I can't pinpoint exactly when I had my first 'real' kiss. There was no perfect, bluebirds singing, stomach-knotting moment on the front porch. The only reason I remember the exact date that I lost my virginity- to a friend's brother who was four years my senior and who I'd casually dated once or twice- is because I went to a Peter Murphy concert that Friday. I'd never really lacked for boyfriends- if I was interested in the company of the opposite (or same) sex, I could usually find a suitable candidate, and I was a tremendous flirt.
When I was 15, I started dating a 31 year old. When I think of how many people I could've unintentionally gotten arrested in the years before I turned 18, I cringe- and thank the gods that things weren't as scrutinized back then as they are now. We lasted about a year before I got bored and my parents got suspicious. Again with hindsight being what it is, I think that he was a very frustrated dominant-wannabe. That is, he really wanted to be a dom, but didn't have the first clue how to go about it, other than to skulk about clubs that catered to that particular scene and have in-depth intellectual conversations on the benefits of leather vs man-made materials.
He took me to a fairly well-known club when I was sixteen, where the layout of the building allowed for each floor (there were four in all, including the top floor and the basement) to cater to a different area of interest. The top floor was mostly full of the goth/punk crowd and- because of its location- sightseeing Ivy League students who thought they were being edgy. The lower floors were successively more restrictive in their clientele- and successively more liberal in the activities that clientele engaged in. On that first visit we bypassed the line for the top floor and were admitted to the second; I wouldn't set foot in the basement until over two years later.
I should mention that my parents were good Catholics (as was I at this time), and that if one were to count the months between their wedding and my sister's birthday, one would be left with the impression she *must* have been premature. Mom harbors a tremendous amount of guilt and anger over this fact, and compounded with the base-level shame that Catholics are taught to feel over anything involving sexual gratification, it goes without saying that she passed along a *lot* of very screwed-up ideas about sex and its okayness. I, however, was the product of a modern age and the possessor of a liberally-used library card, and had very different ideas about sex and its okayness. So by the time I walked into that club, I had a smattering of experience and a good deal more book-accumulated knowledge, and while I was a bit apprehensive I never would have let that on.
What I was confronted with- partially or minimally clad bodies in an array of expensive fabrics (mostly leather, vinyl, and silk) winding in serpentine motions around each other on the dance floor, some sitting on pillows on the floor, wearing elaborate collars attached to leashes held casually by individuals who looked almost like businessmen gathered for an after-work drink, others gathered in clusters around benches where bound forms were being spanked with paddles or riding crops, darker corners where little more than rhythmic movement could be detected, the whole room full of sighs and moans that drifted above the music and low-level conversations- I couldn't have come up with in my wildest imagination. I was fascinated, uncomfortable, aroused, terrified..
And a very quiet part of me knew that I was home.
I, of course, wasn't in possession of clothing appropriate for such an environment, so on the advice of my boyfriend I'd worn my competition riding clothes- riding boots, breeches, and a long-sleeved hunt shirt that I'd left mostly unbuttoned. I felt very, very overdressed as we made our way through the crowd to the bar, and was hyperaware of the eyes that followed me.
If I thought things couldn't get stranger, I was in for a surprise. We joined a group of people sitting at one end of the bar; four well-dressed men sitting on comfortable bar stools, and kneeling on pillows at their feet were three scantily dressed women and one man. My boyfriend greeted the men on the bar stools, but gave the others only a cursory nod, and never bothered to introduce me. He slid onto a stool and almost as an afterthought nudged a pillow over to my feet, motioning me toward it.
I've been told by a number of people that there is no mistaking when I'm truly angry- that it has almost a physical presence of its own, and triggers that little piece of reptile brain left over from our earlier days in anyone unlucky enough to be in my path. So I have no doubt that aside from being immediate, my response was palpable. I could feel myself bristle and several uncouth phrases sprang to my tongue, but my boyfriend chose that moment to turn fully to me with a pleading look in his eyes. Grinding my teeth together, I reined in my pride and knelt on the pillow. He ordered a drink, but didn't offer me anything.
