They make my brain hurt anyway.

Admittedly, it was an email requiring very careful wording and some research, but the real reason it took so long to compose this particular message was that I am a mother, and I am the primary caregiver for my two young kids.  They’re out of school for the holidays you see, and this means that, unless I can rope somebody else into covering for me, I am on near-continuous “Mommy duty” from about 7am until 9pm (or later), seven days a week.  And I do mean continuous…if there happens to be a span of more than five minutes in which there have been no quarrels to mediate or messes to clean up I go into hyper-alert mode, anticipating hidden mischief.  (Which in my house might include - HAS included, within the past six months - pies consumed in secret, attempts to set fire to the wooden hall-closet doorknobs, and even urinating and defecating in the toybox.)   

It’s fucking exhausting, emotionally and physically, and oh my goddess how I envy the lives of other people I read about here in the blog-o-sphere.  Webwhores who can do camshows or phone sex wihout fear of (illegal no less!) interruption.  Who can up and take pictures in their own houses without having to spend huge amounts of time & effort removing the evidence of parenthood from the scene.  Kinksters - lifestyle and pro, dominant and submissive, the whole blessed lot of them - who can go to munches and workshops and play parties two or three or four times a week.  I’m lucky if I get to do two or three things a month, any more and I’m in serious danger of burnout.

Don’t get me wrong, I don’t regret choosing to have children or making the decision to focus on them while they’re small.  (What I regret is not getting into sex work when I was 18 and single!  But smart, respectable, feminist girls just *didn’t* back then, before the internet)  These are the only children I’ll ever have, they will only be little for a few years, and I’ll have plenty of time for adult pursuits in the 30-50 years of life I expect to have remaining after I’ve herded them through childhood.

But still, it took me FIVE DAMN HOURS to write an email the other day. 

This puts me in something of a quandry as a professional pornmeister/kinky courtesan.  I know I could pull in some dough playing to the female-submissive fantasy.  I get fanmail expressing a desire to tie me up and/or spank me pretty frequently.  I’m sure *I* would want to spank an ass like mine too, so I can’t blame them for it at all.  But my instant, unabiguous reaction is always “As if.”

The thing is, just because I enjoy bottoming for my husband does not mean I am going to enjoy bottoming for you.  He gets to “use and abuse” me because he’s put in the time and effort to earn my complete and utter trust - fifteen years of devoting himself to my pleasure (and I mean that literally, not just my pleasure insofar as it falls in line with his own sexual fantasies - if I want a fuckin’ cheeseburger at 3am he’s my man).  Moreover, the first four years of that was spent half a continent apart with no hope, on his part, of ever, ever getting into my panties at all.

Now that’s devotion.

And the real kicker of it is that even when I appear to be submitting to him, I am in reality dictating the scene.  Every time we play rough, no matter who’s on top, we have a post-pleasure conference where we break down what worked and what didn’t for both of us, which usually winds up becoming the basis of our next scene.  And very often I just dictate what I want i.e. “ok, I want you to tie me up in X fashion, use Y toy on me for a while, then I want to suck your cock and have you cum in my ass.”  Especially if we’re taking pictures: I may be the one in bondage but I am also the director of the whole thing.

I’m sure it’s possible that some other man, someday, might exert himself sufficiently to win my submission, such as it is.  I don’t think it’s terribly likely and frankly I am completely uninterested in anybody making the attempt.  I have one Top already quite well trained for when I’m in the mood to be on the bottom, thank you very much.  I’d be much more interested in playing with you if you were a serious masochist.

Yes, I am horny. H-O-R-N-Y, can’t keep my hands out of my panties, turning on the porn as soon as the kids are in bed, doing housework with a plug in my ass, mind  preoccupied with fucking…licking…spanking…sucking…biting…horny.

If this keeps up you probably won’t hear much from me til after the holidays.  So, uh, Merry Christmas or whatever it is you’re celebrating.  And now if you’ll excuse me I have a date with Miss Rosy Palm and her sisters.

I have always loved gloves.  Even back when I was a little girl and hung on to those came-with-the-dress Easter gloves for years past the point where they ceased fitting my fingers and their nylony white had turned grey.  Come to think of it, the very first porn I ever made (a blushingly awkward masturbation video I made as a Valentine’s Day gift for McQuirk many years ago) was done in gloves.  There’s something incredibly arousing about touching myself while wearing gloves, like suddenly my hands have become mysterious strangers to my body.  Touch someone else while gloved and you instantly call forth all sorts of archetypal erotic associations…the elegant aesthetic of past eras…class and refinement (or, depending on the glove, utter sluttiness)…the classic, saucy sexiness of burlesque striptease…and even a certain hint of domination (you are not FIT to feel the touch of my bare hand!)

