Facebook Squid Vagina
Occasionally you might here me mention “a girl that I work with”, or some variation. It’s always the same girl and she used to blog and tweet but doesn’t any more which is a shame because she’s hysterical. Check this out.
I nipped out for half an hour today and when I returned, she had posted the following on my Facebook wall, providing innuendos about how the thawing colossal squid in a documentary she was watching was like her vagina. If she wasn’t happily involved with a bloke that’s better than me in every respect, I would court her. (After travelling back to the 17th century, in which the last recorded case of courting last occurred.)
#love
Me In A Mankini – Sinful Sunday
This is not sexy. Not sinful. Just silly.
A long time ago, I promised to walk down Oxford street in a mankini when I passed 1000 followers on twitter. Well, I passed that threshold but haven’t found a cameraman willing to risk getting arrested just for the sake of a silly video of an embarrassed and half-naked me.
So instead, here’s a gif of me shaking my ass in a mankini. It’s not exceptionally sinful, but just sinful enough to qualify for Molly’s Sinful Sunday.
Shake it.
And here’s me wearing it.
That's right. Look deep into my armpit. (And not at the stray testicle just poking out a bit.)
This is what happens to guys when they are confined to their flat for a whole weekend after having their foot tattooed. I’m so fucking bored and lonely.
Sperm Drain
You kneel at my feet, saliva and sperm drying in strands across your face and the remnants of elegant makeup streaked down your cheek in an obscene parody of tears; visual testaments to my sadism. You’re naked of course, and your hands are tied crudely behind your back with nylon rope. You struggle to hold my hot filth in your pussy, because you know if you leak, the punishment will be severe.
I catch my breath after disgracing you internally and externally, and I stand over you with a fist full of your hair.
“Thank me for raping you, Cunt.” I spit the words in your face.
“… …thank you,” you whisper meekly, as your eyes shift away from mine and fixate on some distant point on the carpet. You look at anything but me; you focus on anything at all, but not my gaze.
It’s not good enough though. I want to be praised for breaking you. I want you to acknowledge your abuse. I want you to feel like a hole. Like a condom. A sperm drain.
I grip you tightly under your chin and turn your face to mine.
“Who… are you thanking? And… for what?” I demand
I speak slowly so the threat in my voice settles somewhere deep inside you.
“Look me in the eye while you answer, Cunt.”
The eye contact seems to hurt you more than the beating I gave you.
“Thank you… for raping me… Sir.”
Each word is torture. It’s the most difficult sentence you’ve ever uttered.
Discipline & Restraint
Discipline (n.)
Early 13c., “penitential chastisement; punishment,” from O.Fr. descepline (11c.) “discipline, physical punishment; teaching; suffering; martyrdom.”
Can you guess what this word is, or where it's tattooed?
I’ve done a lot of things for which I should be punished. My recent history is populated with broken hearts, broken promises and broken beds – and when I say recent, I mean the last five or six years. My barely-controlled recklessness has made me friends and lost them, it’s made me feel good and it’s put me in hospital, it’s caused happiness and depression. But mostly happiness.
2012 is going to be a more disciplined year for me, in which I spend some time making money and
working hard to pay off the debts I’ve been avoiding since I was a student. I’m 27 this year, which means I’m young enough to start building an exciting future for myself, if I can show some restraint. (I’m hoping to avoid joining the 27 Club, but I can genuinely imagine myself choking to death on a strap on dildo or something. I’m half-expecting to die on a duel over a woman.)
For many months now I’ve wanted new tattoos, tattoos that advertise my gravitation towards a kinkier lifestyle, but I wanted to do it in a way that wouldn’t attract attention from those outside the BDSM community. I want kinky people to know I’m kinky, but I don’t want to rub it in the faces of those who aren’t. I would never do anything as crass as get handcuffs tattooed on my wrist, for example, because it’s not subtle. (I would, however, consider demanding that future long-term submissive partners get a lock tattooed somewhere discreetly on their body, the pattern of which fits a key tattooed on my body. But that’s just a little brainpuff for now.)
