Tag Archives: kinktober 2018

I miss being flogged

Tree backlit with orange light

I miss being flogged. I miss the impact of a thick leather flogger crashing into my back, pushing me forward, thudding the air out of my lungs. I miss the soft surface slaps saying hello, the stingy tips burning my skin, the heavy strands slamming into my body, the cool tails trailing gently across my curves; so many different sensations from a single source. I miss offering my whole backside to be hit: shoulders, back, ass, thighs, and back again. I miss my tops putting their whole body into hitting me. I miss the rhythm of heavy slaps dancing up and down my back. I miss the swish of cool air before the whip collides with my flesh. I miss my tops dancing back and forth between being at striking distance and being right up against me for a check-in or a change of sensation. I miss us taking up all that space in a dungeon with just a single toy between two people. I miss the deep thuds that reverberate through my entire body, making me feel like there is no part of me that is not part of this. I miss moaning into the blows; purring, growling, grunting. I miss being able to stand there, hands on a wall or on a St. Andrew’s Cross, feet firmly rooted, and take it like someone much more well-padded. I miss swinging back and forth under that impact, being shoved away by its force, then returning for more in an endless undulation. I miss the smell of leather wafting around me, like a very slow tornado with me the still point at its center. I miss being flogged.

***

Sometimes I still pretend I can go back to it eventually. That the permanent medical condition that has moved this activity onto the hard limits list will at some point be resolved. That I will somehow recover from something that doesn’t come with a recovery option. That some day, there won’t be the not-unlikely risk that a good, hard back flogging will land me in the emergency room. Sometimes, I still pretend this is all temporary. That I don’t really have to give this up forever. That there is still a chance I can do this again, sometime in the future.

Because I’m still not quite ready to accept the loss of it. I’m not quite ready to actually feel all the grief over having this possibility taken away from me, entirely without my consent and completely against my will. I’m not quite ready to make peace with the fact that the last flogging I have received — not knowing it was the last one, of course — wasn’t even very good. That it wasn’t even with an important partner. That it wasn’t what I would have chosen if I had known it was the last one, ever.

I don’t actually think there is any chance for the recovery I’d need to make this a possibility again. Nothing I know about this condition points to it ever being a good idea to get flogged on my back again. But it’s easier to think “not today, not this month, not this year, not in the foreseeable future,” easier to keep a tiny little “maybe sometime” in a hidden corner of my heart than it is to face “not ever.”

Because damn, I loved being flogged like that. And damn. I miss it.

And I don’t think that will change, either.


I very deliberately did not end this piece on a “positive” note.

Because I’m tired of always immediately following up my lists of “things I can’t do anymore” and “things I can only do very carefully now” with a cheerful catalog of all the things I can do, things that don’t need adjusting. I’m tired of feeling like I have to prove that I’m still a damn gorgeous play partner even if I’m now a lot more disabled/chronically ill than I used to be (internalized ableism is a thing and #DisabledPeopleAreHot, obviously). I’m tired of pushing away the loss and grief I feel over several of the changes that late-acquired disability/chronic illness have brought to my life so I don’t ruin anyone’s kinky fun and sexytimes (often including my own).

I want to make space for the hard feelings, too. Because they are also a part of kink life. Because they are also a part of life, full stop. And sometimes we just need to sit with them for a while without anyone trying to “fix” anything. Without anyone telling us that we “just have to accept” something that feels completely unacceptable in that particular moment. Without anyone doing anything but say, “It’s hard. I hear you. I’m here.”


#F4TFriday

The prompt for this week’s Food for Thought Friday was “gone awry” which had also been listed as “when our bodies let us down” when I first saw it.

I’m also adding this to the Kinktober catch-up list, as an adaptation of the “scars” prompt.


Image source: FreeStockPhotos

All the girls I’ve been before

Punk girl with pastel pink hair in a faux leather jacket with studs and gloves with heart-shaped cut-outs.Punk girl with pastel pink hair in a faux leather jacket with studs and gloves with heart-shaped cut-outs.

Content note: This post describes various age-play headspaces, themes, and play dynamics. Several kinds of sexuality/BDSM (incl. blood play) are briefly mentioned as a part of that, but are not described in any detail. There is no mention of incest play or childhood abuse.

