I have such issues with the ideas of female submission put about not only by the general media but by the fucking BDSM scene as well that I kind of want to strap on my biggest, stompiest boots (they are German army surplus and one of them smells of rotting blood, the least sexy smell in existence, no matter what I do with them. I find it repellant largely because I know if anyone else can smell it as well they'll assume the smell is me. Otherwise, I don't actually mind it) and start kicking people in the face. Weakness is the curse of femininity, not because that's actually what women are but because that's apparently the only way in which women can be attractive and submissive. There is space - small space, but space - for the attractive Amazonian woman who dominates men by force, but there is even less space for the attractive Amazonian woman who submits out of choice. Not because she owes something or because she's in awe of the man's brains or because he's even bigger and butcher and she's afraid of him, but because she wants to.

"[N]o one ever calls me beautiful – even if they are in love with me." - Bitcy Jones again.

I'm not beautiful either, and when you're a submissive that's kind of a handicap. People have to, are supposed to want you passionately enough to hurt you, to prevent you from getting away, they have to want you restrained and kept, be proud enough of you to want to pimp you to their friends; this can't happen with me. I'm not beautiful. I'm not pretty. I am, at best, handsome and portly, which would be vaguely effective were I a man but is of no use if I'm female.

I read Bitchy Jones because she's incandescently angry, and when she's smug she's so riddled with self-doubt that it's the kind of smugness I can tolerate. She uses the mask of anonymity the same way I do (inspired this use of it in me), to allow honesty, to allow herself to say things I imagine she wouldn't be comfortable saying otherwise. I don't really read any other fetish/BDSM blogs: I have tried, but the self-righteousness and smuggery and general More Scene Than Thou bullshit comingled with reports about how perfectly perfect their sexlives are puts me off. I cannot deal with the degree of compromise required in finding a partner for kinky sex; there is this belief that as long as your kinks align it doesn't matter if the other person is in any way compatible with you.

Well it does fucking matter.

I have vanilla sex with people I'm not compatible with in any ways other than we're both drunk and horny; I fuck men I'm not remotely attracted to, women I think have nothing between their ears but fluff, couples whose personalities revolt me, individuals whose politics make me want to kill them. I've fucked racists, homophobes, morons, and people who've made it abundantly clear that they dislike me and are merely in it for somewhere to store their semen/fingers. 

Sex of the vanilla variety is largely meaningless as far as I'm concerned. It's a competition to see who can come first, or last; who makes the most or least noise, who wins, who loses. It's just a pleasant way to get to a momentary peace, or a nice thing to do for a friend, or a way to make sure you have somewhere to sleep when you can't be arsed with a taxi. I don't put much thought into it or place excessive value on it, and while it's sometimes depressing to go for six months, two years, whatever, without getting laid, it isn't as much as a hardship as I'm sure it is for some. 

That's that kind of sex. The kind I want isn't so much a casual race towards an orgasm and so I'd quite like it to be with someone I think is worth me bending in half for; I want to know that I'm not just handing over my body to someone who is casually interested at best, that I'm not simply scratching an itch but creating a hunger, and I don't think that's going to happen if I just cruise Collarme.com and the like looking for someone who isn't too hideous who will tolerate a fat pretentious poetry-writing freak with bad tattoos and put them on a lead.

-- I started this post several hours ago and have completely forgotten what I was going to write because I got distracted by Photoshop. This so clearly doesn't happen to professional bloggers. 

KG., over and still not out.

(the header comes from an awful line of poetry I found: Consider me the France of sex / wandering love's battlefields / in search of someone to surrender to).