Possession

Kiss the lips to see who else has been a little sinful today

The clock went forward last night, which meant church was a whole hour later this morning.

I woke and picked up my book where I left off and the lovely Mr Hunt stirred just enough to spoon in behind me.

Technically, he was asleep when I snapped this, but I have run it past him subsequently. Seems even asleep, he is just a little possessive. And I am more than happy being possessed.

Thriving not surviving

Find a host of flowers in the sunshine and bloggers exploring their freedom by clicking the image

My day job is supporting families who are fire fighting all the time due to their circumstances. I do this because for a long time it is where we were. Functioning, but not thriving. It feels good to be able support families through difficult times, knowing we have come through them by luck, privilege and a lot of Duct tape.

Part of our survival was about carving out space for myself and the lovely Mr Hunt as individuals and a couple as well as working parents and carers. There was tons of advice and training, most of which felt hugely trite at the time, but contained tiny fragments of useable information that helped.

We needed to identify our sunshine, find our freedom and land on a few flowers.

My sunshine is being able to trust.

I have PDA, pathological demand avoidance, which is a type of autism that I have to manage constantly or I will cease to purposefully function. Any demand, however nicely or gently phrased, or a passive demand from washing up beside the sink waiting to be washed- or a blog deadline just sitting there- creates anxiety which has to be managed and rationalised. People with PDA are perceived as control freaks because to control the demands means to control everything, to plan for and manage several versions of every aspect of every action every day. This is exhausting.

Conversely, the relaxation coming from complete trust and complete submission to the lovely Mr Hunt is amazing. I can let go of all the strings I so frantically grasp at through the day. There is only one instruction, to follow, and I have chosen to do that.

By building moments of trust into every day, I can have precious moments of rest.

My freedom is to read.

Opening a book and joining someone else’s world is an amazing escape. I can be male or female or neither. Any sexual orientation. Any age in any age. Good books give me experience of feelings I have never felt myself, or the vocabulary to explain something I knew but couldn’t say. Less well written books give me the chance to question and shape how I would have felt or reacted as a certain character. To put ideas into practice.

I probably read for two to three hours a day. I read rather than watching television or movies because I find it far more immersive. I clock through everything from classics and translations of myths and legends to speedy romances which I like to think of as the soap operas of the book world. I do read biographies and histories and studies, but fiction is my freedom.

My flowers are specific favourite practices that centre me and bring me calm. I don’t land on my flowers everyday, or even every week because we both have to be in tune and have time, but that makes them more precious.

I think it’s probably six weeks since I last had a quiet moment in rope. A couple of weeks since we set up to take some photos. 10 days since we set up a specific scene.

But we will make time.

My flowers regenerate me. Empty out residual stress. Add highlights to the picture of my life.

We went years when the children were little and struggling without ever having flowers in our life and the layers and layers of stress caused by the lack of sunshine and flowers in our life took their toll.

I am very lucky that none of these things are reliant on being able to go out and mix with others beyond my household. I remember the pits of despair I felt when I was alone and had no appropriate coping mechanisms. Like many people with PDA, I turned to very inappropriate forms of release including self harm, both deliberate and neglectful. I cannot imagine what it would be like to be trapped in that situation this year.

When I work with families, I will remember this quote. When you are barely surviving, making time for flowers, sunshine and freedom seem so completely trivial and distant to your experience that it can make you feel angry when people try to steer you to search for your time and space, but in the end they are vital to your wellbeing, and a parent’s wellbeing is vital to supporting and developing as a thriving family.

What is wrong with the idea men are naturally superior?

I apologise now… this really is TL:DR but I have failed to edit it successfully due to time and passion. Gendered expectations are just such a hot topic in myhome that I struggled to cut it down. Really, read the opening two paragraphs and the last one…unless you’re a glutton for punishment, which I suppose if your reading a BDSM blog meme, you might be!

Click the visual to find everyone else’s take on this week’s theme.

If, like I do, you reject the idea of gender as a binary concept determined by the genitals and reproductive organs you are born with then there is very little left to unpick with this quote.

The characteristics that make someone dominant or submissive are not pre-coded to a body shape, type or gender. However, society teaches us that certain body shapes, types and genders should behave in certain ways and if you don’t fully understand yourself it might be easy to fall into those patterns.

There is a massive assumption that society is male dominated. There are many ways this is structurally reinforced, but it is not necessarily enforcing something that was a naturally occurring because of inherent skills or superiority.

I grew up in a very heteronormative environment. In an engineering industrial town like mine you might expect a culture of dominant masculinity, but in fact society outside the workplace was broadly matriarchal. If you ever saw the 1980s sitcom “Bread”, although stereotypical, the strong female matriarch was broadly representative of many of the families I grew up alongside. The male role models in the local society were in no way weak, as the quote may imply, but women ran the families.

One of the ways the idea of male dominated society become the norm, as the originator of this quote implies is by implying this pattern of behaviours is universal, but towns like my home town, fishing communities on the east coast of the UK and countless other societies around the world prove this wrong. They are erased and discounted.

The same things can be said the way men and women are expected to behave- the characteristics and physical qualities they are supposed to aspire to. Some things you can control or attempt to control, but lots of features are completely random. Those who don’t fit are erased or ignored or made fun of.

There have always been fashionable ways of being male or female. Heels, wigs, make up, modes of speech and behaviours have been perceived as the height of masculinity at some points and femininity at others.

