I’m really a gay leather boy

Through Orlando’s Tumblr page, which is already hot enough to keep me distracted, I’ve stumbled across the Leathermen Tumblr page, which might be enough to destroy my productivity forever. Particularly distracting thus far are this image of a top wringing a washcloth (presumably full of his own sweat) over the bound and bruised body of his boy, who looks out at the camera with the most glorious expression of mingled humiliation and challenge; this prototypical image of a couple in an alley in full leathers, where the top’s expression is rough with power and pleasure and doesn’t seem to be for the camera; and this shot of a man in uniform, casually enjoying a cigarette while he rests his booted feet on a boy who’s worshipping his leathers.

What can I say, I’m an old fashioned kind of gal.

Still other images I love for their simplicity and beauty in what they evoke, like this one of a leather pantleg, hand, and boot on some stairs, or this sweet one of a Daddy cutting his boy’s hair.

If I haven’t mentioned it in this space before, I’m something of a leather slut. I’m not too excited by the kind of leather female dommes are expected to wear, though I’m happy to wear it because hey, leather. But the gay leather iconography gets me so hot it sometimes feels like I’m one of those fetishists I see from time to time whom I feel sorry for because they can never truly fulfill their fantasies: giantess fetishists, for example, or people into vore.

But from time to time I butch up and treat my girl nice, and from time to time I boy up and get kicked around by my Daddy a bit. And those are times when I feel my gender dissolve into something new and mythical and beautiful. It’s painful, too, though: I know the unreality of it, and I also embrace the femme side of me, and wouldn’t want to change. There’s something terribly poignant about this type of play, and something godlike to me about these images of men doing terrible, wonderful things to each other without shame or doubt.

One time, I got to go to Provincetown with my Daddy, and watch him get picked up, picked over and appraised by a number of men. We went cruising and drinking with these guys, hung out in front of Spiritus after closing, got shown the infamous “dick dock.” I felt like Goldilocks surrounded by all these warm and loving bears, and at the same time I felt like a squealing fangirl, a fag hag, the least interesting person in the room. Still, there was something freeing about it: I didn’t have to perform, only to admire. Only to wish I were one of them.

It was a night when I got to face down my high school demons at last, in a way I never expected. I was in love with a gay boy in high school, and I always thought it was because I wasn’t ready to have a real sexual relationship. My crushes on gay men continued through college – particularly when I didn’t know someone was gay. Later in college I dated a bi man, and would continue to stumble into queer space for a long time to come.

It’s only recently that I’ve come to recognize that fag haggery isn’t part of my sexuality: it’s more that I’m part gay boy. My attraction to gay men and leathermen isn’t entirely unrealizable: my own Daddy proves that, as do my interactions with other amazing bi men who see fit to draw me into their worlds. I’ll never be a real boy; I’m a bit like Pinocchio in all this. But I’m proud to be a part of what seems to be an ever-expanding definition of queer leather.

And still totally distracted by that Tumblr account.

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Dorothy, we’re not in Guantanamo anymore…

It has not escaped my notice that I have a hot spot for interrogation scenes. Okay, maybe a wet spot would be more accurate. But there’s a mystery to it for me. While I admit to enjoying the rush of power that comes from hurting someone until they break, the place I more often imagine myself in is the role of the break-ee.

I read this post and its follow-up from Miss Calico and found myself alternately disturbed and aroused. (I sense a new title for this blog coming.) I sent the links to my go-to man for such things, knowing he would get off on it, even as I squirmed with it, even as her words kept rising in my throat like a sickness.

I was not having fun…this was a big mistake…I would rather be somewhere (oh god, anywhere) else – I knew these feelings, and knew, too, the anticipation and memory that bookend and feed those experiences. The amount of pain described sounded horrible to me; I was turned off by what seemed to be the top’s total insensitivity to where she was in her pain, even as I could feel that tension in her words, the place where this was exactly what she wanted even while she was hating it. There is a place of terror for me in all of this: that place where I’m silenced by my pain, and by my pride: where I’ll do anything for my top except surrender. That level of sadism – and masochism – is somewhat frightening to me, even as I somewhat understand it.

Yet I can’t stop looking at the posts, can’t stop picking that scab today. What fascinates me so about this type of play, this place where I’m tied down and begging, and nothing I say will make him stop?

This part moved me in particular:

“I clung to the paternalism in his address. I wanted to be his good little girl. If he was getting off on using his little girl, it wasn’t meaningless torture: he wasn’t going to kill me and dump my body behind the woodshed. Probably.”

I’ve been turned on before by someone telling me how easily he could kill me. Hell, I’ve turned it around and used it to make someone else come. The idea of someone having that kind of power over me, the intimacy of death, so close to sex, his body pinning mine, huge hands crushing my throat as he pierces me with his eyes, his cock…yeah, it gets me hot, the idea.

But there’s a line here, and I’m struggling to figure out where it is. Something to do with the lack of intimacy, the pulling back from it. The coldness in the torturer, who begins to make me believe that he no longer cares, that I’m just another victim to him. Some people fantasize about being tortured, raped and abandoned on the side of the road. I am not one of those people. No, I fantasize about being tortured, raped, and then rocked back to regular consciousness with cuddling and soothing words.

