Taking Flight

In the past week I’ve successfully been suspended twice. By “successful” I mean I went up and I came down and there were no injuries. I lasted somewhere between 10 and 20 seconds up each time.

Have I suddenly learned to love suspension?

Naaaah. I wouldn’t say I love it. I still prefer being down on the ground, for the most part. Though I do love me a partial…

But I trust the two people who I’m allowing to practice their suspension skills on me, because they’ve invested a considerable amount of time learning from reputable and respected rope teachers in our community. And when I mean a considerable amount of time, I don’t mean a half-day class and some at-home practice.

I mean hours spent in monthly supervised instruction followed by practice followed by supervised approval that they’d picked up the appropriate skills and technique before moving forward.

I’ll say this: sitting through the class where they learned safety and technique for their first suspension (a side suspension) helped me a lot as one of the people putting my body on the line for this endeavor. I was able to understand with more clarity why certain things are positioned in certain ways or in certain places in order to maximize safety (and comfort…which is minimally maximized in a suspension to begin with) of the bottom.

I’ve sat through one-off rope instruction as a bottom before. They teach how to tie the knot, which I don’t pick up very easily. I’ve tried to follow the steps but I lose them as soon as it’s over. So, generally, when I’ve been the bottom in a class before this, I’ve not taken away much from it other than the wonderful sensation of being tied.

But, in these classes, I am learning too – especially from the instructor who teaches from the bottom position – on which ways to position my leg, for example, for the best results in a well-tensioned thigh cuff. I also was able to better understand what areas I should feel the pressure in, and whether or not there’s a need to panic if my fingers go tingly.

Little by little, I’m becoming more able to articulate what I think would work best for my body and my endurance level. I want the hip harness on first, for example, to limit the amount of time my body is in a stress position once the chest harness goes on. Or which leg goes up because one is stronger and more able to withstand carrying the weight of my body for the five or so minutes that the rest of the uplines are being secured.

It makes me feel like a true partner with the person I’m tying with. This isn’t only about them and their goals. It’s about our goals together.

The more I’m able to understand how to help my partners customize these ties to my body, the more comfortable I feel with the thought of taking flight. One-size-fits-all rope has never quite suited me.

Which brought me to this conversation the other night with my partner as we came home from our first successful suspension together.

“Maybe by my 40th birthday, I can be a piñata!”

I can see it now. By next July, I should totally be able to withstand spending …what, like a whole minute? Maybe two in suspension? Then he can beat me with, with something fun…like a hollow plastic bat. Big noise, but little pain. And I can hold handfuls of candy and fling them about the room!

It’s a fun thought. Who knows if it’s something that could happen or not? I don’t even know what’s happening tomorrow, much next be in a position to plan for next summer.

But, I like that I’m learning something and I like that I’m pushing myself a little out of my comfort zone with the help of two people that I trust will think no less of me if I feel like it’s too much and have to stop.

That trust alone is 60% of what gets me off the ground. The rest is just rope.

Priorities

I’m falling.

I was laying on my back on some sort of exercise bench that was rickety and only long enough to support me from ass to shoulders. My head was hanging backward off one end, and I was struggling to find a position or some leverage that would stabilize my legs without aggravating the highly-invasive crotch rope that was digging into my ass and cunt.

I’m falling. I thought, but all I could muster out loud was a minor squeak.

My arms were bound in front. My everything was bound in front, with his rope crisscrossing to contain my shoulders, arms and chest in a firm and constant embrace.

He was standing behind me. When I opened my eyes I could see the black of his jeans as he leaned over my body to grope and touch and prod. The bench wiggled again and I squirmed to compensate. Without the use of my arms, i couldn’t brace myself for a fall. I could get my wrists out of the cuff, though, if I had to. Free up enough of my arms to grab hold of something.

I looked up again. I became aware of the closeness of his crotch to my face. In my struggle to find balance and composure I’d not noticed the physical position I’d placed myself in.

By the time his fingers had traveled down to unfasten his belt buckle, I’d forgotten about falling. My mind became of singular purpose. I watched with growing anticipation.

I’m choking.

Instinctively, I pulled my wrists from out of their binds and reached around to grab his thighs from behind. Not to brace myself.

But to pull him deeper inside.

Fantasy Spaces: Dungeon Aftercare Zone

Had a really interesting discussion last night about what an awesome benefit it would be to have designated “aftercare” spaces in public dungeons. Not only would this benefit people who are still coming off the rush of an intense scene, it would also benefit those who find themselves in the socially awkward position of interrupting aftercare in progress with unwelcome conversation.

For that matter, it could also be a refuge for introverts, though I’d be concerned that we’d end up with a corner full of individuals being not-social and not having enough space left over for the couples/partners who need a place to curl up and process their scene together.