When I was young, my friendship group had a top ten model of masculine features our future husbands would have. We were very egalitarian, in that we had two models, one for physical guys and one for nerdy types. When I look back and think about our ideas, we never once discussed different ideas for relationship dynamics or different sexualities. We assumed we knew everything and created our own feedback loop based or our limited experiences.

This quote has the same trend towards confirmation bias. When we surround ourselves with people who confirm our ideas or live in a narrowly defined society it can be hard to break out of that model.

Over the last few years, after having children, I have been considering gender as a way of understanding myself and as a thing that defines them. I have realised that the ideas I absorbed as a child were placing unrealistic demands on me, and as someone who has a demand avoidant presentation of autism, I needed to address this to reduce my underlying anxiety. I had ideas about who I should be, what I should achieve and how I should relate to people that were based only on the reproductive organs I was born with.  I didn’t want that for my children.

I currently employ a young man, the 15th man I’ve employed to work in my home. He does what lots of people might consider to be “women’s work”, helping  with cleaning, domestic organisation, shopping, the school run and throughout all of this, being a role model for my children, who because of their autism need more support than we can manage with two pairs of hands.

Employing men started as a very conscious choice to provide role models for my sons, but this project very quickly derailed. The first male we employed was not lovely and is in prison for what he did to my children. Then my children found enough vocabulary to let us know, that despite being penis owners, we had made faulty assumptions. They are not boys.

Our home has evolved into a very gender neutral zone. You don’t achieve this by ignoring gender but by challenging the assumptions that are made based on gender. We employ men because I don’t want those assumptions about “women’s work” to influence my children. I want them to learn to clean, learn to cook, learn to code, learn to take joy in sport, regardless of how they identify on the gender spectrum. Their natural male role model, The lovely Mr Hunt, is busy as the main breadwinner, but having extra hands allows me to go to work as well, and the children are not really aware of how much our income is reliant on Mr Hunt. Equally working from home allows him to be very present and part of the child care daily routine. Having another person to support me through the household chores keeps the balance.

I want my daughter to be strong and successful and to be surrounded by people who don’t judge based on either her genitals or her presentation, and she is a very girly girl. Right now, she’s too young to really understand the politics of sexuality, but not too young to know already assumptions are made about her based on her gender. Wanting your daughter to grow up to be a strong woman with endless possibilities is not really a radical form for parenting.

My older two children are my role models. They are not scared of their autism, but more than that, they refuse to get into a box just because it would be easier to meet society’s expectations than to challenge them. And meeting the world head on like that takes bravery. They have rejected a binary gender model and identify in different ways as non binary. Much as this brings many challenges, they have released themselves from a whole host of assumptions that may otherwise be made.

From their modelling, I have realised just how much of my presentation was masking to fit an identity I had been given, rather than one I genuinely felt. They have changed me and freed me to be open to who I am rather than trying to live in an identity that didn’t ever feel like home.

Whilst I was completely reconciled to my submissive needs, I could not match these to who I was in a physical sense. Yes the quote is about masculine and feminine but I felt my physical presentation matched masculine ideas more than feminine ones. Learning to love who I am without the overlay of gendered assumptions removes a lot of the anxiety about where I didn’t fit. Some of those things are behavioural, but some are physical. I can do nothing to change my 6ft height or my size 10 feet, did nothing to choose them, but struggled to balance that with the model of female I was shown. I especially struggled with how this was supposed to fit in to a model of submissive femininity.

Reading stories of men with a wide range of masculine attributes who were submissive really helped me become more confident and comfortable. There were more of these available in the mainstream than stories of tall, strong women or AFAB people. The more stories I found that either had a thread of Femdom, or had men kneeling for femme presenting male partners, the more secure I felt. I still don’t find stories out there that have AFAB people or women  who are ex rugby players or bouncers kneeling for anyone. Not least for petit, delicately feminine ladies, like my wonderfully toppy friend. And for the time being, there are some (but not nearly enough romances or queer erotica) that include non binary characters in any capacity.

Enjoying femme presenting people with sexually dominant characteristics is not limited to men. Being a femme presenting dominant is not penis envy, but a secure identity in its own right. Having the confidence and space to be that person though is an expression of feminism, but not as it is expressed in this quote as misandry but as a true equality that doesn’t need to be gendered to be affirmed. We erase successful female leaders by describing their leadership qualities as masculine, erasing their femininity and making it as assumption that penis born people will more naturally have these attributes and that these women are anomalous. We repeat and teach our children these things through structural and confirmation bias, making it harder to break out of a repeating pattern of thought.

We damage people by splitting characteristics whether emotional, behavioural or physical into gendered boxes with limited choices. Society would be better served if we lost the gendering of characteristics  completely.

Is it different for girls?

Click the picture to see other blogger’s thoughts on this quote.

A couple of weeks ago I had a conversation with the lovely Mr Hunt about our previous experiences. Probably seventeen years later than others might have had it, but it just hasn’t ever been important. I knew he’d been engaged before, and I knew about one or two other girlfriends. At no point did I assume I knew the whole story, nor did I share everything from my life story.

Nineteen or twenty mistakes…I haven’t made that many, and yes, I know Joan Rivers said this tongue in cheek. Should it be different for girls?

When I was a teenager and trying to set rules for myself I heard or came up with “never do anything you regret: never regret anything you do,” and I rolled these thoughts around for a while. I came to conclusion that I should trust my gut, if something doesn’t feel right in the moment I shouldn’t do it. On the other hand, if I made the best judgement at the time, I shouldn’t second guess myself later with the benefit of hindsight. So, if I had sex with someone I never perceived it as a mistake.

