Tuesday, 5 June 2012

I think of kink and (separately) recall that Virgil is not perfect

Oliver the dom would 'love' to meet! He's on holiday for a few days but will contact me on his return. I'm about as pleased as a grouch can be at the prospect of a first date with someone first encountered on a contact site for perverts.

Oliver and I became Facebook pals when we both showed up on a mutual friend's comments feed. He writes slightly poetic status updates that suggest a man with a wry sense of humour on various missions around the city. I have stalked his Facebook thoroughly: from his holiday snaps to things he finds amusing. My dear friend Vanessa, herself a harlot of high repute and a more generous one than I, vouches for his character and skills. Also, I believe Oliver owns a dungeon and this is of great interest to me. 

There's no point getting too excited in advance, but I feel hopeful that we might click. A date will go a long way toward determining that. 

My early adventures in kink were mostly with men I met through websites for the perverted. In retrospect, it was monumentally careless to allow myself to be hogtied by strangers and beaten or otherwise interfered with, simply trusting that these strangers knew what they were doing and wouldn't abuse their position of authority. I certainly didn't know what I was doing but I was lucky. Apart from one over-ambitious amateur who tied the crotch rope too tightly (by the time he finished tazing me my vulva had swelled like a tulip and took a week to subside) I suffered no physical mishap. There was one rather disgusting incident where someone I privately thought was a bit of a dick spat in my mouth but what was I doing tied up in his spare room while his wife was on holiday anyway? Mentally I found the encounters unsatisfactory and rarely repeated them.    

My interest in BDSM has gradually evolved from mostly fantasy into a sense of wanting to do it right. I'd like an ongoing, evolving d/s relationship with someone: I'm not talking about 24/7 or gothic ridiculousness, just scenes with a trusted friend in which we can have fun, explore limits and go deeper. I'd like to feel I was in the hands of an expert. Virgil and I have struggled to keep our d/s dynamic going: it gets buried under domestic issues although our recent sex homework experiments were promising and furthered the sense of wanting a structure and to get better at communication. 

Newcomers to this blog may be unaware that Virgil is not perfect and can at times be quite annoying. Indeed, it's something I have been in danger of forgetting myself while plumbing the depths of my own imperfections and missing him like mad. (Not that he's anything like as awful as me for anger, fear and generally being of the dark side. Not at all: he's a loving, generous, brave and more evolved soul by far.) But the other morning he complained bitterly (and not for the first time) that although he had cycled to work for a month he had gained weight. He blamed it on the increase in his appetite caused by exercise. 

'I was cycling ten miles a day,' he said, 'and all that happened was that I ate more.' His tone was accusatory: Virgil doesn't believe in fresh air and activity. He gets quite cross when I suggest that he would benefit from more of them. 'You have to give your metabolism a chance to adjust, Virgil,' I say. 'One month is nothing compared with the habits of a lifetime.' Then, when he refutes the sense of this: 'Look, it's up to you what you do. You're entitled to hold your weird beliefs about food and exercise. If you don't want to ride your bike, don't ride it. Just don't complain to me about it.'

And we leave it at that.

No comments:

Post a Comment