an art, I began to think of it more as a business. In a business, you can’t sit around and wait for ideas to come to you — so I forced myself to become much more proactive in thinking up story ideas. Plus, with having more writing under my belt (and with extensive editing), the process of writing became easier.

That presented me with a new problem — I had far too many ideas, and a lot of them didn’t fit under the “brand” I’d established for Cameron D. James. Under this pen name, I tend to do more narrative-focussed erotica with a touch of romance, whereas some of my story ideas were of the “wham-bam-thank-you-sir” variety with no romance and minimal narrative. Plus, as a gay man, I had this absolutely bizarre curiosity to write straight erotica, which obviously wouldn’t fit under this pen name.

So that led to the creation of a new pen name, one that focussed on straight erotica short stories, but also including some gay erotica short stories (but written from a more straight point of view than what I do with Cameron). After a few months, I was left with a problem — I had some story ideas that didn’t fit Cameron’s brand, nor did they fit the brand I established for the new pen name… so I created a third pen name. This new pen name was explicitly gay and explicitly taboo — it used the same short story formula of my second pen name, but the stories were far dirtier than anything I’d written before and the writing was unapologetically gay.

At this time last year, I had, I think, ten stories published (some were short novels and others were short stories), and that had taken about two years to complete. Now, one year later, I’m sitting at about fifty titles.

Over the past several years, prior to 2015, I’d written maybe 100,000 words per year. It’s a decent output.  In 2015, with the huge bump in productivity, I wrote just over 367,000 words. (About 111,000 of that was my sci-fi novel that I had written years ago — I rewrote it in 2015.  So that means about 256,000 words were smut, and most of that happened in the latter half of 2015.)

Now that 2016 has come around, I have a new problem, although I hesitate to actually label it as a “problem.” I literally have too many ideas floating around in my head. For my Cameron D. James pen name, I have the next three short novels planned out, plus ideas for half a dozen short stories. For my second pen name, the one that does some straight stuff, I have the next ten short stories lined up and have plans for about thirty more. And for my third pen name, the unapologetically gay one, I have maybe the next fifteen planned out.  Oh, and with my sci-fi novel that I’m working on — if I sell it or self-publish it, then I have the next four sequels loosely sketched out… and I’ve got a couple James Rollins-style thrillers rolling around in the back of my head.

I literally have too much going on in my cranium. My writing schedule lately has been about a week and a half on pen name #2 (which is how long it takes me to write a short story lately), a week and a half on pen name #3 (to write another story), and then a week or two on my Cameron D. James pen name. I’m presently working on a short novel and am slowly making my way through it.

My writing productivity used to be much higher. I think I’ve burned out a little bit, as in the fall and winter I was averaging about a story and a half every week, so I’ve slowed down quite a bit. Also, as mentioned several weeks back here on OGAG, I’m in the process of starting up an erotica and erotic romance publishing company — and the amount of set-up and work that goes into this thing before we even open ourselves up to submissions has been overwhelming at times. (It’s part of a larger book services company I’ve started with a friend, so there are a number of other aspects to the business to set up, which is part of the problem.) When-slash-if the business takes off such that I can quit my day job, I expect my writing productivity to spike again.

Never in my wildest dreams did I ever think I would be a writer with this amount of productivity and suffering from an overwhelming number of ideas. Actually, never in my wildest dreams did I ever think I would be writing about people having sex. I can thank being burned out for that — I was in the thick of working on my masters degree and editing my sci-fi novel and I needed a break or I was going to drive myself crazy… so I wrote about sex. And writing about sex, especially with this output I’ve got going, has made me a far stronger writer than I ever thought I could be. This path into erotica writing was the best choice I ever made.

I always thought I’d be one of those authors that has a sci-fi trilogy and then disappears because he has nothing else to write. I thought I’d have my magnum opus and that would be it. I was so wrong.



Cameron D. James is a writer of gay erotica and M/M erotic romance; his latest release is Seduced by My Best Friend’s Dad (co-written with Sandra Claire). He lives in Canada, is always crushing on Starbucks baristas, and has two rescue cats. To learn more about Cameron, visit http://www.camerondjames.com.

