Am I back? I think I’m back. I’m back!

Hello, everyone. Miss me?

It’s been…more than five years since my last confession – uh, post – and it’s been a crazy ride. I’m thrilled to see that people are still regularly visiting my blog: mostly to read about strap-on sex or see if I’m really a dominatrix offering services, which, shocker, I’m still not (anymore). But it’s nice to know that my writing is still getting around, a bit.

I decided I needed to re-open this space, as it were, because I need a place to write about kinky sex again where my Aunt Gladys can’t see it. Things have changed an awful lot in the last five years: the discourse is completely shifted, the blogosphere is all-but dead, an orange monstrousity is president, and the space for talking about these things seems to exist in a different plane than before. Not to mention that I’ve gone through some searing life changes, relationship shifts, and other things that might make a kinky lady like me bank the coals for a few years. But recently, I’ve had a bit of a reawakening.

Nonetheless, as someone who writes more publicly, works in social media, and now has extended family paying attention to what I do on the Internets, I feel the need to relegate this type of thing to a more private place. Like here, under a lovely Aughties-type blog pseudonym. So, here we are.

Which raises another question: why? Why, even now, do I feel the need to keep these types of thoughts, fantasies, stories, revelations separate from the rest of my writing life? I write honestly and openly in other places; I’ve always been out about who I am and whom I love, because doing otherwise feels disingenuous and even dangerous.

Well, in the first place: getting older has finally taught me (took long enough!) that sometimes, there are other people to protect. I may be totally comfortable with who I am and what I do, but my partner’s parents might not be – and in real life, I don’t feel any need to tell them this stuff, either. While I’ve always tried to operate from the persepctive of giving others permission to be who they are by fully and unapologetically being who I am, I also recognize that sometimes, harm can be done for which the reward isn’t high enough.

I sense a longer piece coming about being out and what that means, but not tonight.

Tonight, I just want to say I’m back. Hi.

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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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