Now, I knew what this club was, and I knew the technical terms for everything going on around me thanks to the miracle of reading, but I could honestly say that other than as a 'hey, I want you to come with me to this club I like' the topic of BDSM had never come up between my boyfriend and I. That was at least the source of some of my anger toward him; whatever happened to basic communication?
The rest of it came directly from the fact that he'd taken control away from me, and I was furious about that.
I've always had an uncanny knack for identifying and evaluating behavior and figuring out the motivation behind actions. Part of that was a basic survival mechanism- I'd learned at a very impressionable age that what people say and what they mean/do are radically different things, and therefore I was always looking for the 'ulterior motive.' The other part was that I almost never spoke unless necessary, which freed up my brain to piece information together like a puzzle.
I knelt on the pillow- all those hours of martial arts classes made kneeling for long periods a piece of cake- and seethed for a while. Then I started listening, and it didn't take long for me to realize that whoever these men were, they didn't think very highly of my boyfriend. Why he couldn't see that, I don't know- maybe he was too busy trying to impress them. Their attitude only reinforced the thoughts that were going through my head. The conversation only briefly centered around me- why I didn't have a collar (apparently I hadn't earned one yet), how my training was progressing (slowly- I was headstrong)- but it was obvious to me that they were testing him, gauging his responses, playing an odd sort of cat-and-mouse game. When one of them offered to help out with my training, his response- an elaborate thank you, but no- clearly told the others (and me) everything they needed to know. The conversation turned to more general, mundane things, and I turned my attention elsewhere.
My surroundings were much more interesting, anyway. I let my gaze travel over the room, which really was rather ingeniously laid out; the dance floor was set into one corner across from the bar, and low chaise lounges, padded benches, short, sturdy tables, and pillows made up the majority of the furniture. The lights were low enough to afford a measure of privacy whereever you were, though there was no shortage of tucked-away nooks for true privacy. In contrast to the thumping music upstairs, the beat here was slow and sensual, and incense burned in censers on the walls. In short, everything combined perfectly to create a serene, tranquil atmosphere.
Or it would have, if it weren't for the people.
I was by far the youngest one in the room, but it seemed that all ages were represented otherwise. A fairly equal mix of men and women, a range of body types and skin color, varying stages of undress. Leather was the predominant choice of clothing- pants, vests, corsets, skirts, collars and leashes- though there seemed to be a lot of silk as well. What struck me was the pervasive sense of confidence- even the collared, handcuffed, gagged woman kneeling on the floor, whose outfit would normally be considered an utterly inappropriate choice for someone her size and age, exuded relaxed assurance.
My eyes were drawn to a small group of people near the bar; they'd caught my attention when we'd first arrived, but now I had a chance to observe them more closely. Several men and women were gathered around a bench, on which a woman- leather skirt pushed up around her waist, exposing the scrap of fabric she no doubt called underwear- lay on her stomach on top of a towel, her wrists and ankles tied to the legs of the bench. On the nearby table was a neat row of instruments- paddles, lashes, crops- in a range of size and materials, and the men and women appeared to be intently discussing the various benefits of each one. To illustrate their point, each would take turns striking the woman's exposed skin. She responded to each blow with a low, contented moan and a shift of her hips- as much as she could move- that clearly showed she was moving into the contact. They had obviously been at this for some time, as the woman's ass and thighs had turned bright red and there were a number of strips where the lashes had caught her- and there was a growing puddle of fluid on the towel where her underwear hadn't been enough to stop the flow from between her legs.
It was the most arousing thing I had ever seen.
There were several such scenes playing out around the room, and I was transfixed. So much so, that I almost didn't catch that I was being talked about again. I pulled my awareness back in time to catch one of the men asking my boyfriend if I would be playing that evening. I froze, wondering what his response would be. Thankfully it was a negative one, followed by some random excuse about needing to leave soon anyway.
That strange feeling in my chest that accompanied his answer was.. disappointment. I *wanted* to play. Gods, how I wanted to play.. but not with him. I knew that much. I raised my eyes for just a second to the man that had posed the question, and was startled to find him looking back at me, a curious expression on his face. 'Pity' was all he said, and I felt color rising to my cheeks.
