The Baltic Beat!

I’m in Tallin. Drinking beer, in the square. 

The beer’s compulsory because buying one is the only way to sit and get wi-fi. But I’m not actually complaining.

I’ll add some pics to this post tomorrow, when I’ve got properly working wifi. For now, text is the best I can do. I’m in a sailing ship going down the Baltic. They’re not big on wifi or democracy, really, round these parts. 

Anyway, here’s a “Viking Slave” from Stockholm. He doesn’t seem too unhappy about his predicament.

vulcan love slave

“Pick me! Pick me!”

A Malmö question: Can men come without touching their cocks?

I’m at a sexology conference in Malmö, in south Sweden. It’s just across the water from Copenhagen, with a rail bridge connecting the two cities, and countries.

images-3Malmö’s not as cool a town as Copenhagen, where I’d move at the drop of a troll hat. I haven’t found a really nice place in the shade looking at water, where some waiter will bring me beers or mineral waters whenever I manage to make eye contact. Lots of places like that in Copenhagen; scarcer in Malmö.

Before I get to my question, here are some observations about Scandinavia, as experienced by me so far. 

1  The people here, and the way of doing things, are friendly and (some people would say “but”) punctual and efficient. 

2  It’s all very civilised. For example, they’ve preserved weekends as times when friends and family can get together and do things, because most people aren’t working at week-ends. Most English-speaking countries were fooled and bullied into giving that away, at great social cost and to no economic benefit. 

3  However, they can’t make a cup of chai tea to save their lives. I asked for a cup in Christiania in Copenhagen, and the girl asked me “what flavour”. By “chai” they mean some sort of powder that you mix with hot water, and that might be vanilla, chocolate, strawberry or whatever. 

4  You should have heard the cheers when England lost to Iceland at soccer the other day. Brexit has not exactly endeared the English to Europeans. 

5  There are no non-pretty girls in Scandinavia. Or if there is one, she must be hiding in Trollhättan. (Trollhättan is a town in Sweden. I think of it as meaning “Behatted Troll”. Obviously, it doesn’t mean that. I think “hättan” has the same meaning as in “Manhattan”.)

Anyway, at the conference there are poster sessions for academics who have something interesting to say, but who don’t have the material or weight for a full session of their own. So you get a room full of posters, with the relevant person standing beside it hoping you’re interested enough to want to talk about their work.  

The orgasm question

One raised a question about male and female orgasm. It’s that some women can come without touching their own genitals, or having someone else do it for them. Just the arousal, the flow of erotic ideas, can bring them to orgasm. But men can’t do that. They can get erect, obviously, without penile touch by themselves or others, but they can’t come without touch. They need friction, ideally slippery friction, to be able to come. 

I thought about that. In bdsm we do a lot of orgasm control. Me, I like female orgasms (I might be a female orgasm fetishist), so as a dom I may deny a submissive girl the right to come without my permission, and sometimes withhold that permission when she really, really wants to let go. However, usually I don’t deny her for long, if we’re in the same bed. Even a few minutes of denial, where she’s fighting back her orgasm while still being vigorously fucked, can get a huge release when I finally tell her to come. 

There are doms who’ve taken that further than I’ve ever felt the urge to. So they might deny the girl any orgasm while she’s being fucked. And then tell her to hold herself in suspense, not erotically relaxing, until he or she gives the word.

Because I like female orgasms, and the more of them the merrier, I’ve never done the kind of training. you need for that However, I’ve met submissive women who can hold on to their peak ready-to-come level for over an hour, and you can command them to come when they’re doing something like watching a movie or doing the dishes. I think of that as interesting rather than peak sexy, but it is interesting.

Master? Tell me a story?

Master? Tell me a story?

The closest I’ve come to that is getting a girl to come by tying her legs apart and her hands behind her back, and telling her a story calculated to appeal to her particular sexual tastes and fantasies. It’s the best possible writer’s audience. 

But she was cheating in a way. That is, she wasn’t being touched externally, but she could get physical stimulation by clenching and unclenching the muscles around her vulva and clitoris.

think that’s how women get to orgasm without apparent touch, though I could be wrong.

But men … We don’t seem to be able to do that, or any useful equivalent. If I have an erection, and I clench the muscles around my penis, I’ll make it wave up and down in a friendly way. But there’s no stimulation for me in it.

And I thought: If anyone can make a man, at least a submissive man, come without his being touched, it’d be a pro-domme. I asked this on Twitter, and got a couple of replies from pro-dommes saying that they’d never seen it done.   

Now I’m throwing the question to the room. Does anybody know of men being made to come without touch?

I’d  count it if the dom/domme used touch to bring the man close to orgasm, followed by orgasm denial, followed by instructing him to stay ready, and more than an hour passing before he was told to come. 