I’ve been an adult girl who was about eight years old; happy, curious, cute, giggly, and a bit shy. I’ve hid under blankets to be able to ask for what I wanted, and then I’ve got it, just like that. I’ve found out that saying what you need, deep down where it matters, feels very, very hard at first but then it also feels exciting and brave and afterwards you feel like you’ve won something important. I’ve said things I couldn’t say in any other voice. I’ve got permission to play, to not know, to cry, to need. I’ve boldly trusted my partner with my childish needs and desires and got so much love in return: cuddles and challenges, gold stars and pet names, near-endless patience and silly, silly jokes just for the two of us. I’ve never doubted that I mattered.

And then all of that became a distraction, an excuse, an easy way out of doing the things that were really hard. A way to avoid facing what needed facing. It became something I had to grow out of.

***

I’ve been an adult girl who was about sixteen years old; still curious and shy, with a secret heart full of hope for a boy who’d want to kiss me and ask me to dance. I’ve received hand-written love notes and adoring looks from a boy I liked. I’ve held hands and got breathless and trembling over the intensity of that. I’ve been looked at as if I was a most precious creature, as if this boy couldn’t believe I really said yes to their hands, their lips, their desire for me. I’ve shared first times, first steps into adulthood. I’ve been the awkward, ugly duckling who was suddenly transformed into a radiant, graceful swan under the gaze of a boy who loved me. I’ve been chosen and asked to dance by a prince, and it was everything I’d ever dreamed of, for a while.

And then I grew tired of teenage boys and fairy tales, because I needed an adult to work with me on a happily ever after in the real world. I needed to get off the princess pedestal and onto the ground and figure out how to dance there. (Also, the clock struck midnight and the prince shapeshifted into something that sadly didn’t respond to my magic anymore. But that is a different story.)

***

I’ve been an adult girl who was a different kind of sixteen years old; still curious, but also a lot more cynical about the world, and a lot less trusting of anyone. I’ve been a mess of barely articulate yearnings; hungry, and lonely, and in desperate need of belonging with someone. I’ve risked getting hurt on the off chance of being loved, over and over again. I’ve chosen to go where I wasn’t supposed to go and found exactly the kind of intense and dangerous connection I wanted, exactly the kind of challenge and acceptance I needed. I’ve broken my parents’ rules as I’ve followed the demands of my partners in crime. I’ve learned to tear open my heart for an irresistible stranger who chose me (me!); to spill its deep, red contents all over them while I absorb their impact, suck their cock, lick their boots, or let them make me bleed for real; then gather up the messy remains to take with me when daylight tells me it is time to leave again. I’ve learned that this usually hurts, a lot, but that it’s always, always worth it. I’ve learned that my heart is a sucker for hard and fast romance and that it is a resilient little fuck.

This is actually where it all started, all those years ago. And this is the one I’m not quite done with, apparently. Because this is the one I keep returning to whenever I find another irresistible stranger in a leather jacket who is just passing through town. (Because maybe, just maybe, one of them will keep coming back for me. And if they won’t — well, I know how to patch up my heart by now.)


I feel like I need to add some context for this one. The things I mention in this post are based on actual age play I’ve done at various points in my (and my partners’) adult life, but I’ve deliberately blurred the lines between different partners and situations. My goal here isn’t to tell the stories of specific scenes or to show how I make these kinds of age play work in the realm of real-life (and in-scene) consent, but to portray the different headspaces and emotional stories of the various girls I’ve been in a BDSM context. Because all the girls I’ve been before just have a lot of feelings.


I’m counting this as a catch-up post for one of the #Kinktober prompts I skipped before. The original prompt was “daddy kink.” And while I often appreciate daddy energy in others (and may write about that in the future), I chose to focus on age play more generally here, especially the girl side of that.

Wicked Wednesday... a place to be wickedly sexy or sexily wicked
I’m also submitting this post for this week’s Wicked Wednesday (the prompt was “dreams” – and this post is about several dreams come true), which is my first time participating in that. And while this piece is probably not technically erotica, I still think it fits that theme closely enough.


Image source: Pexels

Boots and all

Close-up of a pair of Corcoran jump boots worn by someone (wearer not pictured)

Content note: This post has descriptions of boot licking in the context of erotic D/S play.

The first time I curl up on the ground, my hot forehead leaning into the cool leather of her heavy boots, I know this is where I belong. At her feet, one of my hands cupping the heel of her boot like I sometimes cup her neck in a caress (in that exquisite place by her shirt collar where hair is fading into skin), the other hand loosely tucked underneath my body on the hard ground.