Paralyzed by Indecision

By Lisabet Sarai

This past January I published my most recent novel, The Gazillionaire and the Virgin. The creative seeds for this genre-busting BDSM erotic romance were planted right here at the Grip, in a conversation involving Annabeth Leong and our frequent guest Fiona McGier (who is responsible for the title). The book takes the currently fashionable tropes of the billionaire alpha-male Dom and the too-innocent-to-believe virginal submissive and turns them on their heads.

In my book, the heroine is the billionaire. Rachel’s an MIT graduate, founder and CEO of an enormously successful high tech company, bossy as hell in her career, but secretly a sexual submissive who tries to satisfy her needs through anonymous encounters at kink clubs. The hero is the virgin—and the dominant. Theo’s a brilliant computer scientist, but shy, neurotic and socially maladjusted. He has a wealth of knowledge about BDSM from Internet research, but zero practical experience.

As you might guess, I had great fun with these characters. I took every opportunity to shred the stereotypes made so popular by the Trilogy-Which-Shall-Not-Be-Named. Although I realized that I might turn some romance fans off, I was writing for people out there who were like me—people who’d appreciate a fresh take on a tired plot. I was deeply gratified to discover that my readers seemed to love the book. I can’t say anything yet about sales, since the publisher pays royalties on a quarterly basis, but G&V has received more positive reviews than anything else I’ve ever written, including praise from bloggers active in the BDSM lifestyle.

I hardly wrote anything other than promo material for the first months after the release. When the flurry of marketing died down a bit, though, I started to consider what to write next.

And found myself paralyzed.

Let me explain that due to the demands of my real world work, I have very little time for writing these days. I try to set Sundays aside to let Lisabet come out and play. Even then, I often find my time consumed by writing blog posts or by other marketing activities. I can write 2-4K per day when I’m in the groove, but it took me nine months to write G&;V, which is about 62K words. So a decision to commit myself to a new novel means that (if I stick with my plans), I’m pretty much letting go of other ideas for at least half a year.

My notebook is full of story concepts I’ve put on the back burner. I want to write a steampunk series about a guild of engineers who construct custom sex toys. I literally dreamed a tragic sci fi romance about a genetically engineered male sex bot programmed to “die” after five years in order to prevent him from becoming too powerful or self-aware. He falls in love with a human woman and tries to escape his fate. There’s the BDSM romance featuring the quadriplegic Dom I’ve talked about previously here at the Grip. I’d love to write more lesbian fiction. For instance, I have an outline for a book about a female journalist in Bangkok and the bar girl she thinks she’s rescuing. Then there are possibilities of sequels to my earlier books. Although I generally don’t write series (or at least, haven’t), some of the worlds I’ve created have been nagging at my imagination, urging me to make a return visit.

When I looked at the (relative) success of G&V, though, I began thinking about a second book that smashed stereotypes. For instance, how about a ménage entitled The Werewolf and the Vampire, that wreaks havoc with the tropes from the Twilight Saga (and its imitators)? I even had a couple of relevant characters from a short story, who wanted more space to expand. My mind began to churn with all the possible ways I might twist the accepted standards for the vampire/werewolf genre.

I might finally have hit on a brand—books that break the genre rules.

That set me thinking about the style of W&V. Should it parallel G&V, first person present, alternating characters with each chapter? Wouldn’t that be tough with three main characters? The story I wanted to use as a starting point was third person, but if I was trying for some sort of consistent branding, did I have to change that...?

All at once, I saw the paradox. If I began a series of books predicated on the notion of upending tropes, the strategy would almost immediately lose its impact. I’d no longer be generating surprise and delight by violating readers’ expectations.

Once again, I was stuck. You know how it is. Damned if you do, damned if you don’t.

Mired in indecision, I didn’t write anything, except a story for an anthology, for a couple of months. I was disgusted with myself.

Just do it. Do something!

So, finally, I sat down to work on W&V. But I decided to treat it as a standalone novel, not some kind of follow-up to G&V. It’s a very different story, with different characters. I know if I try to force it into some preconceived mold, I’ll snuff the life out of it.

