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Photoshoot debauchery III

I was so happy and excited that I was going to stay over at Donny’s apartment; I just LOVE spanking so much! Donny took a couple of business calls while I changed into a corset over a t-shirt and black skinny jeans. Then Donny drove us to get a couple of drinks before we headed out; I wanted WKD but was happy to get two Smirnoffs; then Donny got his money off the guy and we headed back to the flat. We sat drinking, the Smirnoff tasting really good as Donny illegally downloaded The Ring and then it played on the TV. I hadn’t seen it on a TV since I was 13, though I watched it on my laptop at uni when I was 18. As soon as it started it was pretty sexy; horror and violence in films can turn me on. I asked Donny if he’d seen the scene in the new Conan when Conan puts his hand up this guy’s nose and the guy pees himself. Which is super hot and so funny. Then Conan forces him to eat the keys, takes him outside and tells his slaves: “The key to your freedom is inside this man’s stomach! FREE YOURSELVES!” And they cut open his stomach, which is pretty hilarious. Although they could’ve waited for him to poop them out. I wish Conan was a girl -Conina? then I’d probably enjoy it even more.

“How did you feel, when you saw it?” I asked.

“Shocked,” said Donny.

The Ring played, and I was remembering what would come next. He told me The Grudge is also all hair and asked me if I have an aversion to hair (because of my trichotillomania). As the film played I started going “Die, bitch!” at appropriate times and wanking to it and Donny was looking at me, which was pretty cool. He giggled when I said “Die bitch!”

Then we got ready to go out, me leaving half my second bottle. While Donny got ready, I sat in front of the TV. Donny came back in and said I looked like I was actually in The Ring, “you know, when they get right up close to the TV.” I’ve always liked being very close to the TV; film has far more effect on me than music. Especially films about the ancient world.

Donny said he felt like he’d known me forever and he was totally letting go in my presence. I felt the same, and said so; and yes, I was certainly giving free reign to my weird side too.

We got a taxi and went to a great chippy in Bruntsfield; the chicken supper was so yummy. Chicken suppers are my favourite food apart from KFC, my second and third favourites being venison and salmon. Donny paid for my food whic was nice, and it was so delicious. The X Factor was on the telly over our heads and we watched it in the reflection in the glass.

Then we walked to the Grassmarket and went into a pub; I had a blue WKD (Donny bought me drinks all night; he’s a gentleman). He told me about his friends; this girl and her boyfriend who’d go into pubs and the girl would flash people and pretend it was an accident. They did that all the time. A two-man band who obviously were just drunk and not an actual band were playing, one guy drumming on the box he was sitting on. We headed out into the Grassmarket and I asked Donny for a smoke; it was my first cigarette. I know you’re meant to cough the first time but I actually liked it and puffed away. “You’re such a bad influence on me,” I giggled.

We’d brainstormed sexytime ideas back at the flat, and were going over the shopping list as we walked. Flavoured condoms, lube, a paddle…though Donny said we wouldn’t find a paddle this time of night. We went into a corner shop where Candlemaker’s Row slopes steeply down to hit the Grassmarket before it tapers into the Cowgate. Donny piced up some condoms but they didn’t have lube. He said baby oil would do it; by the time I rememberd that baby oil eats away condoms (cos we were going to do anal too) we were in earshot of the shopkeeper so I didn’t say. (Turned out he bought lube at the counter but not condoms because they weren’t flavoured, which necessitated the Great Edinburgh Condom Hunt of ’12, which I’ll write about in due course.)

We headed to Opium on the Cowgate and Donny found a tenner on the floor. I had some vodkas and Donny gave me a vodka and Red Bull; he said it keeps you full of energy instead of being tired at the end of the night. At 11 the dancefloor opened and Donny wouldn’t dance but he watched me dance; I was doing my usual wild bellydancing stuff and nearly getting onto the floor then leaping back and bending backwards. Sometimes everyone else would form a circle and watch me. They said I danced good and so did Donny, which is true. I’ve always been good at it since I was 13. It was because people always told me my dancing was like bellydancing that I decided to learn bellydancing for a while at uni. But I was careful not to over-exert myself though, and kept my movements more minimal and less crazy; I didn’t do rolls on the floor and kept it mostly to hip and torso  movements. I knew I needed to conserve my strength for sexytime.