There’s no heated passion, no burning humiliation, just a deep sense of being in the right place. Of being right, exactly as I am.

This is not about ownership or exclusivity. I don’t belong to her, but I have no doubt I belong in this moment, created and shared with her. We have no claim on each other’s heart, but I know I have a place in hers as she has one in mine. And we have this.

She reaches down, pets my head with a warm hand, softly tells me I look very pretty down there. Down here, where I’m at peace. Where I don’t worry whether I’m doing everything right, whether I could, should be better than I am. Where I just am, and where that’s enough. Where that’s more than just enough. Where I never want to leave.

The welt of her sole presses up into my brow, my nose nestled along the curve of the boot. My field of vision is filled with blurry black leather, matte rows of stitching, perfect shiny roundness meeting hard-edged rubber, the floor gray in the background. My nostrils fill with the scent of leather and a faint note of sharpness from the shoe polish I’ve rubbed into it the day before, and my lips fall open. Something shifts. My exhale caresses her boot, my inhale draws in more of its delicious smell. My vulva is expanding along with my lungs, waking up, getting alert like a brain reacting to the first hit of coffee aroma in the morning air. Calm and contentment flip over into hunger, intensity heats up within me, between us.

My lips open a bit wider, I angle my head as if leaning towards her mouth for a slow-motion kiss. The corner of my mouth softly makes contact with the leather, and I sigh. She groans. I hadn’t realized she’s still watching me. I shiver, stay right where I am, and add an ounce of weight to my presence, just enough so she can feel it. She bends forward in her chair, leans down to me, grabs my neck, hard. I stiffen under her hand, let out a small whimper of want. “You want to lick it, don’t you?”

I don’t look up at her, just give a small, breathless nod.

“Say it.”

I close my eyes, momentarily overcome with embarrassment for the force of my desire. Swallow my shame and whisper, “Yes, sir.”

“‘Yes, sir’ what?” She wants more than that. I know. I just wanted her to say it.

And now I have to say it. I take a fortifying breath. “Yes, sir, I want to lick your boot.” My voice is still small and a bit unsteady. I swallow again. “Please, sir.” No more hiding. Here, this is all of my desire, all of its urgency, all of my hope that you’ll want this, too. Asking for it makes me want it even more, as if hearing myself say what I want only makes me fully recognize the fierceness of my hunger.

“Do it.” Her voice rough with the emotion of this command. She gives my neck a final clench, then takes her hand away. I know she’s watching me now, can feel her gaze on my skin.

I feel very exposed. Very vulnerable. And very drawn to all the delicious leather in front of me that is filled by her. I touch my lips to the leather again, reconnecting with where I had been. I nuzzle my head at her boot, finding the right angle, inhaling her scent. Take a deep breath and then lick a bold, wet, wide stripe across the toe to the outside, making sure she can see my tongue as she feels it pressing into her foot. She groans, hisses, “Oh, fuck!” and that is all the satisfaction I need. There’s no hiding for her now, either. To me, she is as naked in her desire as I am in mine before her, even though she is fully dressed and I’m barely wearing anything anymore.

I draw my tongue back into my mouth, swallow the hint of street dust I’ve just licked off her boot, wet my lips so they will glide across the leather more smoothly, then lick her boot again, again, again, caressing all the curves and edges with my lips and tongue, tilting my head, draping myself around her so I can reach everywhere, following the shape of the leather in one long, long kiss. Her boots are not a barrier between us, they are a body part of hers. And I make sure she feels that I can feel it. We both know this is an act of pure sex, for both of us, and it doesn’t matter at all whether anyone else can see that, too.

“You look so fucking hot down there.” Her voice floats down to me, grabbing me in a rough caress.

I smile, thank you, sir, and keep licking. My breath gets harder and harder, moans float across the leather along with my tongue. My one hand is clinging onto the back of her foot, anchoring me in her, my other hand is splayed out, fingers pressing into the ground, arm muscles taut with the tension building in me, my whole body. I’m very, very turned on by now, from nothing but my tongue on her boot and her reactions to that, which I can sense more than I can see any of them. This alone might get me off, but I don’t really care whether I come or not at this point because all I care about right now is that she knows just how much I want her, exactly as she is.

Boots and all.


This is a post for the #Kinktober prompt “boot licking.”