Thus far I’ve written about 6K. It’s Sunday, so after I post this to the blog, I hope to write more.

Hey, it’s a start. And hopefully, those other ideas will keep.

Pouvoir

by Jean Roberta

As is often the case, a catchy phrase in one language doesn’t translate well (or with the same music) into another.

In French, they say: Vouloir (to want to) est (is) Pouvoir (power or to be able to). In English we say: Where there’s a will, there’s a way.

We could also say: Where there’s a saying, there’s a reckless assumption.

If wanting something hard enough enabled us all to get it, most human beings would be living in mansions, and the resulting destruction of the earth’s climate and its physical resources would have destroyed our planet already (much as we might want to save the earth without making any sacrifices).
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Smug-looking woman shows audience how a woman can get what she wants by cooking bacon for the man (husband) in her life, or the men, plural (including sons). Then the men, like trained apes, will build the wife/mother a bookcase, gazebo, or whatever she wants.

Feh.

This type of commercial (for bacon, of course) suggests what men have been complaining about since long before women gained any actual legal rights: women have too much power to seduce men into doing things for them.
This is not my idea of power.

VROOM, VROOM! That’s the sound of a car with no muffler, or any number of power tools. This comes closer to the sound of real power, because vehicles can transport people, which is useful, and electrical gadgets can make things. Being able to make things is satisfying, but it’s not usually what is meant by “power.”

Strangely enough, people in “backward” regions, who know how to make most of the things they need (prepared food, clothing, houses, furniture, musical instruments) are usually considered relatively powerless by wage-earners in urban industrial society whose lives could be shattered by the loss of a job.

Power is sometimes described as “social capital.” If I walk into a room, and the other people there treat me with respect because I am white and old, I have social capital. If students do their best to gain my approval because they need a passing grade in my class, I could be said to have professional capital. On the other hand, if someone treats me with contempt because I’m female, or for a quirkier, more apparently personal reason, I have no capital in that situation.

Power in the form of social capital is traditionally associated with credibility. To this day, there are men who claim (as did my late ex-husband) that their former girlfriends or wives are insane nympho sluts, who constantly hook up with random men and who violently attack (or “bash”) men for no logical reason. These men have credibility because the women under discussion usually can’t prove beyond a doubt that none of this is true.

Women who claim to have been assaulted in any way by men usually have no credibility because, seriously, how believable is that story? To gain credibility, women in large numbers (20 seems to be the minimum) need to give similar accounts of being assaulted by the same man.

So is power the same thing as credibility? If so, it depends completely on what an audience of other people believes. If my power depends on what other people choose to do in the moment, I can lose it at any time.

Louis XVI (the sixteenth) of France lost power along with his head on the guillotine. So even extreme political power can be overthrown.

Maybe power can be seized by working against the system, by becoming an outlaw. The endurance of myths about Robin Hood show the appeal of that idea. Queer sexual outlaws seem especially appealing. Here is part of a fantasy story I wrote many years ago, about a sassy babe named Felina by the author/narrator, and a mini-gang of leather-jacketed dykes named Spike, Mike and Toni:

Spike and Mike have hoisted Felina to their shoulders, where she poses for cars swishing past on the nearest street. Spike firmly grasps one ass-cheek while Mike’s fingers dig into the other thigh. She is proud to be held aloft like a flag or a lamp, and they enjoy sharing her weight. They sing an improvised rap song, Mike’s contralto seeming to carry Spike’s tenor:

“Woman, we need you,/Your heart and your snatch./You’re the wild critter/We most want to catch.”

The passing drivers and pedestrians ignore this anthem; they seem to be in another dimension or state of consciousness. They represent the State of Civilization or the Corporate Hetero-Patriarchy or the People on Opiates - alarming by any name.

Something tells me to look up. I see the Power Building, a fifty-story monument in steel, glass and artificial light that almost blocks out the night sky. I have never been able to get past the entrance lobby because I’ve never had the relevant pass.

