In the interim between my last whinging and the current one, I have been experimenting with Collarme.com (short version; all men are total fucking dicks. Long version; all men are total fucking dicks, and most of the women are lying when they say they're dominant, at least on that site), chatted up by a random in a park because I'd made the foolhardy mistake of assuming that just because I look like a badger's arse, the summer + a dress wouldn't turn all straight men in the area into rampaging penises, and went to visit my ladyfriend in another land.

This went ... well. When I say this is an update made of "duh", I mean it.

Most of my sexual preferences are theoretical at best (with the exception of bloodplay - and can we please have a better name for it than that? - which I've enough experience with to know how much I enjoy it) and so when I get the rare opportunity to test a theory I'm usually expecting to have it disproved. Long story, but KG here was taught a long time ago that everything she said or did, she was making up for attention.

I suppose I could write a post called "why the feeling I get from being choked isn't the same kind of orgasm that sex produces" or something similar to Bitchy Jones' What It Feels Like To Hurt A Man Until It Makes You Have An Orgasm post, but as I've said before even under the cloak of relative anonymity, I'm cagy about sharing. Humiliation is a long way from being my deal, after all, and sometimes honesty feels enough like humiliation that I don't want to play. Talking about my own sad, silly little discoveries won't enlighten anyone, but it needs to be done.

There was the matter of the collar. That was entirely my idea, but Ladyfriend liked it, of course. Wear the collar at all times while I was there. I took it off to sleep, most nights - but not all of them, and sleeping in it was nothing like as uncomfortable as passing out drunk in a corset has been - but the rest of the time it stayed on. She didn't, as I'd hoped, pull me around by it outside; in public the Ladyfriend is a highly conservative woman. But she'd drag my head down with it if she wanted me to kiss her (I am a lot taller than she is), or tug on it if I wasn't where she thought I should be, and that's something I already knew I approved of. After all, I wear a collar at other times, too.

And I already knew I liked having my hair pulled - not in the hideous playground fashion, but a handful near the scalp, jerking my head back - and I already knew I liked kneeling and I already knew I liked being naked when everyone else was clothed.

I suppose what I didn't know already - or knew, but wasn't convinced of because I need empirical evidence of these things - was that I do, I do like being ... flogged, I suppose is the word. Beaten. Hit with the flat of a hand or the bunched up leather of the dog leash that was supposed to be used for choking as well. Tied to the head of her bed by a soft leather belt which, yes, fulfilled all the precious crtiteria I have about things not seeming too contrived, even if I lay perfectly still while she fumbled around with it and got the knot wrong.

Perhaps if I was fine-tuning it I'd have said something about rhythm and speed (harder, faster, more steady, all the things you usually yell at people who are fucking you), but I've found my voice is the first thing to go; I lose the ability to communicate at all, and I have no idea how people use these mythical "safe words" we're so keen on - I can just about manage, after five minutes of careful examination of the inside of my head for vocabulary that might have gone astray, to say "everything's fine" when repeatedly asked if I'm okay. It took whining and twitching to communicate when it wasn't fine, because, I think, part of the business of my kind of stupid kinky pervert sex is that I get to take a holiday from being a thinking, feeling human being and just get to be a Thing Which Is Hit.

"Less pontificating, more description," cried the peanut gallery, with their hands in their pants.

Choking, then.

Perhaps I should say that the feeling of being deprived of air, of pain around the throat, of someone digging their fingers under the collar and pulling back on it while I strain forward, head bowed, kneeling up, her other hand on/in my cunt, leaving me unable to move too far but unable to stop moving ... it's not like sex, or at least it's not the same kind of sexual I'm used to. It's the kind of sexual I know from being cut, or hit, or dragged around, it's the feeling of being safe.

I would say that seems insane but I've spoken to other people with similar predilictions (I know far more subs and masochists than I do doms and sadists, possibly because the latter group have this unfailing ability to be arrogant self-regarding morons) and the consensus is often the same; safe, wanted, loved, protected. That's how you feel when you're making revolting noises because you can't get enough air into your lungs, or your skin is stinging with the force of slaps.

So I'm a little disappointed in myself for being predictable, and for being a pervert (as ever), but at least I know now.

Duh.

KG.