Image source: Flickr/deejayqueue, CC BY-SA 2.0 (I love this photo of a pair of worn-in Corcoran jump boots a lot (the colors!), except for that scuff on the toe that I want to polish away very, very badly…)

Getting to the point

Close-up of a sewing needle stuck through a layer of threads on a roll of sewing thread

Content note: This post contains detailed descriptions of getting pierced and doing needle play, and talks about blood in an erotic context. The interpersonal dynamics shown here are quite messy at times, because that is what they were.

She is a friend and long-term unrequited crush of mine and has a penchant for pushing needles through other people’s flesh, followed by a barbell or ball-closure ring. Making out with her is not an option since she “doesn’t see me that way,” but piercing is an intimacy she is willing to share with me.

She does my navel first. I go to her place, her room in a shared apartment, in a house that has seen better days. She sits me down in a worn-out armchair, then sets out her equipment around me. She kneels before me, between my spread legs, comfortably takes charge. Puts on gloves, sprays disinfectant, makes dots for orientation, hands me a mirror to check. Yes. Clamps my skin in a pair of medical forceps, uncomfortable but not painful. Sits back on her haunches, smiles up at me, gives me a moment. Still yes. Tells me to breathe, then pushes the needle through, into my moan. I’m not even sure it hurt, but it’s definitely intense. A bit more fiddling, almost like an aftermath, and the ring is where I want it. We both grin, collaborators in this act of self-determination. I can’t imagine doing any of this with a stranger, in a shop. We’ve built this trust in each other over years, and you can’t replace that with an exchange of expertise and money.

It is all very romantic to me.

***

Of course I come back for more.

Something about her makes me want to push my boundaries, face my fears, so I give her my mouth next. It doesn’t get any closer to kissing than this. Same house, same room, same chair, but this time she sits right in front of me, at eye level. I’m nervous, even though I know what to expect in terms of the mechanics. But this is my face, my mouth; so close to my breath, my voice. This is half on the inside, and that makes a difference. It really doesn’t get any closer to kissing than this. I trust her, though, implicitly. I wouldn’t be sitting in this chair if I didn’t. So she does it again. Gloves, disinfectant, dot, mirror. A ritual of consent. I do. Clamps, grin, breath, push, moan. I feel a little awkward because she’s still holding onto the forceps attached to my lip, stuck through with a needle, and I’m afraid I might drool. A reassuring smile appears on her face, so close to mine, and I let go of my worry. She captures another bead inside a ring inside my flesh. I’m giggly with pride and endorphins after, and she looks at me as if I just gave her a gift.

***

I find my first self-identified butch lover, and everything is different after that. She knows who she is, and suddenly I know who I am. Sex finally makes sense, and I’m rapidly shedding shame and shyness.

I’m not quite ready to do anything that explicitly is what I think is BDSM then, but I am ready to let her pierce my nipple because getting another piece of permanent jewelry offers just enough plausible deniability. We do a lot of things that offer just enough plausible deniability, even though the complete lack of innocence oozes through every conversation we have about them. Before she comes over, I make sure to put ice cubes into the freezer because she has told me we can apply them beforehand to numb the pain a little. This feels like an important part of the whole thing. She arrives, we chat for a bit, start making out (as we do), then interrupt ourselves. We have a plan to follow. I sit down on the carpet in my room, my back resting against my bed frame. She goes through her version of the ritual: gloves, disinfectant, dots, forceps. The pain of that clamp on my nipple is intense, and I need a moment to adjust. I only remember the ice cubes when she already holds the shiny needle between her fingertips, her eyes glinting with a hint of malicious pleasure. Within a split second, I decide not to say anything — everything is right the way it is, even if it’s not what we originally planned. I nod at her to go ahead and she does, her sharp metal piercing through my sensitive flesh. It hurts, but it’s also good in a way I don’t have words for, so I just moan again. I secretly like the soft pulse in my aching nipple when she fucks me afterwards, and I come hard on her hand, the same hand that has hurt me before. When I mention the forgotten ice later, she looks at me as if I’m really hardcore. I’m not, but I like that she thinks I am.