As a parent, my approach with my children is consistent across their genders. Part of this is possibly because I don’t feel attached to a gender label and can’t really see why gender should make a difference to how you approach self-esteem or health.  I am concerned about the same things: that they respect themselves and potential future partners and that they make choices to protect themselves and others as a sign of that respect. Pretty much that is it. I have no illusion that they will love every person they sleep with or that they be completely ready before they start making those choices. It is my job to help them information gather now, while they are young, so they know what respect for themselves and partners might look like.

Identifying as non binary, there is little expectation on my older two children. Are they expected to behave as men because they are penis owners? I hope they are free to make their own path without having to negotiate gendered expectation.

When I was their age, I absorbed a whole lot of expectation and shame around sex I do not want for my children. The concept of “what good girls do” and how this was different from boys and men were allowed to do was evident from the first Mills and Boon I devoured at about age nine. Bond slept with every girl in the films, and their only purpose was to meet with a sticky end, just to show bad girls always ended up in trouble. Good girls presented themselves a certain way, did certain things and most important was the list of things they didn’t do.

Apparently, I was a good girl.

Except I wasn’t. Not really a girl. Not particularly good.

I had a very active imagination and fairly active friends. Before I had any action at all, I had been voyeur to friends’ sexual experiences many times. I think we thought this was a safety thing, that we had sex on sleepovers in rooms filled with our friends as though they weren’t there. Or rather, others had sex. I listened. Jealous.

Then my friends orchestrated an experience for me… lined me up with an appropriate gentleman at an event with drinks and suddenly I was topless in the woods.

The sky didn’t fall in.

And I liked it.

And the next time.

Fuck I felt powerful. Wanted.

I collected experiences wherever I could.

But I also absorbed other rules. Boys didn’t like girls who pretended a one-night stand (or a one-hour stand) was anything other than that. I resolved to be the best one night stand they could have. I didn’t cling. I went home. I didn’t call. And if asked, I left a random number. If men could do that, then I could also. Well, when with guys. I didn’t do that with girls… it felt wrong.  I was just as guilty of the double standard, treating people differently by gender.

I have no regrets. They were not mistakes. I might not do the same things again, but I went with the best information I had at the time and had fun without worrying if they liked me, or if I was any good, because I had taken control and had chosen to walk away. When friends or acquaintances were involved, I framed it as a shared moment with no ongoing significance.

The ultimate moment of power was to finally hook up with my mid teen crush at a sleep over party when I was in my twenties, and then carry on at breakfast the next morning as though nothing extraordinary had happened.

I might be autistic and shit at reading responses, but I know I surprised him. And doing that is a more powerful memory than the sex. In fact the act had little to do with sex and was all about power.

This person didn’t make nineteen or twenty mistakes. Or have nineteen or twenty sexual partners. I actually don’t know how many people I shared sexual experiences with before monogamy hit (sort of), but twenty isn’t close.

See. The sky still hasn’t fallen in.

I didn’t respect myself all the time in the way I would like to instil in my children, but I didn’t disrespect myself. I protected myself in a poor way, protecting my fragile emotions by denying the opportunity for any connections to be made beyond they physical and immediate. I would hope my children have better self esteem. I would hope my children didn’t make their choices based on what society would have them be. If they want hook ups, that should be their choice because it’s what they want, not because they are trying to be something for someone else’s comfort. I hope they are gentle with themselves if something doesn’t go to plan.

I had a hell of a lot of fun.

Between the experiences of the lovely Mr Hunt and me, there is an order of magnitude.

Neither of us had suspected such a discrepancy.

Does it actually make a difference?

Not at all.

Time for Coffee.

Kiss the lips to see the beautiful images for this week

We have a new au pair to help us care for the kids. Which is great.

Sort of.

Having carers in, although completely necessary to allow the children to experience some independence, comes with the sacrifice of privacy. They have keys and come and go as necessary and although, because of the children’s vulnerability, they live in an adjoining flat, it still changes they dynamic of the whole house.

Not leaving your bedroom except when fully dressed.

We are very fortunate to have the support and to maintain some private spaces. I have a friend with physical support needs who due to Covid has agency rather than personally sourced carers and has twice been put to bed at 6pm. She has become so embarrassed at having strangers in her room, judging her, that she has thrown away her vibrator rather than have it discovered.

I digress.

He is lovely. Nice tattoos and a dirty French accent. Very patient.

One the last day before the au pair arrived, I revelled in a little housework. Because I could. Because it makes Mr Hunt smile when I serve morning coffee in his office, safe in the knowledge he never has his camera on.

your coffee?

I’ll miss this freedom.

And check out the lovely lingerie with perhaps a little more lace than mine!

When the blossom has blown away, still we stand.

Click on the image to find other’s thoughts on this week’s quote.

I’ve found lots of prompts recently here and elsewhere lead me to write about me…and that isn’t really why or where I started when I opened my blog. I enjoy writing fiction. Life isn’t all peaches and cream for anyone this year, but I can honestly say there have been at least two worse years in the past decade and that every year is a bit of a slog.

For this prompt I could write about the family court judge we met at a friend’s house who after we’d chatted to for an hour said “How are you still together? I mean, most families under your strain end in divorce…99% of them.”

I could write about the sappy tune played at our wedding about become captain and first mate on our journey through life and our kids becoming the crew- that we planned to be together for a long haul and that the planning put us in good stead for very rocky seas.

But fuck all that. I wanted to write fiction.

And this is sort of fiction.

Sort of.

Storms have blown away all our blossom but still we stand.