Maybe that makes me some kind of kink wimp, I don’t know.

A commenter on the post had this question: “Do you ever fear that you will go to that ‘it was a long way back’ place and not return? Or return but be changed?”

I like to think that I have a strong mind; I think that’s part of what perversely (how else) attracts me to this type of scene. I want to know how much I can take. I want to know how far I can go. But to what end?

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New clips up at my clips store!

I’ve got a new trampling clip up in several different formats at my clips store. Please to enjoy.

Next week there should be a new OTK spanking clip, and then if I can keep my videographer hoppin’, we’ll get many more clips up (I’m hoping for one new one per week) in the next few months.

Enjoy!

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Building content

I’ll be doing a video shoot tomorrow, after rather a long hiatus. It can be difficult, since my videographer lives in New York, but we get him up here to Boston whenever we can to shoot.

The last video work I did was actually with the inestimable Trigger in Minnesota.

He’s one of the best-known human horses in the business, and great to work with. His stuff is over here at The Human Equine, and I’m hoping to do more with him later this year. I also did some work on The Face Seat Cushion site while I was out there, and that was surprisingly fun as well.

Tomorrow, though, I’m going to hook up with my gorgeous amazon girlfriend and a male model I like and trust and do some down and dirty stuff Amazon-style.

More full-weight trampling, some barefoot, some in the new metal-heeled shoes the model tells me he’s bringing for me; more foot worship; more cigarette torture and ball humiliation…ah, yay. I’m also hoping to get some hot, simple footage of me and Madeline going at it – she’s such a beautiful fuck. I can’t quite pass for butch, but I sure can slam her against the wall and have my way with her.

I’ll post here when more clips are up.

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A story from the winter Fetish Fair Fleamarket, 2006

I’m reposting some of the tastier bits from my old livejournal here. Here’s one from ’06, now new and improved with pictures.

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Those of you who didn’t get to see me at the Flea…your loss, I suppose. 😉 It was a great time. This year it took place all the way in Mansfield, at the Holiday Inn there, and it was a pretty good venue for it. We had the whole hotel, with no prim vanilla folk to worry us. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve got nothing against vanilla folk…who don’t try to dictate how I live my life. But after the incident over at the Boston Park Plaza a few years ago, and the scathing Globe editorial that followed, I was happy to have a hotel whose staff seemed thrilled to have us and where there were no judgmental jerks walking around.

I didn’t get a great deal of shopping done, though I took a lot of business cards. Someone very dear to me did some shopping for me, and took me around at the end of the event to approve and buy the things he’d found. So I didn’t feel at a total loss.

The exciting bits, though, were the demos, which I did in the art gallery run by the fabulous Monique of Blacklight Studios.

On Saturday I did a fun clothespin scene with the help of the lovely Lady J and one of her slaves. I tied his hands behind his back, then ran two lovely purple zippers from his shoulders down to his belly. His arms, front and back, I covered with still more clothespins. Finally, I took a heavy weighted gag and put it in his mouth, then tied the ends of it to the ends of the zippers.

Guess what would happen if he opened his mouth?

The dear was such a good sport. I invited folks to come up and take clothespins off of him, which he braved like a champ. This was a chatty, smart-assed sub, let me tell you, and it was fun to watch him sweat buckets and shut his mouth – both out of the compulsion of the gag and the depth of what he was experiencing. In the end, he didn’t drop the gag by accident, but like a good slave, he knew what the crowd was waiting for, and he dropped it, tearing both zippers off all at once.

His scream was my best reward. Second were the gasps and winces of the people watching.

Sunday was an even better time. I expected to have one submissive, but wound up with two: a big sexy bald fellow, and a tiny, cute-as-a-button girl. I had already decided to do a predicament scene, but now had the challenge of making them work together.

I applied clover-leaf nipple clamps, with the classic chain between, to the man’s chest. Then, using a simple rope-and-pulley system, I attached the chain to the woman’s wrists. As long as she held her arms out to the sides, the tension on the clamps was off. But if she lowered them, the chain would be pulled taut.

Next, I put a vibrating egg in her pants. This egg was operated with two doorbells, rigged by an engineering friend of mine (Thanks!). You had to press both doorbells to make the vibrator work.

One doorbell was in the man’s hand. The other, at the small of the woman’s back.

Well, she was just so sweet that she couldn’t stand to hurt the poor guy. But she couldn’t hold up her arms forever, and anyway, the temptation of the vibrator was strong…not to mention that they kind of liked each other, and he really wanted to see her come. But did I mention how much he hates nipple clamps?

What resulted was a very sexy scene where I hardly had to do anything except walk around with my whip and occasionally dole out a lash or two, make sure the lines didn’t get tangled, and make smart remarks to the audience.

And the whole thing was vastly improved by the fact that both of them were in full body paint. He looked like he was body-armored in metal; she looked like a pink water sprite, some kind of magical salamander with glittering hair.

It was gorgeous. Especially when she bucked, still holding one arm bravely in the air, balancing her tiny frame on his strong knee.

Sometimes I love my job.

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