Every now and then I would plead with Donny to dance but he said he was content just watching me. I danced with this really tall guy and he lifted me up a couple of times; I waved at the crowd. He wanted me to go home with him. Then three hot sexy young things started chatting me up; they were all delicious. I was like, WHAT IS IT WITH BOYS?? I ONLY EVER GET CHATTED UP BY GUYS I DON’T LIKE AND SUDDENLY THEY ALL COME AT ONCE – THE VERY NIGHT WHEN I ALREADY HAVE A GUY???!

After an hour or two of dancing, I asked Donny if he wanted to go. I was worried about exhausting myself as I find it difficult to dance slowly for long. It is as if my body wants to whirl. Sometimes to dance slower I will dance like a snake, with fluid movements.

We walked back to the flat, being unable to find a taxi. We talked about the club and Donny said he was thinking ‘If she goes home with that guy [the one I was dancing with] that’s fine, I’m happy she’s happy’ and I said that’s what’s so good about not having relationships; you are free and can feel happy for the other person instead of upset or wanting to punch the other guy.

Donny said he got the lube but not the condoms, and maybe we could go to Tesco’s to get some. I pointed out he was too drunk to drive but he said Tesco’s was only round the corner from where he lives so it’d be okay. I hoped he wouldn’t get caught cos I don’t know how big a fine or how many points on your licence you get for drink driving; I think it depends on how over the limit you are. Anyway at least he’d be doing it deliberately, not like those unlucky people who didn’t remember to have a designated driver (especially if they didn’t plan on drinking or drinking much) so have no choice but to drive drunk and are then criminalised for it. (But then I suppose we have to be criminalised for it, otherwise everyone would drink drive and claim to “forget” to have a designated driver, or to “forget” the buses don’t run that late.) We passed the lesuire complex so we went to the casino in case there were any in the mens’ toilets. So I got my first ever membership card to a casino. They were out of condoms; I said I could check the ladies’ but Donny said if there weren’t any in the mens’ there wouldn’t be any in the ladies’.

Then wewent into a bar and had a drink each; it was nearing closing time (1pm). I had a Sex on the Beach. Donny went to the toilet and came back saying the condom machine wasn’t working, then rembered it said £3 but he was only putting £2 in. Then we finished our drinks and got out.

I’d felt sleepy inside the bar, whereas previously I’d been absolutely wired from all that Red Bull, and probably the Lucozade from earlier.

We got into the flat and Donny made us coffee. I was feeling sleepy and I’d only had 8 drinks; I can have 12 drinks usually with no effect. Maybe because the first two were on an empty stomach and I hadn’t eaten much or had much sleep the previous night.

“You’re not going to party out on me?” he asked.

I was fine after the coffee (The Ring playing softly on the TV) and the rest of the Lucozade.

Then we started playing Spin the Bottle…

 

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Spanking and anal at photoshoot with a guy I just met

Well, dear readers, this sexytime post does not feature Roland! But it still deserves its place in my Diary, because it is an experience I’m having while selling virginity, and we did talk about this blog and Roland. He even offered to make a website for me so I could auction off my virginity for a much higher price. I turned him down because a) I wouldn’t necessarily get more – Rosie Reid only got £400 more than me and the girls who got loads, such as Natalie Dylan, have never been verified to have sold it; b) I have a verbal contract with Roland, c) I prefer it to be someone I like and d) it’s harder to vet bidders online and I want to be safe. And of course e) – I want a kinky person.

I’m sure that this blog post will convince you all that I do ‘put my money where my mouth is’ – in other words, that I am indeed a slut.

It certainly convinces me, because I never saw myself as doing something like this. I guess you don’t know who you are until the opportunity presents itself. A few short years ago, I would’ve despised a girl for doing this and said she was a slut, a tart. But I changed shortly after going to university because I saw no point in judging people and comparing peoples’ sex lives to other peoples’ sex lives, especially when I realised I couldn’t draw up a slut table (ie is being married to 5 men less bad than cohabiting with 5 men just because she’s married? Or even worse? Is 2 one night stands in a month better or worse than 3 in 5 weeks? If it’s with someone you know is that better than with a stranger? Having 3 casual boyfriends in 6 months better or worse than 1 one night stand?) There are no answers to these questions – at least, none that aren’t debatable and controversial and probably case-specific.

The guy has requested to be called Donny on this blog, which he will read because he thinks it’s interesting.

I don’t know what Roland’s reaction to this will be, if he sees this post.

I was waiting outside the Festival Theatre, Southbridge, Edinburgh. This was on Saturday. Donny was going to pick me up to do a photoshoot. It was a mostly fashion shoot with some lingerie and artistic nude. He was taking me to his home, which I’d agreed to because I’d seen his portfolio and knew that other models had worked with him, so he was a real photographer and not a serial killer posing as a photographer. Heh.