My boyfriend was standing, saying his goodbyes, and I had no choice but to follow him out the door and back to the car. I was shocked to see we'd spent nearly four hours in the club- I was usually an excellent judge of time, and it hadn't seemed nearly that long. Little was said on the drive back to my house, and he didn't argue at all when I got out of the car and told him things weren't going to work out.
I had a lot to think about as I slipped into bed that night.
When I was 15, I started dating a 31 year old. When I think of how many people I could've unintentionally gotten arrested in the years before I turned 18, I cringe- and thank the gods that things weren't as scrutinized back then as they are now. We lasted about a year before I got bored and my parents got suspicious. Again with hindsight being what it is, I think that he was a very frustrated dominant-wannabe. That is, he really wanted to be a dom, but didn't have the first clue how to go about it, other than to skulk about clubs that catered to that particular scene and have in-depth intellectual conversations on the benefits of leather vs man-made materials.
He took me to a fairly well-known club when I was sixteen, where the layout of the building allowed for each floor (there were four in all, including the top floor and the basement) to cater to a different area of interest. The top floor was mostly full of the goth/punk crowd and- because of its location- sightseeing Ivy League students who thought they were being edgy. The lower floors were successively more restrictive in their clientele- and successively more liberal in the activities that clientele engaged in. On that first visit we bypassed the line for the top floor and were admitted to the second; I wouldn't set foot in the basement until over two years later.
I should mention that my parents were good Catholics (as was I at this time), and that if one were to count the months between their wedding and my sister's birthday, one would be left with the impression she *must* have been premature. Mom harbors a tremendous amount of guilt and anger over this fact, and compounded with the base-level shame that Catholics are taught to feel over anything involving sexual gratification, it goes without saying that she passed along a *lot* of very screwed-up ideas about sex and its okayness. I, however, was the product of a modern age and the possessor of a liberally-used library card, and had very different ideas about sex and its okayness. So by the time I walked into that club, I had a smattering of experience and a good deal more book-accumulated knowledge, and while I was a bit apprehensive I never would have let that on.
What I was confronted with- partially or minimally clad bodies in an array of expensive fabrics (mostly leather, vinyl, and silk) winding in serpentine motions around each other on the dance floor, some sitting on pillows on the floor, wearing elaborate collars attached to leashes held casually by individuals who looked almost like businessmen gathered for an after-work drink, others gathered in clusters around benches where bound forms were being spanked with paddles or riding crops, darker corners where little more than rhythmic movement could be detected, the whole room full of sighs and moans that drifted above the music and low-level conversations- I couldn't have come up with in my wildest imagination. I was fascinated, uncomfortable, aroused, terrified..
And a very quiet part of me knew that I was home.
I, of course, wasn't in possession of clothing appropriate for such an environment, so on the advice of my boyfriend I'd worn my competition riding clothes- riding boots, breeches, and a long-sleeved hunt shirt that I'd left mostly unbuttoned. I felt very, very overdressed as we made our way through the crowd to the bar, and was hyperaware of the eyes that followed me.
If I thought things couldn't get stranger, I was in for a surprise. We joined a group of people sitting at one end of the bar; four well-dressed men sitting on comfortable bar stools, and kneeling on pillows at their feet were three scantily dressed women and one man. My boyfriend greeted the men on the bar stools, but gave the others only a cursory nod, and never bothered to introduce me. He slid onto a stool and almost as an afterthought nudged a pillow over to my feet, motioning me toward it.
I've been told by a number of people that there is no mistaking when I'm truly angry- that it has almost a physical presence of its own, and triggers that little piece of reptile brain left over from our earlier days in anyone unlucky enough to be in my path. So I have no doubt that aside from being immediate, my response was palpable. I could feel myself bristle and several uncouth phrases sprang to my tongue, but my boyfriend chose that moment to turn fully to me with a pleading look in his eyes. Grinding my teeth together, I reined in my pride and knelt on the pillow. He ordered a drink, but didn't offer me anything.
Now, I knew what this club was, and I knew the technical terms for everything going on around me thanks to the miracle of reading, but I could honestly say that other than as a 'hey, I want you to come with me to this club I like' the topic of BDSM had never come up between my boyfriend and I. That was at least the source of some of my anger toward him; whatever happened to basic communication?
The rest of it came directly from the fact that he'd taken control away from me, and I was furious about that.