Can anyone help? (I mean, with reports of having that done to them, or doing it to some guy.)

Taste of cunt

In the Raylene story, I had a go at describing the aroma of aroused cunt.

I wrote: 

“a warm, woman-ish smell, the middle essence of almond and the blandness but not the sweetness of banana, but those smells made of animal and not vegetable.”

arousedBut I’ve heard from one of my critical readers that this description doesn’t ring a bell. And, since she’s a cunt-owner herself, I’m prepared to accept her criticism. 

Part of the problem is that what I wrote is so impressionistic that it’s almost a private language.

What do I mean “the middle essence of almond”? Well, in perfume that’s not the high note, or the low note. In almonds the middle essence is a sort of warm smell, with no strong taste of its own, except for that slightly mealy warmth. What does “the blandness but not the sweetness of banana” mean? Is “bland” even a taste? Well, I know what I mean, but it’s not necessarily going to communicate to someone else’s tongue, nose, brain and vocabulary.

And using vegetable comparisons to describe an animal taste, that wonderful exudation of the flesh, doesn’t help with clarity either. 

But I can’t think of any animal analogues. I don’t think cunt tastes or smells of fish, for example. 

1950s-housewifeANNNN-yway, I’m going to organise a cook-off, with people male and female who like the taste of cunt.

We’ll be mixing – not necessarily cooking – various ingredients in different combinations. If anyone has any suggestions, for a recipe that tastes like cunt, I’ll gratefully try it.

I will report on results. There could be a great commercial and scientific breakthrough, here. 


Hosting a bdsm meet’n’greet group 4

So Ruby left, with a flash of pink knicker, trailing her fishing net behind her. The moment she’d gone, there was a burst of conversation. 

Woman in corset, with black lipstick: Well, thank god for that.

Woman in corset, with red lipstick: Fucking bitch.

Me: Huh? Ruby? She seems … harmless. What’s wrong with her?

Woman with collar, in short tartan skirt: She’s always fucking showing off. 

Woman in corset, with black lipstick: I don’t know why she bothers coming to kink events. She’s not into kink. She just wants to fuck lots of guys. 

Woman in corset with red lipstick: Yeah. She likes a spanking, but she never takes more than that. Just wants to be spanked and fucked.

Woman with collar, in short tartan skirt: Yeah, she should just go to polyamory groups. Leave us out of it.

Trio: Fucking bitch.

Me: Unhhh…

So I went and hung out with the football fans for a bit, because football might be as boring as half a ton of batshit, but at least it’s better than being nasty. 

Matisse: Young woman in a net dress

Matisse: Young woman in a net dress

It struck me as odd, because you might expect that if Ruby had been too spectacularly pretty, or snagged someone’s boyfriend or girlfriend, or got all the male (or female) attention. But Ruby hadn’t been or done any of those things.

She’d snagged my attention, but there were plenty of other bdsm guys in the bar, including a guy who was not only vastly better looking than me, but who managed to wear leather pants without looking like a total goose. That’s the only time I’ve ever seen it done. By a guy, I mean.

And the attention I paid Ruby was only conversational. It never occurred to me, at the time, that she might have been interested in me and hoping I’d make a move. (It’s only just occurred to me now. If she made any signals I missed them, as guys tend to do.)

But if she had signalled me and I’d noticed, I’d have pretended not to, because I liked her but didn’t fancy her enough to want to spend a night with her. She looked fine, but I knew I’d find the eccentricity harder and harder to take as the night wore on. 

So she was conspicuously the least successful woman there. She’d made an offer to a cop and been turned down. And whether she’d wanted me or not, I hadn’t even tried. So the female hostility she’d earned seemed a bit over the top.

Eventually, I discovered that there were various factions in the community, which were about personal rivalries rather than about competing ethics or ideas. Ruby was simply seen by some people as being too cheerfully unbothered about sides. 

I remembered that sort of thing from my days as a political activist. The less power and influence a group has, the more vicious the in-fighting for power within that group.

The bdsm community had no power whatsoever: therefore the corresponding viciousness of the in-fighting could go up to infinity.

I kept on running the group because I’d volunteered. But after a few months a submissive woman contacted me, and we wound up in her bed within a couple of hours of meeting. After that there was no contest. I preferred to spend time with her, and not the community.

So when someone told me I was running the group wrong, they found I was suspiciously ready to hand over the reins. I never found out if my critic ran the group better than me. I never went back. 

A moral

As I say, the group I’m hosting now is refreshingly faction-free. So up in the mountains I can do something useful for people who do that thing we do, and enjoy myself. 