***

I am at one of my first BDSM play parties. In one of the rooms, a bare-breasted butch sits in a medical chair, relaxing into the padded back and armrests. She is surrounded by other women, some of them high femme, others more androgynous, all of them wielding small, sharp bits of steel, moving around her, weaving her into an invisible web of power and connection. Rivulets of blood are running down her chest and arms; she’s laughing. I stand in the doorway, watching them for a long while, speechless with awe, profoundly touched. I never cross the threshold into that room because I instinctively know that would be too much, too close. I cannot interfere with their magic, cannot disrupt the intensity between them.

After that, I keep thinking of blood with a yearning that goes beyond any words I have to describe it.

***

I know I’m going to to something about this yearning, eventually. I just have to find the right person, the right time, the right place.

***

Everything in me says it’s him. He is already making some of my longest-held dreams come true, and I’m quite infatuated with him. He also has eyes that light up with sparks when he talks about piercing others. So I ask him to do this with me, and he accepts. We go into the room, sit with the others, listen, watch, learn. The first drop of blood (not mine) appears, and my cunt and heart clench at how intensely erotic it is. I feel like my whole history resonates in this moment.

When it is time, we choose the corner where the sunlight falls through the window onto my naked arm as I sit on a table there. He puts on gloves, disinfects my skin. Just looks at my arm for a while, ponders. Pulls apart the wrapper, holds the cap of the hypodermic needle in his fingers. Strokes me with his other hand, palm fading to fingertips, feeling for the right spot, then settles into a firm grip. By then, everything but him and me is a fuzzy blur, the other people in the room faded to a background hum. As he finally pushes the needle into, then through my skin, my only thought is, finally. Arousal blooms through me, a long, deep exhale. I sink into subspace almost instantly, can feel myself opening up to this and everything else he may want to give me. I didn’t plan this, but I’m not surprised, and I’m not resisting this wave pulling me under. I can deal with the consequences of my feelings later. Right now, all I want is every little bit of this moment. Another needle. My eyes close and my head falls back as I breathe out; a response, an invitation. Yes. More. Please. His thigh glows heat into mine, my whole body attuned to him, even though he barely touches me. I never want this to end. There is so much that could be in the space between us. I drift into a moment of doubt, suddenly not sure if I’m imagining things, if he even wants me to be where I am. I gather myself, pull up from the depths a bit, then open my eyes to show him how I feel about this, about him; to silently ask, Do you want this? Do you want me? In response, his finger pushes my softness into the narrow line of unrelenting steel running through it, the one he put there. Dull pain radiates into my brain, pools heat between my legs. Oh god. Fuck yes. He watches me while I absorb the intensity, my spine softly undulating in pain and desire. Then he adds the third needle, sharply pushing through me a final time; I groan in delighted pain. I want to kiss him, badly. So badly. The ache of my yearning for him is delicious, and I don’t even want any immediate fulfilling of it. He once again presses his thumb into the places of my skin that are stretched across the needles, more, more of the same, and I keep melting. He keeps watching me. I realize I could probably come from this. But this is neither the time nor the place for that, so I swallow the urge to try. Right now, it’s enough to know I could. His eyes sparkle in sadistic glee, and I purr. Eventually, he gently tells me he’s going to take out the needles now, that we have to start wrapping this up. I’m surprised how sad I am at the thought, even though I know it’s a good decision. I ask him to make me bleed as he removes the tiny blades from my flesh, and he does.

A single drop of red, red blood trickles down my arm. I could cry with the beauty of all of this, and I don’t need any jewelry to stay behind to remind me that I really am a fucking romantic.


This is a catch-up post for a # Kinktober prompt I skipped before. The original prompt for this day was “branding,” but since I don’t have anything to say about that from either experience or observation, I chose to write about my early encounters with piercing and needle play as a different activity that also involves deliberately breaking the skin (and that may leave permanent marks). And it sometimes comes with bonus blood!

Obligatory disclaimer: I’m not responsible (or liable) for any of your choices. Do your own research and make your own risk assessment if you ever consider doing anything like this. My own information-gathering, decision-making, and consent-establishing process may not be entirely written into this story, but I knew exactly what I my risks were at all times.


Update (12 October 2019): This post has been chosen as one of the top 3 for the Wicked Wednesday prompt “piercings.” Marie Rebelle, who selected the top 3, said about it:

“This is an older post which I have approved to be linked, and I am so glad I did. The way K&P talks about getting her navel pierced, and then later her lip and nipple, makes it sound like a love affair, like romance, and that exactly what she says too when she talks about blood and needle play. This is a fascinating post, which the moment I started reading it, I couldn’t stop.”