I heard your key scrape at the lock and the clanking of the barrels before the stamping of feet on the mat. I had the mug under the hot water before you even reached the kitchen.

“Hey, you!” Knackered, your bag falls to the floor and I bite my lip to avoid the usual nag about leaving it where it falls. It’s been a long day.

Your hands slink around my waist as I dredge the teabag from the mug, fingers night cold where they sneak under my sweater. I let my head fall back on your shoulder.

“How’s mum?” I don’t really think there is an answer.

“Quiet. Your sister had been over and changed the bed.”

I acknowledge with a hum, but I can’t dwell on any of it. You know and drags me back against your chest. Familiar. Safe.

“Kids are down. Flic’s kindle is in your office and I had to bump the router off again to make sure they weren’t sneaking back on. They’re snoring now.”  Your turn to hum an answer.

Your beard is soft against my cheek and I rub against it like a cat. So certain and calm. I want to climb onto your lap and be stroked and held and for everything to be ok. Instead, I pour the milk into the tea and absorb love through the tiny circles of thumb against belly.

I want taking out of my head. And you know me well enough to know it.

The clock ticks heavily marking seconds. The central heating fires up with a roar then drops away again. Our breathing synchronises.

You warm to me and the slightly humid post cooking air. Your hand lifts my sweater higher and I cool without getting cold.

One finger runs under the wire of my bra. Just rubs in small movements that highlight the roughness of your skin. Focuses my attention.

I let the day fall away.

That finger ticks over my skin. Hypnotic.

“Hands on the counter,” you say and your words move my body. I arch against you. Your hands stop dead.

The clock ticks on. I force myself to relax. You won’t be rushed.

I breathe with you.

Your fingers again traces patterns, follow the smooth snail trails of stretch marks across my skin. Brush through coarse curls on a downwards quest.

On another night I might squirm beneath your touch and you would respond by demanding your will, trapping me with your body and demanding with your words.

On yet another, you might peel down my jeans and spank my arse, the sound crisp and sharp bouncing off angles and surfaces. The coldness of marble beneath my fingers in contrast with the fiery bruises under yours.

Memorably, I remember the nights we fuck over the high backed kitchen chairs, the hard wood digging into my belly as I strain to balance on tiptoe, palms flat on the seat, desperately trying to hold still enough to avoid the groaning scrape of chair on tile. Forcing my head up to watch our blurry bodies reflected on condensation coated windows.

I wonder if the images are shared between us because you are hard against me now. I want to spread and soften. To welcome you. To be consumed by you.

“Stay.”

I couldn’t do anything else, rooted to the floor. Eyes closed, I follow you around the room. The splash of water as you wash your hands. The friction of the junk drawer as it opens brings a sudden ache. Emptiness. The rustle as you search for lube is deliberate. Signposting. My throat tightens and the roof of my mouth aches with want.

My body screams for you to fuck me. My mouth stays closed.

Taps to the inside of my feet have me spreading my legs. You rush nothing. The slow pull of my belt before it loosens. Chill air hits exposed skin as my jeans fall to my knees. The dry fingered swipe is a tease. As though I didn’t know my ass was yours.

Patient fingers. I want this, don’t get me wrong, but I hate it at the same time. Hate that you haven’t asked. Hate the anticipation in my thighs. Hate myself for the wetness dampening my thighs as you spread me wider. The knife sharp anticipation.

I want this with a thirst that dries my mouth. A bone deep ache.

Two fingers. The slurp of the lube reminds me the bottle will need replacing soon, but that thought is chased away by the pressure and the screams that build silently.

Fuck me.  I’m not some delicate flower. I want the sting. The consuming of me into that single focus. Your dick in me now. I want you to break and do as I demand.

Fuck me.

Fuck me now.

Knees locked against the cupboard door, arms braced, you slide home and my thoughts burn to dust.

Nothing. Everything.

Just the thrust and withdraw.

 Breaths loud against my ear.

 Fingers bruisingly tight against my hips.

I want to hang here forever.

Want you to finish.

Want to be used.

Don’t let me come.

Make me.

We tumble over the edge, you first in a helpless staccato that pins me to the counter, then me.

Then me. The day washed away in a tide of emotions and sensations.

You stay close, spunk leaking down my thighs, your face sweaty against my cheek. Stay in a bubble of our heartbeats till the ticking clock intrudes. We right our clothes. Wash our hands. Drink our lukewarm tea.

Be.

There’s no place for love in D/s..?

Find many paths by following the link

I think I am very precise in the use of language. One of the things that frustrates me is how we combine the many meanings of love into four small letters.

Is there a place for care in D/s? What about romance? What about wanting to give of yourself to make another person happy? What about affection? A draw to a person based on liking and respecting them? Must it be an attraction based on sexual desire to be love? Does love demand intimacy?

D/s to me is an overlay to underlying ways on inter-relating as humans. I think to be healthy there should be positivity in those relationships. Positivity doesn’t have to be anything one needs to define as love. Equally, defining it as love shouldn’t exclude it. Each relationship, whether ten minutes or ten years, is its own mixing desk of all of the factors above and more.

Those who identify as Ace, grey and demi (romantic or sexual) can find a relationship through the lens of D/s when many people external to their understanding would struggle to identify how they define love because some of the building blocks of sexuality we are used to associating with love are missing. The exclusion of the romantic or the sexual does not necessarily preclude love nor does it bar you from sharing positive relationships defined in other ways.