The moral, I suppose, is that we expect community to be a good thing, but there are no guarantees that it will be. Communities, or segments of them, can be extremely unwelcoming and no fun at all to be around. If we want “the community” to be a haven, a resource and a pleasure, we have to remember to behave reasonably attractively.  

Hosting a bdsm meet’n’greet group 3

So, about seven years ago, when I still lived in the city, I was hosting my first ever bdsm meet’n’greet evening, and as I mentioned, this woman – I’ll call her Ruby – turned up wearing a fishing net, tiny pink knickers and little flashing red lights pinned, as badges, over her nipples. She was a cheerful, flamboyant eccentric.

I’ve always liked that in other people, and I sometimes aspire to it myself. I wasn’t feeling very flamboyant at the time, though, so I got her a glass of wine and talked to her instead.

She told me she’d driven a long way to get to this event, and somewhere out in the middle of nowhere she’d been pulled over by a cop, officially for being a tiny fraction over the speed limit, but really because the cop could see two flashing lights speeding along at nipple height, and it had looked weird. 

nettieSo the cop found himself smack in the middle of a porn scenario, with his ticket book in his hand, staring down at a woman undulating all over the driver’s seat wearing flashing nipples, a sweet smile and fishing equipment. She wound down her window and said she’d certainly been a bad girl, and she was terribly sorry and ashamed for having had to be stopped, and she’d do anything to compensate him for the trouble she’d put him to.

The cop had stood there staring down at her for a good 30 seconds after that speech, and Ruby was getting her hopes up, she said, because he was a very handsome policeman. Then the cop laughed, wished her a good time at the party, wherever it was, and warned her not to drive home afterwards. And he’d waved her on.

While she was telling this story, the test of the group gathered round us. They were dressed more traditionally, as bdsm people being discrete. The submissive girls were wearing collars and plain white or plain black dresses, and the woman doms were wearing corsets and long black dresses. All the men, sadly including me, were wearing black, generally the jeans, t-shirt and jacket outfit, with boots that set airport scanners off, what with all the metal zips and rings and chains and such.

I enjoyed Ruby’s performance, but after an hour I’d had enough charming eccentricity,  and I drifted away to talk to less interesting people. I was struck, though, by how much less interesting they were.

cyber_sex__xd_by_ooblaineeverettoo-d46cp70There was an on-line couple reminiscing about the cyber-spanking he’d given her the night before. I had trouble getting my head around that. They lived in the same city, and they were here together, so obviously they could meet. Even if one or both of them were married, wouldn’t they rather get together in meat-space and do real things?

 I was sympathetic to the idea that something that “happened” on-line had really happened, in some sense of the word “really”.

People can fall in love with each other without ever meeting, in the flesh. When they broke up the heartache was real. I accepted that.

 But choosing to do sensual things in cyber only, when the two bodies could easily hire a hotel room and lock the door behind them: that made no sense to me at all. Typed or skyped words are no substitute for the meeting of skin and skin.

There was also the problem that some of the things that work in cyber, like naughty pranks and giggly cheekiness, work better in text that in real life, unless the performers have a certain amount of acting ability. So, I’m afraid, I found them embarrassing.

The were male doms swapping woodwork tips, for making St Andrews Crosses, whipping benches and so on.

There was a group discussing football. I just never found a way to care about football.

I’d already known it in the abstract but this really drove it home to me: just because you have a kink in common with someone, there’s no reason to expect that you’ll have anything else.

 So I was trying to be a good host, but the whole thing was making me feel a little low, a little wan. I met the bdsm community, or one segment of it, and I was bored shitless.

And then Ruby left. That’s when it got weird. 

Running a bdsm meet’n’greet group 2

The group I’m hosting up in the mountains is going fine. Numbers are low, but that means I get to finish off the champagne and runny cheeses afterwards. But it’s a talky group, with interesting people in it. And they spend the time chatting, sometimes about bdsm and sometimes about other topics. And they all get on.

I mention that because this is actually the second time I’ve run a group. The first time I was still living in the city. I agreed to take on the running of the group because the guy who’d been doing it for years had got a bit sick of it, and I was feeling public-spirited. 

Like this, only with guys

Like this, only with guys

The venue was an old pub that was once what was called a “bloodhouse”, the sort of pub that – in its day – had sawdust on the floor for soaking up the patrons’ blood, also urine and vom. There was a trench that ran down the edge of one wall, and at the bottom of the bar, so that when the evening was over and the bouncer had frog-walked the last drunk out into the small cold hours, you could clean the place with a hose.

In the morning you’d put out new sawdust and you were ready for business. People would say that the morning’s sawdust was last night’s furniture, hurr hurr hurr.

But that was then. These days the place was quiet except for the gambling machines at one corner of the room, and the occasional cackle or groan from the old men and ladies who sat nursing a single beer as long as possible while feeding coins into the machines.