But there is still free air and hope. I lower my gaze, easing the strain on my neck. Watching Felina, I find it interesting that cats seem to stretch across the line between wild and domestic animals. As long as the three blades don’t convince themselves that they can really own her, everyone should be reasonably happy. . .
Toni has been pushing all her buddies to join her in holding up a bank where she has an inside contact. She is also a cyberpunk who has hacked a path through the computer jungle to convert some corporate profits into hers. She hasn’t killed anyone yet because her conscience has a stronger grip than her left hand when it comes to certain things, but the temptation might prove irresistible.

Mike and Spike make Felina kneel on the rough ground while Toni flourishes a bottle of champagne and pops it open. “To our next job, babies,” she purrs. Felina opens her mouth and her lover pours a shining, bubbly stream into it. The liquid spills over her breasts, down her stomach and wets her pubic hair. Spike crouches down to get a taste. Felina squirms and squeals. . .

[After Toni swears undying love to Felina, Mike and Spike are so excited by their planned assault on a fortress of macho capitalism that they tear each other’s jackets off. Shirts are pulled up, pants are unzipped and roughly pulled down far enough to allow hands to push in between thighs. An orgy ensues.]

They all rock together like a band, making music in the dissonant city night. They are as undisturbed as though a guardian angel hovered nearby, as though fantasies could be made real, as though wild women were a protected species.
Each woman rushes to the point of an explosion as though rushing to the vanishing point on the horizon in a painting that mimics the three-dimensional world. And although they burn like flames, Dear Reader, they will stay where they are until you join them.

Well, that was fun to write, but unconvincing even as I was writing it. Public sex is likely to attract unwanted attention. Breaking the law is likely to attract unwanted prison terms, if not death. (Financial finagling on Wall Street in New York or Bay Street in Toronto might be an unpunished pleasure, but even then, I’m not sure I’d be willing to risk it even if I had a firm grasp of terms like “insider trading.”)

Maybe the greatest power we have is the ability to write fantasies and seduce other people into reading them. And if we enjoy the process, we’re not completely dependent on the reactions of an audience.

I just hope the guillotine is never brought back as an agent of change.
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Hurt Me, but Don't Tell Me What to Do

by Annabeth Leong

The more I think about it, the more I’m uncertain about why the acronym BDSM is strung together this way, as if all the activities it describes are related. There’s a constellation of kinky stuff that’s treated as if it always goes hand in hand, but that doesn’t really make sense.

When I started showing up at kink events, I said I was submissive because I knew I wanted to bottom and receive pain. I didn’t realize there were distinctions here, and most of the events I went to elided them, too.

Over time, however, I recognized a growing anger in myself. I hated, viscerally, the experience of being treated as submissive. Of course, I met some cool people. I also encountered a lot of smarmy sneering, people talking to my dominant instead of to me (which, depending on your point of view, might have been proper protocol), jokes that irritated me, incorrect assumptions, and stuff that pissed me off in general.

I had a partner at the time who I called my dominant. Really, my partner was my sadist. We weren’t using proper vocabulary, but most people around us weren’t either. When we went to events, my partner adopted what they saw as a dominant-type persona, and I found it embarrassing and cringe-worthy.

At the same time, I truly do enjoy bottoming—as in, I love being on the receiving end of intense sensation. I love being tied up for a variety of reasons. I like it as a meditative state, I like it as a way of inducing discomfort, I like it as a decorative art, I like it as a way of experiencing the sensation of textiles on the skin, I like it as a way of drawing blood flow to certain areas to make them more sensitive, and lots more. I also love receiving pain. Impact play is a favorite for me, but I also love electricity, clamps, biting, and so on.

Over time, I realized I needed to distinguish between bottoming as a masochist and power exchange situations that framed me as submissive. These two things are so commonly associated that I’ve encountered many people who respond with disbelief or confusion when I try to explain that I want to be hurt but there’s no way in hell I want to submit.

I think a lot of kink activities boil down to being about trust. I do have to trust a top or a sadist. For me, that trust works best when I’m in the situation as an equal. It’s also easier for me to trust myself to speak up when I need to.

What’s funny about this is that I have a lot of submissive instincts. I am very, very good at service. It is easy for me to subsume my needs and focus on those of others. If you give me an order, my first reaction is to obey.