Thank you!


Image source: Pixabay (cropped by me)

Public acts of pleasure

Surveillance video image depicting two men making out in the bed of a truck (screencap from the music video

Public sex has always been forbidden sex. Sex that has no room elsewhere. Sex that is pushed into secrecy, casualness, a lack of commitment. Sex that is forced into denial. (Nevertheless, we persist.)

No time for life stories, for explanations, for context. Here and now is all that matters.

Gay cruising. Men kissing men, men sucking cocks, men sharing intimate touch with each other, despite all the hateful laws. Parks and parking lots and public bathrooms. Glory holes. Messages scrawled on walls in code, writing ourselves into existence, leaving traces.

Spoken in nods and glances, wordless hands pushing you where he wants you. If you’re not interested, don’t make eye contact. Walk on. The next dark tree may shift into the man you want.

Last night’s intensity still hangs in the air, dense between the shrubs, when you accidentally wander into the area the next day. It’s only then that you see the torn wrappers on the soft floor, used condoms half-covered with leaves, damp tissues melting into the ground. This is sacred space. Don’t tell.

Sex in cars because there is no home open to both of you. Sex in cars because that is the first space that is yours and you can take it wherever you want. Sex in cars because there is unsupervised time between leaving one place and arriving at the other. Drive-in cinemas, gravel roads, taking the scenic route.

Steamed-up windows, tangled limbs, heated kisses, hands under skirts, teenage dreams.

Back alley fucks, behind the gay bar, queer bar, dyke bar. Urgency besides stinking trash cans, daytime shapes dissolving in the dark. One ear always listening for trouble.

Trying to stay silent, so nothing bad will happen. Public sex is never really safe. Not for us.

Knowing something is happening in the bathroom stall next to yours. Stifled moans, gasps breaking out, hard breaths; the sloppy wet noises of kisses and cunts. Your hand between your legs, moving to the sounds of strangers.

Grinding on the dance floor, fingering in a dark corner. Making out at the bar, fucking in the bathroom. Sweat and glitter and the stench of alcohol. Smeared make-up, messed-up hair, ill-adjusted clothes, happy grins as you stumble out, back into the writhing crowd.

The unspoken agreement that this is a legitimate use of the bathroom in a dyke bar, queer bar, gay bar. The community makes room for our sex, since no one else is. When it’s you standing in line, waiting to pee, you may still groan that it’s all taking too long, but you know why. You know this is how we do this. You keep waiting.

Public sex means discomfort. Rough walls leave scratches on our backs, our hands; gear shifts and toilet roll holders bruise our shins and thighs; clothing rips and stains and digs into our flesh as we shove our way in; our bodies painfully bend into these small, re-purposed spaces, creating friction, granting access, making room for us to come together, making room for us to come. Together.

Making out while others are watching. Making out because others are watching.

Low lights, soft surfaces, every sofa, mat, and podium an invitation to get down to it. Bodies moving together, hands grabbing thighs in leather pants, fingers trailing over underwear that deliberately stays on for this. We’re really good at having sex with our clothes on. It’s a reminder that we didn’t always have this space. That we made this happen, for so many of us. We’re really good at eroticizing the inevitable.

Reveling in the freedom to finally take off all your clothes because there is no danger here. Cries of pleasure serving as encouragements for each other, lustful sounds gathering like a wave, crashing through the whole room, much louder than you can ever be at home where the neighbors still disapprove. A collective celebration of how goddamn fucking beautiful we all are when we don’t have to hide our desires anymore but finally get what we want. A soft, wet cunt that opens for us, a tight, greedy ass that draws us in, a firm hand that goes exactly where we like it best; their favorite cock, her lovely, large clit, his squishy chest; her broad thighs painted with our bruises, their four hands all over our freckled skin, his deep purrs of erotic delight.

Crumpled up cover sheets, mats propped up to dry, a whiff of disinfectant. Trash cans full of paper towels, empty lube packets, used condoms, inside-out nitrile gloves. Soft smiles as you tidy up after the party guests have left. It’s always worth it at the end of the night.

Still, I keep wondering: How long before we are violently stopped, again? How far can we take this and still keep each other safe? How much queer pleasure can we get away with, this time? And why is queer public pleasure something we still can’t take for granted?


The #Kinktober prompt for this was “in public.”


Image source: YouTube (screencap by me)