Some time ago some optimistic manager had put in comfortable leather chairs and dark wood tables. But they never succeeded in getting new clientele. The old people slumped in front of the machines weren’t going to be shifted, and it was never going to be a trendy wine bar while they held their corner.

So I liked the place. We were welcome customers, and no-one was going to hear us talk, or object to discussions about soft versus hard floggers and comparing notes on ropes and so on. 

I advertised on-line that the group was still going, and I sat, as promised, with a bunch of artificial red roses propped up in a beer glass.

I’m going to tell a story about a woman who turned up wearing a fishing net, and two little flashing lights, one over each nipple. But I’ll do it later. 

Running a BDSM meet’n’greet group

I’m running a monthly meeting for bdsm people, to talk, drink, eat runny smelly cheeses, and other things, and meet each other. 

Initially I started an on-line group for people in my mountains, simply because there wasn’t one. It didn’t take any work to set it up, and get it started with a couple of posts. After a while people wanted to meet for real, so I called a munch in a local, rather grand hotel. 

It had a turnout of maybe ten people, which is okay for a start. But the venue was a problem. The food was pricey (and very ordinary), and, because I’d put the munch in the foyer, near the fireplace, you could only order drinks from the champagne bar. So they were expensive too. 

But the real problem is that assorted families were in the foyer too, and they’d brought their kids along. Kids love watching fires. So one of our group would be discussing, oh, let’s say, the electrification of nipple clamps, and a couple of boys aged ten and twelve would suddenly turn up to stare into the fire while listening to the adults.

And then, I expect, go back the the family and ask, “Mommy, what’s a butt plug?” 

So we’d fall silent whenever kids showed up. A lot of kids did. It was awkward. 

I said I’d find a private venue next time. I did some hunting around, and found that any hireable meeting space or social space was hideously expensive. It was far too much for me to pay just out of generosity, but if I charged people who turned up a share of the cost then no-one would show. 

So months passed while I refurbished my library, which had been flooded in the spring. That wasn’t just a matter of getting new carpets and shelving. It also meant digging a trench below the level of the library floor and putting in piping to take any water away. And doing various other drainage and water management things that involved sink holes, pipes, gravel paths, and so on. 

Finally, late last year, it was done, and I had the first bdsm library munch. 

Which I’ll tell you about in a couple of days.


Do welfare mothers make better lovers?

I live in a village of about 7,000 people. I checked some demographic information when I was thinking of buying a place here. The population is mostly people of Scottish and German descent. I used to find it weird, after living in the city, how seldom I see brown or black people round the village, except those who’ve come up to the mountains as tourists. I’ve got used to it, though it does mean there’s no decent Indian, Thai, Vietnamese, Chinese or Lebanese food for about 100 kilometers in any direction.

Yoga and yoghurt in the mountains

Yoga and yoghurt in the mountains

A really high proportion of the people up here are single mothers. The single mothers are here because of the property prices: you can afford to live up here, with a bedroom or two for the kids, after a divorce or separation. And there’s a single mother’s mafia, a network who get each other bargains, and swap garden produce, clothes and that sort of thing, to keep living costs down.

Also, according to Neil Young so it must be true, welfare mothers make better lovers.(It’s a great song, by the way, and I recommend the version on Weld. If you ever wondered, “how much noise can Crazy Horse really make?”, this demonstrates that the answer is, “More than you could ever imagine, in your wildest dreams.”)

There’s a temptation to go all man-of-the-world when you hear bumper stickers like that: ah, yes, that welfare mother, the colours her face turns when you’re in her bed and the kids are in theirs, just a wall away, and she’s trying to suppress orgasmic screams. Her sexual abandonment and need, when you’re just got an hour left before the kids get back from school.

She has various kinds of wisdom, that come from having loved and had to leave a man, and another kind that comes with responsibility for children, that lead to a willingness to see the world and people as they are. That’s sexy too.

The man of the world says something like this, and he sighs with pleasurable reminiscence. He has a sip of whisky, breathes out and says, again, “Ahhh, yes.” I could do that. I’ve even got a library with a leather armchair.

But it’s bullshit, of course. Not because single mothers aren’t great lovers. But then, you could make up just as reasonable a story about nurses, or teachers, or librarians making better lovers. It’s one of those statements that sounds like knowledge but doesn’t really mean anything.

I’ve never known a woman bank middle-manager, or travel agent or public service policy writer, who wasn’t a brilliant lover. I guess I’m just not a man of the world. 

Anyway, I started this train of thought because I was going to write something about running a bdsm meet’n’greet group up in these mountains, and what that’s like. But I’ll come to that next time.