Anyway, Donny picked me up. He had black hair – my fave hair colour on a man – good looking, maybe late twenties (I found out later he’s 30). He drove us to his flat in a fairly affluent area of Edinburgh. Donny told me he’s a computer guy although his degree was in something totally different.

In his house, he started taking fashion shots, and a couple of implied nude shots, and I changed several times. They were all fashion poses. Donny seemed very happy with how good the photos were. He said I have a natural talent for modelling and that I photograph very well, both of which is exactly what Roland said. So god knows why I hardly ever photograph well in ordinary pics. Then, after about 45 minutes he took a few implied nude shots and told me to look shocked and like I was screaming “Nooo” and covering up. He said I did this really well. It made me giggle though, and I said it was just like my fantasies and it was weird.

He said he needed a break cos his arm was tired, and I drank the Lucozade he’d bought me at the corner shop before arriving at his flat. He went into the kitchen to smoke. Then Donny asked me what my fantasies were and I told him, very briefly – spanking, government torture, rape, etc. He wanted to know how long I’d had them, I told him they arrived fully developed when I was 9 years old. I asked if he ever had any fantasies. Donny said he had to think about it for a bit, because I’m so open-minded that he thinks nothing will shock me but he wants to shock me. Then he came back out of the kitchen and told me about a dream of going into a van full of naked ladies in it when he was 7 which made him really happy, and backl then he “didn’t even know what naked ladies were for”. Sounded like a mobile brothel (like a mobile library) to me!

 

 

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A poem inspired by anxiety about Roland being outed

As I may have said, the outing of Reddit user Violentacrez by Gawker journalist Adrien Chen had a strong effect on me, for reasons I don’t know. Maybe because I have never shared this story or my opinions, fears and questions with a single person. It is the first time I haven’t shared something that bothers me – maybe because I hopd it would stop bothering me. After 4 or 5 days I thought I was over it, but every day some tweet, blog post, Gawker/Jezebel/DailyDot story or comment reminds me of it. It’s like, no matter what I’m doing or how happy I am, this has happened. In a year, in 100 years, it will still have happened. And there is nothing anyone can do, ever, to make it unhappen.

I’m not going to share my opinions or which ‘side’ I’m most sympathetic to, because that changes by the day, if not the hour. I just do not even think this story is still news or worth commenting upon anymore, either. As far as I’m concerned, Violentacrez wasn’t newsworthy to begin with, but Chen just made him sound more newsworthy by putting a lot of drama in his article. So suffice it to say that I usually don’t see Chen as a bad person, just an average journo trying to get kudos and not caring how many lives he destroys in the process; and yeah, I see his point of view, too. Perhaps I’d be more sympathetic to Chen’s view if I’d known about VA before VA was outed. Or if Chen outed VA in his personal capacity, not as a journalist working for a corporation with its own political and capitalist agenda. Honestly, I’d have no problem with a private individual outing VA. I won’t go any further into all my other opinions – and confusions/questions – on this. Now doubt many others have pulled it all to pieces over the last two weeks.

So, for the puposes of documenting this slutty adventure of mine, I offer instead a poem I just wrote inspired by my worry over mine and especially Roland’s anonymity. It was/is a senseless worry, I know – I can’t be doxxed, and that’s the only thing I’m worried about, as I’m too unimportant to hack. And VA wasn’t doxxed, he gave out his personal info to lots of people and so Chen’s friend knew who he was. And my situation is very different from VA’s, and I know Chen himself will not out me (it’s other journos I’m worried about). So, why do I worry? I, the ever-giggling, happy-go-lucky person? Is it mild anxiety? I don’t know. Only that this is one of the first things I think about when I wake up, since the first day I knew (I knew 5 hours after Chen’s article was published).

But I am ready. I have spoken to both VA and Chen -under fake identities*- and I know they don’t consider themselves bad people. VA’s family knew about his trolling, and he didn’t believe in anything he trolled – he isn’t racist or sexist. Chen seems to think he’s on a mission, fighting a magical war against all internet trolls everywhere, and that trolls are worse than real racists/misogynists or cyberbullies. Though actually all of this can be seen from Chen’s article so I didn’t find out anything useful from talking to either of them.

Yes. I’m ready. I will protect Roland no matter what, and if I have to make a choice I will have myself outed if by doing so he can remain anonymous. This knowledge makes me calm.