Personally, my sexual attraction to someone is primarily based on a more dominant character and my desire to submit to that person than any other factors. This can be damn inconvenient. Not getting a crush on my boss is a constantly relevant hazard, unless I’m working for myself. The point I will meander around to, is that there doesn’t have to be anything romantic, nor affectionate, to trigger a satisfaction from offering submission and I would assume the same is true for a Dominant person. Basic levels of respect and a sign that what I do makes someone happy is my contented place at work. Learning to protect myself from this being abused has taken time, but I think I have a handle on it now.

All the significant friendships I have in my life have an element of (usually, but not always, non-sexual/ non-explicit) D/s in their structure, with me very happy as the little s. Having to take the lead for an extended period of time makes me unhappy and anxious.

At home, I am lucky to be in a relationship that meets many people’s idea of “loving”. Most importantly it satisfies both of us involved. But can I express what that means to me in words?  I feel appreciated for both outcomes and effort applied. I feel valued. I feel supported. I feel respected. Desired. I feel the things I can offer make my SO, the lovely Mr Hunt, happier in his daily life. I hope he feels appreciated, valued, supported, respected and desired in return.

And sometimes, if I’m a very lucky person, I feel thoroughly (physically) used as an expression of all of that, in a way vanilla life might not associate with a loving relationship.

Defining love as different things can make it sound clinical and missing magic and I often wonder if I missed something by not really getting the bolt of lightening romantics like to think of as falling in love. That moment where it hits you. Because I don’t think I really did. Love, to me, creeps up rather arriving with a brass band and fireworks.

Love doesn’t have to be everything at once or all things equally. It doesn’t have to feel the same to both people in a relationship or be in any sort of balance.

In D/s some people might be happy with a transactional agreement based on short term needs being met and that is fine. Some people might start with rules and end up with fireworks and roses. Equally fine. Some people might build their relationship on love, some might use it to guild the lily. And the same person might be in all of those situations at different times and/or with different partners. This is just the same as vanilla life. Hook ups are a valid expression of need and sexuality, just as much as (serial) monogamy.

What is necessary is to know where the other person stands. Whereever the power lies, how you communicate is the relationship.  Getting to grips with constantly crushing on anyone with dominant characteristics as a teenager meant I either had to get to grips with communication or be in a constant state of angst. I love D/s because the communication is (hopefully) explicit, and my autistic brain does not deal with inference well.

At Uni, I discovered others did not really do the explicit consent thing. Take a person back to your dorm room or go to theirs, break off from snogging and try to explain what your limits are, and more often than not the buzz was totally killed. And yes, that was both before the idea that consent was sexy was a theme and before I had mastered social skills so was probably my fault.  But add in expectations of D/s and that type of discussion was not just accepted, it was expected.

With my natural attraction to Dominant people and my need for explicit communication, I don’t think I would ever attempt more traditional dating. But I hope I never need to either, because as things stand I know you can have the type of D/s we practice and love, and neither is a barrier to the other.

Whereas I think you can either have love in D/s or have a neutral relationship based on a positive understanding, the reverse is not true. There is no room for hate, or disrespect, carelessness or the desire to make another miserable. And often the misconception is that D/s is some of those things, especially if either thrives through humiliation or pain or denial. But, of course, those are very different things.

The underlying tenet is to take pleasure from meeting the needs of another person. To take pleasure without meeting their needs is not D/s.  And whilst that might not be all love comprises of, it is nearer to love in its many meanings than not.

Authenticity

I’ve finally made it to Quote Quest… 15 weeks late is pretty much on time for me. It’s a good one to get my teeth into this week.

Quote Quest – Week 15
Click the quote to read other’s take on this thought provoking quote

I have wandered through life without much internal idea of who I am. I was shaped by the messages I received from others, but I didn’t realise just how much until I watched a psychologist describe my second child and their poor sense of self identity and how this affected them.

Having adored certain boys from about 10, I think I was 13 when I first had a crush on a girl. She was the classic “bad boy” complete with a leather jacket over her school uniform and was a fifth former while I was a third year student. It never occurred to me to worry about this, because I was straight… or rather it never occurred to me to think about that either. I’d grow up, get married and have kids was a better description and to do that as a girl, you liked boys. Well, I did. So that was ok.

By Uni, I would self describe as bi-sexual, but I didn’t know how to behave as though I was. I had no flirting skills towards either gender and had a disturbing number of crushes on femme gay men, which proved to me even more that I just couldn’t read the room. Masculine people in lace and make up are still attractive to me, as are many other combinations of masculine and feminine coded traits in a package.

Understanding myself and loosing all those pesky messages about how men and women are supposed to behave that are written into our societal coding has finally let me develop into a whole person who is comfortable in my skin and able to interact with people understanding myself and their key signals.

I have realised the packaging a person comes in is just that. Skin and bones with interesting configuration but not what I primarily found attractive. The person inside and especially the traits they choose to project are what attract me.

Confidence. Self understanding.

Pansexual fits best and I’ve been using that for about 6 years.

It is easier to place these non-gendered ideas on other people than it is to apply them to myself. Because if I am not who I thought I was, who am I? I remember asking the psychologist exactly that If I’m not defined by my genitals and child bearing status, who am I? . If my child doesn’t need me in the same way anymore, who am I?

I was never just a walking reproductive system. I was never just their parent. I am, I feel, blessed to be a role model and guide to being a person for my children and for the young (and not so young) people I meet through my day job. Like me, my children walk to the beat of a different drum, as do many of my clients.

I was never just the girl who was going to marry a man and have a heap of kids because he had a good job and could provide me with a home. And I am no less valid as an LGBTQ+ community member for having married a man and having a hoard of children.