However, I don’t like that stuff about myself. I don’t want to feed it. What I’m working on in my life is to stop knee-jerk obedience. I don’t want to practice it on the weekend.

I know that many people experience submission as freeing. For me, it’s much more freeing to meet a top as an equal and figure out together how to hurt me for fun.

The more I’m around kink events, the more the dynamics around power exchange feel touchy and delicate to me.

For example, there’s a big kink con in Rhode Island called the Fetish Fair Flea Market. I go every year, and usually have a mixed experience. In some ways it’s awesome, and in some ways it infuriates me.

Early on, I went in clothing that identified me as an s-type (a sub or bottom). I didn’t always love how I was treated, but I didn’t know anything else.

One year, I went alone in these hot boots that I really loved. I didn’t think much about it at the time—I’m into feet and shoes, and these were just hot. They were thigh-high black leather boots that laced all the way up, with at least a three-inch heel. I felt gorgeous in them.

I could never have anticipated how much the boots would change my experience of the Flea. Apparently, the boots made people read me as a D-type. All of a sudden, I saw everything from a different perspective. I got more respect in the vendor halls. People answered my questions. The conference opened before me like a flower.

I still got regularly sexually harassed, don’t get me wrong. Random dudes still came up to me to share their sexual fantasies about me (I still presented female, after all), it was just that those fantasies had changed. Still, it was shocking to be freed from receiving the biases and assumptions that had come at me when people saw me as an s-type.

These days, when I go to the Flea, I struggle to find a way to dress. There’s not an obvious outfit that says masochist, at least not that I can think of. It’s hard not to wind up looking s- or D-. But really, I’d like to be able to step outside of power exchange with my kink experience.

And there are times when the distinction is subtle.

Last fall, I went with a top to a carnival. My top tormented me with unpleasant, frightening rides, laughing delightedly at my misery (I love that kind of thing, so while I was horribly uncomfortable, I was also having a great time). They pushed me to get on these things relentlessly, one after another.

I would call that a masochistic experience, not a submissive one, but I think, if we’d been in a different place, that it could have been a submissive one. In my case, the focus was on unpleasant sensations. My top was administering them, but I was receiving them because I find unpleasant sensations fun/fascinating/arousing/oddly compelling. In the submissive case, I think the focus would have been more on doing these things for the top, on being obedient despite the discomfort.

The emphasis on obedience is one of the things I really hate.

I’ve revised the way I describe myself at kinky events more times than I can count, and this probably still isn’t the final answer. However, it was really important for me to realize that what I’m interested in is sensation, not power.

And I hope this goes without saying, but I want to be very clear: I hold absolutely no disdain for those who do identify as submissive and enjoy it. It’s just not for me. Because I’ve spent time in that role, I have observed some dynamics around it in the community that I think are messed up, but I’m absolutely in support of people who want to explore the role itself.

Meanwhile, I’ll be looking for sadists who want to treat me as an equal.

Bangkok Power Parity

by Daddy X

Bangkok Power Parity  

“You must think of me as very old, Sumalee.”

“In Thailand we revere age, Herbert. Older men possess power.”

“But you have to work so hard to make me come. A boy your own age would be better for you.”

“I am young, sir, and because of you I have a life ahead. I learn English from you. You pay for my education at university. You charge me no rent. No need to sell my body to strangers.  

“I simply provide for your welfare, Sumalee.  Now that I know you, I couldn’t bear to see you continue in that brothel. Come here. Take your clothes off and sit. I want to feel your youth beside me.”

“I am happy to make you feel sexy, Herbert. Now, touch my pussy. I’ll feel sexy too.”

“You should not pretend, my sweet. I understand my body is used up.”  

“You still know how to pleasure a woman. Oh that feels good, Herbert.”

“I can hardly maintain an erection any more. If not for-”

“You get hard when you fondle my tits. When I dance for you and make my ass quiver.”

“Yes. But it all goes away too quickly.”

“Then I’ll show you more, you silly man. Watch, as you make me come. Use both hands, Herbert. Then your tongue.”

“Whatever you say.”