In the dungeon I frequent most regularly, there are a few areas for socializing:  the patio, the lobby, the kitchen, and (albeit, quietly) the sofas in the main room, though those are often used to sit and observe as well as for aftercare.  But there’s no guideline for other people to not approach anybody sitting in the latter area, and it’s often crowded because they’re the only areas to sit and watch in the main room.

It makes no sense for the kitchen to be a location for this, because that is clearly a social area.

The lobby is often used for discussions and socializing as well, especially for pre-scene negotiations.  (This last weekend I found the very thorough negotiation happening beside me as I was trying to come off my scene high very distracting, though clearly I fully support the idea of negotiation and believe they were in the appropriate place to conduct it).

And the patio – well, it’s where everyone smokes.  It’s where the bootblacking gets done.  It’s where people walk in – and the most likely place to get a greeting from someone just arriving while you’re still orbiting Mars.  It’s a VERY social (and carcinogenic) area.

The rest of the space is used for play areas and bathroom facilities so there’s not really anywhere to put an “aftercare in progress: do not approach” zone without taking away from another equally beneficial space in the dungeon.

But it’s a nice fantasy, right?

Confession Time

Coulrophilia is a sexual attraction to clowns. People who have coulrophilia, known as coulrophiles, may find themselves spending a lot of time thinking about clowns or having erotic fantasies about clowns. They might also seek out clowns as sexual partners or prefer to dress as clowns themselves during sexual encounters.

–from kinkly.com

I have a confession to make.  Ever since Halloween, when my partner dressed up as a scary clown and we had a very intense scene involving rope, a hog tie, a dildo, and a really hard cock behind a really thin, colorful jumpsuit, I’ve had a thing for clowns.

Well, not just any clown, but him as a clown.

Since Halloween, he’s brought ol’ bozo by my place a couple times. The first time it was an unannounced surprise. It was hot as fuck.

The second time was last night. This time, it was planned.  He’d had me perform a “clown summoning” ritual all week long. This entailed my paying tribute to the clown by having orgasms in public places.  Not like, in front of people.  Just in private, like in the work bathroom or in the elevator.

For tasks like theses, it’s very convenient that I am highly orgasmic. But, I digress.

The night before, he and I had attended a rope event. He was …he is sadistic. I was tied in some form of pretzel shape, complete with predicamental neck rope (shut up, it’s a word now) and with thin, scratchy coconut rope futomomo  as the icing on the hurty rope cake.

I was squirming in delicious agony. I couldn’t see what he’d done, so I asked him: “Is it pretty?”

He nodded, and then looked lovingly into my eyes. He melts me when he says and does things like this.  I’m there, mostly naked, bound and vulnerable, and he stares into my eyes and says, “but I keep getting distracted by your face.”

(d’awwwwwwww!)

After he untied me and I was rubbing at the rope marks on my legs, I looked up at him. I knew the clown was coming out the following night.  “Is the clown going to hurt me tomorrow?” I asked.

His expression grew wide-eyed and innocent.  “I don’t know,” he responded. “You’ll have to ask him.”

And so began the little game where he’s Peter Parker to the clown’s Spiderman.  He knows how to summon him. But he’s totally not him.

As he walked me to my car, I asked him “Will I see you tomorrow?  After the clown?”

“Yeah, I may come by after he’s done.” he smiled.

When he arrived last night, I was up in my room, preparing.  See, the clown summoning ritual summoned more than just the clown.  Apparently, it also brought on my period, a few days early.

Ah well.  So I lay some towels on the bed, and some baby wipes and a trash can by the nightstand and waited for his instructions to come via text.

I’m not going to go into the details. It was HOT. It always is with him.  I mean, the clown.

Afterwards, we went to separate bathrooms to clean up.  I mean, I’m not usually one for gore, but the insane clown thing combined with day-one of period thing was kind of …you know, on the nose in a poetic sense.

When I came back down after a quick shower, he was there, wearing his street clothes and looking handsome and gorgeous with his regular, beautiful face. I kissed him hello.

“Listen, I may as well tell you now,” I started.  “I’ve decided to just embrace it. I’m going poly.”  I paused only for a second. “I’m totally fucking the clown.”

I smiled.  He raised his eyebrows. “Is that going to be a problem? Do you want to talk about it?”

He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly.  “Well, fine then,” he responded. “Go ahead and fuck the clown.  Do what you want.”

I love this man.

Who is phi?

Uh. Hi. I’m phi.

Right. So, I wasn’t actually expecting people to find this blog for a while. I figured I’d fill it up with some back entries of my fetlife blogs and then eventually figure out if and how I wanted to attract other readers to read them. I mean, I have a lot of people who read them on Fetlife already.