Really, how could I not appreciate an object with such erotic potential?  Like high-heeled shoes, gloves=sexy to most viewers, even those who don’t consider them a fetish. 

One of my favorite gloved pics from bash:

and another one from bash, of the very same wrist-length crocheted gloves I wore in that first homemade porn video:

“I wonder how many of these women have had a penis up their ass.”

“Come to think of it, I wonder how many of these men have had a penis up their ass?”

Just another reason why porn is a good career choice for me.

(in case anybody’s feeling particularly generous toward me, this would absolutely be on my wishlist if I had  one.)

Anyhow, reading the NYT article prompted me to once again toss in a couple cent’s worth on the subject of fat acceptance.  Which I don’t do all that often, really.  No, really.

It’s this bit that got me:

The Big Fat Blog, a Web site devoted to fat acceptance, wrote about Mr. Nimoy’s photographs in 2005. A woman calling herself Nellicat wrote in response: “I’m 5’5″ and weigh between 130 and 135. But I don’t feel as comfortable in my own skin as I should. I look at those women strutting, posing, laughing, and I feel real envy towards them. There they are, posing for a man (!) knowing that the whole world will be able to see them naked (!!) and they are LOVING it. Oh, to be that free! To be that comfortable and beautiful in your body — I truly envy them.”

Though most people think of performers as naturally more unabashed than the rest of us, Ms. MacAllister [founder of Big Burlesque - the Fat Bottom Revue] said it is sometimes difficult for them, too. “We get scared and struggle w/self-acceptance and self-love just like you,” she posted on the blog at the time. “Just want you to know that ‘freedom is not free’; the freedom you see us enjoying is the result of constant hard work and eternal vigilance against the ‘tyranny of slenderness.’ ”

Being a fat chick I naturally have experience with the “tyranny of slenderness.”  And just this past weekend, at the SC bash, I experienced repeated instances of one of the (to me) more annoying examples of it.  Every damn time I referred to myself as fat, some one of the persons to whom I was speaking (invariably a skinny girl) would jump in exclaiming “oh, you’re not fat!”  As though the word fat automatically equalled ugly, and I therefore needed that sort of reassurance. 

I’m like, c’mon sweetie, I currently weigh in at 235lbs, which puts me at obese on the doctor’s charts…how the hell else can you describe a body like mine?  I would be in complete fuckin’ denial if I went around proclaming I was merely “big boned”.  I am perfectly sane, thanks very much.  (Well, most of the time anyway :-p)  And quite frankly, I don’t think being fat makes me ugly.  I obviously inherited the sort of Northern European genes that make for a classically balanced fat figure.   Look at me - my ankles, calves, arms, everything are in perfect proportion with everything else, and there’s less cellulite on my thighs & butt than many women half my weight display.  And when I look at pics of myself next to a lot of thin women it seems to me that my larger body exudes more of everything…more charm, more cheerfulness, more lustful appreciation of life…than their coathanger figures possibly can.  You may not agree with me - and it’s fine with me if you don’t - but I think my fat IS beautiful.  And FAT.

The thing that bothers me the most about these interactions (which is to say, not very much, since they are but passing annoyances) is the inevitable script they follow:  I say “fat”, skinnychick responds on auto-reassure, I try to explain that fat does not equal ugly, she looks at me in polite disbelief and goes away thinking…I dunno…that I’m putting on a brave front or something like that.

I, of course, go away pitying her for not being able to step outside her cultural constructs, and possibly for not having sufficient intelligence to realize those constructs exist. 

Which all in all is not a very comfortable sort of interaction to keep having with such predictable regularity.  And for me is a perfect example of  ”eternal vigilance against the tyranny of slenderness”.

(It was also the furthest I’ve ever been from my kids…and for the longest time too…in their entire little lives.) 

The weekend had its ups and downs but altogether it was a wonderful experience, and I am terribly glad I went.  Can’t wait to do it again even.

One of the highlights of the weekend was being able to swap clothes, shoes, and stories with other models.  Another was meeting a fellow that I’d very much like to fuck (not spank), which is kinda rare nowadays.  And maybe even take pictures with.  *wink*   Alas this was also a low point, as my lustful schemes were foiled. (Curses!)

But the absolute juciest part of the weekend had to be my encounter(s) with delicious, delightful Devlynn.  Here’s what I wrote to my friend Mistress Candice about it…