I was always someone who looked for people who could take me over. Take control and let me just be. But there was no role model for that. No education. I walked into dangerous situations to get a fix I didn’t understand. I hope I don’t leave my children so underprepared if they have a sexuality that is not heteronormative or conservative.

When you are autistic a key survival skill you learn is how to mask. It is like living your whole life as a C list actor (at best) in a role without a script. I learnt girl as a mask. I had vividly described it to people over the last 15 years without realising that was what I was doing. I shopped at Monsoon so my clothes didn’t go out of fashion and were always smart enough and casual enough. I had my nails done because girls have manicures. I took my eyebrows and hair to a hairdresser with a good reputation and just let them do what they think is best because then I can be just like everyone else. I went to mother and toddler groups with the children despite thinking they were torture.

Just because I realise gender is a performance for me doesn’t mean I don’t respect that for others this might come with some deep internalised sense of belonging to a label or a team or a tribe. Recently, I learnt some of the non binary descriptors belong especially to autistic people. I like the one that says we don’t feel gender in the same way as others and that being autistic is our primary identifier above gender or sexuality.

The world looks different when you realise you don’t have to be in a particular box.

There are new battles to fight. And some battles that you can chose not to fight.

My elder two children also identify as non binary and we have done some learning together about words we might use to help others understand who we are, but also that we don’t have to be the same type of non binary as others to be valid. I don’t have to feel comfortable applying labels like queer and trans to myself if I don’t think they fit me. I haven’t changed. I have always been this me, I just didn’t understand it.

I am still to the outside world a middle class mummy. People still see my tits walk into the room first and assume woman because that is a statistical likelihood. I don’t have time in every professional situation to explain myself, nor do I owe anyone an explanation. I have to explain my autism anywhere it is a disability for me and that’s intrusive enough.  As it doesn’t bother me personally, I haven’t changed my pronouns. My children have and I fully support them in doing so. They have them embroidered on their school uniform (as pin badges aren’t allowed for safety) to help those around them remember not to just go by their beautiful long hair and say she, or the depth of their voices and say he.

I still write middle class mummy letters, but now they are to Virgin Care when then insist the person giving permission for a flu jab identify themselves as mother or father rather than parent (gone to moderation). Or to Sponge Cakes telling them when my child want to order me a cake and can’t pick their chosen title of Mx from their limited drop down, this is not good enough (they changed it within 24hours).

I see gendered language of parenting everywhere and spend time trying to find usable work rounds and getting used to them in my speech, so my children’s children, if they have them, will not have the encoded language telling them who they are. I hope my students are not constrained by the limits language imposes on how we draw ourselves in words.

I have spent the last few years changing my wrapping so it fits better with the me on the inside. I don’t like giving a false impression that how I think of myself might be just fit a statistical norm. How can I expect other typically thinking people to understand me if I look one way and behave another? I am as confusing to them as they are to me as an autistic person.

Picture of me mid primping at the hairdressers
Looking like the person I was modelled to be, I feel inauthentic and misunderstood

Being a little different is great.

Being able to be true to myself as an autistic person without pretence is wonderful.

Having the confidence to self advocate in a meeting if I don’t understand or need a break, or even just need the lights dimming is freeing.

Changing my packaging is hard. I can’t shake the clothing rules I learnt to mask, but equally I recognise the privilege they bring. When I walk into a professionals meeting in a suit and heels with confident but understated make up and use my masking skills to be the person I know the (usually male) chair of the meeting will respect, I am using that privilege. When I leave and kick off my shoes and bra and take off the ever so respectable wig to reveal my blue hair having secured the package my client needs, have I been played by being forced into an inauthentic package, or have I played the system? I know… have proof from repeated meetings… that the mums with tattoos and coloured hair and tired faces are devalued in meetings below the fathers and the fair, unpainted skinned and those with natural coloured hair, however unnaturally that has been acquired.

At the moment I really don’t know who I am without the clothes I learnt to wear when I was younger, but I know I will work it out.

I want to have the confidence and the social and professional currency to point out the hypocrisy I am part of, but I don’t have it yet. I want to change pronouns not for me, but to walk that path for the person behind me, whether that is my child, my student, my client or a stranger. I want to put the evidence before the people I work with that I am not different if I attend the meeting with blue hair. I’d love to think that writing the occasional piece of erotic work shouldn’t devalue my other work.

The after picture of the trip to the hairdresser, complete with bright blue  and white hair and blue lipstick.
Looking like this might lack professional credibility but makes me happy

I value myself for these things but I also recognise the time for each of these battles will come and I should make myself available and ready to fight, but I don’t have to take them on alone or now.

I applaud those who do. I am encouraged that a member of the children’s drama group has just come out as binary trans at home and at drama and found that easier because my children are open about being non binary. The path had been walked.

But whereas I believe Neville Goddard was correct in the first of his statements, and partially right in his second – that you can’t change people, only offer the opportunity to be educated and the chance to change, I don’t agree they are messengers of who you are. They are simply reflecting their own values and fears, understanding or ignorance onto you. I don’t believe revaluing yourself is enough to be revalued in the eyes of others. The question is whether their opinion is worth worrying about, or whether it is something you should work around, at least temporarily, to meet your aims.

Van Gogh didn’t accept the views of others and kept painting, because others didn’t understand his art. I won’t accept the views of others as the only or primary source of value for myself. I am prepared to be misunderstood, because I understand myself.

Living an authentic life, as one of my children’s favourite youtubers likes to say, is less easy than that. It is a compromise between being comfortable in your own skin, fighting battles for yourself and others, and getting life done, with all the responsibilities you have taken on on the way to where you are now.