Therefore, I chose the word “discipline”. I can explain it to my parents as wanting to be more dedicated to my responsibilities, to my vanilla friends as an important part of the martial art I study, and to kinky friends as a way to express my own, ever-deepening attraction to sexual paths less travelled.
The (almost) finished product.
In 20 days’ time, I have will have the matching word “restraint” tattooed on the other foot, and the meaning is multifaceted exactly the same way; restraint is both a healthy quality, and a kinky one. I’ve chosen these two words extremely carefully, and they’re perfect. I had little flushes of adrenaline when I realised how perfectly ambiguous these words were, and how ideally suited they were to the manifold meanings that I wanted to express.
Here’s the artist at work. He had a hunch that the tattoos had a meaning related to SM, and he asked me if he was right. I couldn’t reply because I was too busy concentrating on not passing out.
Amazing concentration. He was fantastic actually. I look forward to seeing him again for Part 2.
Pain & Subspace
I cannot begin to explain the pain of this tattoo. It took a little over 1.5 hours – so I’m told, since I had no sense of time. I remember it all vividly, but not in any particular order. Time passed, but not for me. It was excruciating and when it was finished I was exhausted just from the sheer effort it takes to be in so much pain for so much time.
It was amazing. It felt incredible, perhaps the most intensely vivid sensation of my life. I consider myself to have a very high pain threshold, but this experience was a real challenge.
And I knew it would be. I knew it was masochistic, and I knew that it would take discipline and control to get through it: the process of getting tattooed is as symbolic as the tattoo itself.
Still, I wouldn’t recommend it unless you’re pretty certain you can tolerate the pain. I had a little crowd of people watching the process, one of the other tattoo artists and one of the patrons were closely watching, as were one or two potential customers. People were asking me questions, but I could only reply in the spaces when the artist re-inked his needle.
I'm going to ask him to make the spread of dots wider and the blend more gradual.
Do A Barrel Roll
Barrel rolls: Italian cruise ship captains are doing them wrong.
All aboard the failship.
A Glimpse of my Sex Toy Collection
I thought tonight would be a good opportunity to sort out my sex toys and restraints. The problem is, I have no idea where to fucking start, so instead I’m not going to start at all and I’m going to blog instead.
For some reason, probably to enhance the bragging rights, I feel like I need to stress that this isn’t the entirety of my sex toy collection. It’s a worthy impression of what’s hidden under my bed though.
I have more, plus a few of my favourite toys are out "on loan".
As you can probably tell, if you turn up at my flat you will instantly be tied up. Even if you all come at once.
Guess That Thing!
I know I know, I haven’t written about sex in ages. Truth is, when I started writing about sex, wayback when, I promised myself that if I was writing about it more than I was doing it, then I would stop writing about it. Hence another photography post.
So let’s play a game. Guess what this is. Answers in the comments please (though I’m sure you’ll get it pretty quickly), and the winner gets something I haven’t decided yet. A bullet vibrator or something of equal value.
It's so pwetty...
For those who give a shit, this was done with a Canon 550d with standard kit lens plugged into macro extension tube, with a macro lens on top of the kit lens and a wide angle lens on top of that. Yeah, fuckin’ lenses all up in that bitch.
Momma always told me never to trust a man with a big lens.
Sinful Sunday – Cuffed
This photo wasn’t taken explicitly for Molly’s Sinful Sunday, but when I stumbled across it a few moments ago I thought it would be worth sharing.
It features me, maybe three or four years ago aged around 22, in cuffs. In fact, this may have been the last time I wore cuffs, without the presence of any police officers at least. It’s funny how things change. I can barely imagine wearing cuffs now, though I’m not totally adverse to the idea. This picture actually gives me a slight, unexpected hankering for them.
Me, strangely vulnerable.