So, at long last, here’s the poem:

 

Dark is the night

And unforgiving each star,

Cold and pointless

Or, to your eyes

A cold point

Tacked to a frozen sky

 

When this fear

Stretches from its sleep

Underneath your heart and shudders

Through your bones

Screaming warning

Between the beats,

Between each beat,

Crying fear, fear;

It is here, it is over your head.

 

Then silence that voice

By welcoming the falling

Axe over your head

Because after it falls

What more is there to fear?

You will breathe

Freely

Once again

And the warm dark

All-embracing

Will reach out to envelop you

And starfire will remind your tearful eyes

Of the sun’s flaming at the end

Of the night.

 

*I don’t consider Kalika Gold a fake identity.

 

 

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Cornered

I thought he would pick me up and carry me downstairs into the front room, but instead he came over to me and said that if I didn’t want to do it I could just say the safeword and we could just go into the livingroom and nothing would happen. His voice was calm and measured, like it always is. Roland has quite a pleasant voice. He also talks softly and sometimes slowly, traits I find irritating in others, but not in him. Mostly because he uses tone and expressions to give his words much more power than if he was talking loud or fast.He came closer to me and asked if I wanted to do it. Was I sure? Did I want to say the safeword, or did I want to do it? The insinuation that I couldn’t of course spurred me to tell him that I would.

“Is this something that you want?” he asked.

I thought, of course not, why would anyone even think of doing something so disgusting and unhygienic anyway, if it wasn’t for online porn? (I’ve never been diagnosed with OCD, but I am told I exhibit such tendencies).  Can you imagine how germy it would be, probably millions of bacteria and molecules of piss would be in your mouth. Honestly I think it’s revolting, though maybe not as bad as drinking piss or eating shit. But I love money so much, and I wanted to be debased and to experience what it’s like. So I said, “Yeah, I want to.”

We were talking for a bit, and I said that if I’d hidden in the bathroom he wouldn’t have found me.

“Well no, because we’ve thought of that, you see,” he said, showing how the lock could be opened from outside.

I asked why we couldn’t use a flavoured condom. He said he didn’t like them but “You can demand I wash my balls first” which I think is an amusing line/quote, so I’ve stuck it in this post. Then I followed him downstairs.

He made me sit on his lap to get the answers out of me. I was feeling sore and didn’t want to be spanked any more, so I was glad about this. Roland asked me for my favourite colour, the age at which I first masturbated, and the first time or have I ever had an orgasm; I gave him these answers instantly. He laughed and said it was no fun. Then he tried to think of two more things to ask me. I said it was fine and I’d give him a blowjob without the five questions/answers.

“You’re sure?” he said.

I was. I was tired of playing games; I wanted action.

I was lying on the sofa. Roland popped off to shower – not that I’d have cared all that much if he didn’t, because I had the sauce so all I would taste would be that. He was gone a disappointingly short time.

 

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What I learned last Thursday

1. Men can control whether or not they get an erection, unlike women

2. Men (at least that one) do not get turned on by having a knife jabbed into their cock or by needles or the thought of drills being used on them (pity, that) but hot forks are okay

3. I like sucking dick

4. Millionaires are stupid. Force them to eat cream.

5. I can be tricked into thinking that Roland has the key to my handcuffs when actually they will spring open at the touch of a button and I could’ve got out of them at any time

6. It is rare to enjoy knife play (I thought Roland wouldn’t be surprised about the knife since he’s poly and has probably been banged by more cunts than he can shake his thing at, but he was surprised, which means that most other women he has encountered were not into knife play). So it must be more rare than spanking.

7. Cum and urine come out of the same hole, not two separate ones, which makes absolutely no sense since they are two completely different tubes. (I used to think they came out of the same hole but then I reasoned it must be two different ones.) But it isn’t. That totally blows my mind. I think it’s unhygienic. We need to redesign men.

8. The answer to my experiment ‘What happens if you push a penis up and then drop a small needle down the hole’ is that Roland will not let me conduct  the experiment.

9. BMW’s patented ‘easy-shag’ reclining seat design really works.

10.When a man is actually interested in why and how you got into feminism, and suddenly asks you about it so that you have a brilliant opportunity to actually explain this misunderstood and stereotyped position to them, and raise awareness of issues that mean a lot to you, you will feel stupid trying to explain it while half naked and bent over in a studio while he takes pervy erotic photos of you. You will especially feel stupid trying to explain objectification, rape culture and the feminisation of poverty and have to tell him you’ll tell him later.

 

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