Those are values that are fluid and whilst you are responsible for not making life harder for anyone else, you don’t have to fix the world in one lifetime if you don’t feel you have the tools or the strength.

Wouldn’t it be wonderful if we could?

Wanking with friends

I can’t really remember what life was like before I discovered other people’s erotic writing in blogs. I think I was still reading mainly mainstream romances, which have their place, but didn’t reflect the person I am in my head. I appreciate romance, but love the acknowledgement that sex and love are not interchangable, that one can exist completely without the other and still be valid.

One of the really interesting things of the last few years has been having the opportunity to meet up with bloggers at Eroticon. Find out more about all the issues and themes that link this community together, and sometimes pull it apart.

The community that has produced the Smutathon are more than people who write. They are people who are thoughtful and reflective on the mainstream narrative around sex , love, intimacy and a sense of self. Whether writing about orgasms, protecting the right to identify as one wishes, or identifying and writing about the taboos that can lead to an unsatisfying sex life, this is much more pornographic wank fodder. Although when it’s that, it is important, valid and searingly hot.

The aim of this year’s Smutathon, to raise the issues around endometriosis and raise funds to allow better understanding and future treatments is a reflection of that thoughtfulness. The link to drop a little more in the pot is here.

The Smutathon badge showing a woman in fishnets bending over a chair with tagline 'Erotic writing for a cause
Follow the link to find other pieces written in this year’s marathon

2020 has been a bitch of a year, but coming out of the rubble my working day business has taken off and been very much in demand. Writing has taken a backseat and more to the point, writing fiction has vanished from my life. This seems as good a moment as ever to reboot. 12 hours of writing was not possible, but I put in a good 12 hours of angst and staring at a blank screen before the words started to flow again, prompted, in this case, by the fantastic audio erotica appearing with increasing frequency on my blog feeds.

Your words are hot.

They sizzle from the screen into my blood, as the wonderful chemistry of arousal fills me with its languid heat.

Objectively, the blunt honesty of your words, the open unapologetic love of fucking in its technicolour glory is exciting. The reminder of sex as a means to its own end, instead of expecting it to drag along the baggage of intimacy and emotion.

I want that cock you describe instead of the slightly unsatisfying toy I’m humping against the mattress. The sweat and the slap of flesh, him into you and through your words into me.

I can smell the unfamiliar duvet you’ve put beneath my body, the combination of a stranger’s laundry choices and the must of bed irregularly used. The crunch of the fresh cotton crushed in my hand.

The memory of not knowing the rhythms of the body behind me, but at the same time, knowing it’s you. And you are no stranger.

In this solo wank, I can grasp those memories. I can let you fuck me with your words.

The house is quiet, so I click the link to audio.

Your voice encapsulates so many of my memories of you. Infectious energy, warm and gently humorous is thrilling and behind my closed lids I see the sparkle in your eyes as you tell another risque tale.

It feels ridiculously intimate. Propped up against the pillows in a graphic tee and batman boxer shorts you narrate his cock as it nudges my arse. Tell him how much a I want to feel that cock sink into my cunt. Give voice to the lightening that spears through me as his fat fingers push aside the edge of my knickers and pull at my clit.

There is freedom. Your words drive the fantasy and I can be taken or I can do the taking. I can watch. Be you. Fuck you. And I want it all.

Palm cracking against arse. Whether it is yours or mine doesn’t matter, the electricity dances across my skin. We merge, split, reform. You are watching me. I am watching you.

Voyeur to your fuck, the scent on the air is your juice coating his hand and I want to slide my finger into your heat alongside his. Stretch you that little bit further and hear the catch in your voice as he makes you ask for his cock. Take his cock in my hand and slick it. Feel it thicken and pulse at your words.

The sounds of your mouth. Not your voice, but your tongue against your teeth, the pop of your lips as you enunciate every word and drag out the anticipation with the emphasis of every consonant. The sound of your swallow.

I want to kiss you. Feel your tongue tangling with mine, our teeth clashing as we eat into each other.

I want your mouth on my cunt. That talented tongue spearing into me as he spreads your cheeks to improve his view. The gasping breaths as he cracks his hand into your skin.

His cock becomes mine and buried inside you my skin grinds roughly against the hot handprints. The hold of your body as I pull back and the welcoming kiss as I fuck you with hard rhythmic thrusts. The creak of the bed and the rustle of the duvet beneath your quiet pants. My hands span your narrow waist, framing the heart of your arse, pale in the darkness of this stranger’s bedroom.

I feel the tightening rush as orgasm tugs at my senses and I clench my jaw as I try to push it away. My fingers slide between cock and cunt, both now mine in this tumbling fantasy of bodies real and imagined.  Building, swirling, undeniable It pulses through me in staccato contractions and a rush of heat that spills from me into you, stealing my focus and leaving me floating between bodies.

I come back to myself. Fingers curled between sopping cunt walls and the velvety smooth toy, for those few heady moments both his cock and mine. Your voice, still steady, aroused and amused in equal measure, finishes your tale, unaffected by my efforts, and you leave me wet and spent in a tangle of sheets and sweat.

Thank you. Fucking with you is so much more satisfying than frigging alone.

Assumed power in punctuation?

No True Way

Dominants tend to be the “Alpha Male”, and that is why “Dom” is always spelled with a capital, while “sub” is always lowercase.

Holy Moly Batman! I know these quotes are designed to provoke and at the same time reflect ignorant public perception but there is loads here to work with. The question is where to start.