I've always had an uncanny knack for identifying and evaluating behavior and figuring out the motivation behind actions. Part of that was a basic survival mechanism- I'd learned at a very impressionable age that what people say and what they mean/do are radically different things, and therefore I was always looking for the 'ulterior motive.' The other part was that I almost never spoke unless necessary, which freed up my brain to piece information together like a puzzle.
I knelt on the pillow- all those hours of martial arts classes made kneeling for long periods a piece of cake- and seethed for a while. Then I started listening, and it didn't take long for me to realize that whoever these men were, they didn't think very highly of my boyfriend. Why he couldn't see that, I don't know- maybe he was too busy trying to impress them. Their attitude only reinforced the thoughts that were going through my head. The conversation only briefly centered around me- why I didn't have a collar (apparently I hadn't earned one yet), how my training was progressing (slowly- I was headstrong)- but it was obvious to me that they were testing him, gauging his responses, playing an odd sort of cat-and-mouse game. When one of them offered to help out with my training, his response- an elaborate thank you, but no- clearly told the others (and me) everything they needed to know. The conversation turned to more general, mundane things, and I turned my attention elsewhere.
My surroundings were much more interesting, anyway. I let my gaze travel over the room, which really was rather ingeniously laid out; the dance floor was set into one corner across from the bar, and low chaise lounges, padded benches, short, sturdy tables, and pillows made up the majority of the furniture. The lights were low enough to afford a measure of privacy whereever you were, though there was no shortage of tucked-away nooks for true privacy. In contrast to the thumping music upstairs, the beat here was slow and sensual, and incense burned in censers on the walls. In short, everything combined perfectly to create a serene, tranquil atmosphere.
Or it would have, if it weren't for the people.
I was by far the youngest one in the room, but it seemed that all ages were represented otherwise. A fairly equal mix of men and women, a range of body types and skin color, varying stages of undress. Leather was the predominant choice of clothing- pants, vests, corsets, skirts, collars and leashes- though there seemed to be a lot of silk as well. What struck me was the pervasive sense of confidence- even the collared, handcuffed, gagged woman kneeling on the floor, whose outfit would normally be considered an utterly inappropriate choice for someone her size and age, exuded relaxed assurance.
My eyes were drawn to a small group of people near the bar; they'd caught my attention when we'd first arrived, but now I had a chance to observe them more closely. Several men and women were gathered around a bench, on which a woman- leather skirt pushed up around her waist, exposing the scrap of fabric she no doubt called underwear- lay on her stomach on top of a towel, her wrists and ankles tied to the legs of the bench. On the nearby table was a neat row of instruments- paddles, lashes, crops- in a range of size and materials, and the men and women appeared to be intently discussing the various benefits of each one. To illustrate their point, each would take turns striking the woman's exposed skin. She responded to each blow with a low, contented moan and a shift of her hips- as much as she could move- that clearly showed she was moving into the contact. They had obviously been at this for some time, as the woman's ass and thighs had turned bright red and there were a number of strips where the lashes had caught her- and there was a growing puddle of fluid on the towel where her underwear hadn't been enough to stop the flow from between her legs.
It was the most arousing thing I had ever seen.
There were several such scenes playing out around the room, and I was transfixed. So much so, that I almost didn't catch that I was being talked about again. I pulled my awareness back in time to catch one of the men asking my boyfriend if I would be playing that evening. I froze, wondering what his response would be. Thankfully it was a negative one, followed by some random excuse about needing to leave soon anyway.
That strange feeling in my chest that accompanied his answer was.. disappointment. I *wanted* to play. Gods, how I wanted to play.. but not with him. I knew that much. I raised my eyes for just a second to the man that had posed the question, and was startled to find him looking back at me, a curious expression on his face. 'Pity' was all he said, and I felt color rising to my cheeks.
My boyfriend was standing, saying his goodbyes, and I had no choice but to follow him out the door and back to the car. I was shocked to see we'd spent nearly four hours in the club- I was usually an excellent judge of time, and it hadn't seemed nearly that long. Little was said on the drive back to my house, and he didn't argue at all when I got out of the car and told him things weren't going to work out.
I had a lot to think about as I slipped into bed that night.
No comments:
Post a Comment