The sideshow here is actually very important. The idea that a dominant would be male is wound through modern fiction and societal expectations.

The majority of people who have pressed all my “I recognise you as dominant” buttons, either through kinky circles or through my professional life are female. From the lady who organised the rotas and bookings at church (whilst having a highly important job in her weekday life) to every headteacher I have ever taught under, to a string of best friends over the course of my life.

Gender is not a big determinant in my life, which is why among other things, I identify as pansexual. Converse then to my experience, I would never assert that dominants are predominantly women. Unlike women though, men do not have their assertive and positive characteristics labelled as bossy, pushy and otherwise undesirable and contrary to their gender presentation.

I wouldn’t assume that someone with a dominant weekday persona would assume any sort of sexually dominant role. Likewise, the choice of features in someone’s character that I respond to are not necessarily those all people would assume to be part of the character of someone who takes the dominant role in a sexual relationship or scene.

Like so much else in this world, it is personal choice and a case of asking rather than assuming.

I respond well to someone who recognises my skill set but is still happy to take control of a situation and give clear instruction. I wonder sometimes whether this is part of my autism, that clear communication and hierarchy provide relief from a world full of patterns and subtexts I can’t follow and allow me to feel safe and cherished. Someone has bothered to communicate with me in a way I can truly follow and understand.

This type of communication skill is not predominant in people who take their position of dominance in a situation for granted. I work with many professional people who don’t give me a good dominant vibe, despite being the Alpha dog in their own personal pack. People who have been promoted above their competence to lead. People who can only communicate with others who speak their language and pride themselves in shouter louder and longer and taking it for granted we can all comprehend what they want.

I teach. Everyday I am in position of being the alpha of my classroom. Because of my teaching situation I am stripped of many of the powers people would naturally assume to be in a teacher’s toolbox. I can’t give detentions, set punishment tasks or exclude my pupils. To get them to learn I have to earn their respect. They have to follow me down the path of learning I want to take them because they want to go. Being able to inspire from a position of negotiated power and dominance, which is what I like to experience from a dominant in my life, is something I can copy and present (I hope) in my classroom. My students (and supporting staff) need to trust my judgement. It does not make me dominant though and is completely exhausting to maintain.

It is mask I can assume. My partner is that without it being a mask or a role. They are a skilled negotiator, a team leader. A person who sees the small details that can derail a situation and can handle those simultaneous to driving the big picture.

Handy in a business sense, fantastic in keeping our family moving and amazing in our relationship.

From the outside he is nothing that would be assumed to be “Alpha”.

I sometimes wonder if our D/s relationship is partly because I like to kid myself he is not my carer. I cannot function on my own due to my autism.

Say that in a room of my friends and family and people would rush to deny it, but it is true. I would produce persuasive paperwork for a tribunal, but I wouldn’t have eaten, washed my clothes or remembered to pay the electricity bill. Or I would remember those things and then need a lie down while I melted into an incompetent professional mess.

When I lived away from my parents, I developed non sexual relationships where people stepped into the void. Friends who would ring and make sure certain things had happened. I lived with my sister. This is too stressful, too needy for a traditional friendship and over short amounts of time causes a relationship burnout.

I am truly dependent on the relationship with Mr Hunt to allow me to be a professionally useful and privately functional adult. I have a PA, but Mr Hunt has to help me direct them so they can help me.

Our relationship though is based on all the things I mentioned above. I feel respected and seen for the range of skills I do have that I can bring to our relationship. Learning to accept what I can’t do and not hate myself for it has been a long struggle. On the other hand, Mr Hunt has taken it all in his stride.

Our relationship is full time, covering every aspect of our lives. He has access to so much of my life that outsiders have sometimes commented unfavourably on our relationships. He sees my emails, my bank accounts, the contents of my phone. Technically I can see his, but I have no need to look. If he were gone, my PA would have to access to all these things. Listening to them (my PA and Mr Hunt) working together the other night to arrange a website to sell my professional services and do my accounts was a complete riot. Working together, they have supported me to develop my own business and keep that business flowing professionally. It makes me feel good that working together we can exploit the parts of me that work well to contribute to the family finances and my own professional sense of worth, whilst protecting my weak spots.

This isn’t coercive control. I can change passwords and own assets in my own name he cannot touch (just in case anyone is worried). This is loving and negotiated communal intellectual property of our relationship.

Returning to the point made in the quote about capitalisation, we have no need for it. For some people it might signify something they have in their relationship or might be a signal of something they want. In my opinion, honorifics need to be more than symbolism to have power.

When I write the initials D/s to talk about a relationship, the capitalisation is reflective of the shape of the relationship, rather than purely an honorific. When I write about real people, I would use whatever honorific we have agreed, or that feels right to me and doesn’t overstep the bounds of the relationship.

My friend with whom I have a hierarchical non sexual relationship with elements of D/s is simply known by her name, when we are friends, and by her initial if she or I want to signify a different space.

Anyone who reads my blog or tweets will know that Mr Hunt is primarily the lovely Mr Hunt in my writing, capitalised only by the convention of written English. He is not Sir or Master. Nor Daddy, which I sometimes think might be closer to the mark. He is just him. The name everyone calls him. I am just me. In the shedding of our professional labels and Mummy and Daddy, we bring what we are to each other into focus. The words are less important than the actions that follow.

We bring different but complementary things to the table domestically, professionally and sexually. Nothing would work properly if we tried to replicate the others skills or preferences. But nothing about who we are makes him the capitalisation to my lowercase.