But I get people who aren’t on Fetlife that meet me in real life and ask, “So, what do you write about?” Rather than send them to the place where they have to create an account and be subjected to ALL the deviants, I created a public facing blog where they can bear witness to just my deviance.

And now, some of you have found it. Somehow.

HI!

You don’t have the benefit of knowing me in real life or reading the near-300 back-catalog of self-expression that my Fet followers have access to, so I thought I’d share a little background that might add some dimensions to the stuff you’ll get from me if you stick around for the ride.

Here goes:

Phi is pronounced “fee” and is short for the online handle I use in my real life, which is too easy to google and connect to me, so I shortened it to phi, which people call me anyway.

I do, in fact, answer to “phi.”

I’m a 36 year-old woman that hails from (and continues to reside in) southern California. Ok, almost 37. Wow. I’m almost 37…what the …? No wait, I am 37 now. And nearly 38. Timey-wimey.

Anyway, I write about kinky shit. Mostly. If you were to really boil it down to its essence, I write about feelings.

Sometimes my writing is funny. I haven’t posted too many of those here yet, but they’re coming. Sometimes they’ll make you cry. I haven’t given you many of those yet either, but…they’re coming. Sometimes they just make you think. Sometimes they make you diddle.

People like the ones that make them diddle.

I have a day job that has nothing to do with sex or kink or writing. I want to change this, and starting a public facing blog was one of the steps in my very well-formed strategic plan to achieve literary greatness as a smut writer.

I haven’t figured out step 2 yet.

That’s a lie. I have.

Over on FetLife I started a series called Slutcapades. It’s sort of a collection of memoirs from my wanton youth (and beyond). I was a bit of a wild thing. I’m currently working on editing those stories together with the goal of self-publishing them. I’ve tested the whole self-publishing thing out w/ an e-book on kindle called No Words, which is a story about a person who looks and acts just like me receiving a visit from a very sexy man who looks and acts very much like another popular Fetlife personality.

Belts are involved.

This is a big, scary goal (the publishing, not the belt thing. Okay, also the belt thing). See, I’m not out to my parents about being kinky. I have a feeling that deviance runs in my very large extended family, so it’s only a matter of time before some cousin or aunt or uncle or in-law thinks, “hmm…that redhead looks like so-and-so. I should ask her parents if they know about this.”

I’d rather they find out from me, and I’m not quite ready to tell them yet.

I did, however, write a humorous hypothetical exchange on how that conversation would go, if I were to have it.

Okay, so you know where I came from, why I’m here, my approximate age range and a sense of what my voice is like. The part you don’t know – the part that will shed light on a lot of things is the part that throws people off sometimes.

I’m a widow.

I was with my late husband for about 10 years before he passed away in January 2014, so yes – still somewhat of a recent widow. I’ve had trouble re-negotiating how people do dating now, and the re-entry into the life of a single woman has been a bit bumpy.

I am currently partnered with a polyamorous man, at least as of the time I’m updating this writing. I am not (at this time) polyamorous myself, so that’s a fun new challenge for me to work with.

Now that that’s out of the way, I can start posting some of the other blogs that wouldn’t have made as much sense without that context.

I’m very active on fetlife so if you are already on there and want to add me, go for it. It will just make for a lot of redundancies until I have figured out how my two audiences will differ. I’m also hilariously attached to my cell phone and love receiving and replying to comments or questions here, there, or wherever, whenever possible.

Otherwise, welcome to my brain. Hope you enjoy your visits!

The Punishment

“Ugh,” she cringed. “This really isn’t necessary, Sir.”

“Shut up,” he answered as he sat on the bed beside her restrained body and ran his fingers along her thigh from knee to hip.

“Aren’t there better ways to punish me?” she asked.

“Not really,” he couldn’t help but chuckle. “You love all the other things I could do to you, and you don’t respond well to being ignored.”

“You could make me write lines.”

“I could,” he leaned down and sank his teeth into her fleshy inner thigh. She moaned and strained against the rope.

“Please,” she begged, her face horrified as he lay on his belly between her legs. “Please, not this. I’m sorry I fucked up, Sir.”

“Shut up,” he growled, as his mouth made its way toward the source of her dismay.

“But, Sir, you’ll get tired of it and I’ll feel bad. It takes too long this way. At least let me go wash up. I just feel so….,” She didn’t get to finish before he stuffed her discarded panties into her mouth then returned to his previous position.

“I said shut up. You earned this punishment. Now relax and take it like the good little slut you know you can be and maybe I’ll feed you my cock later.”

He’d finally found a punishment he loved to administer that she hated to receive.

Emotional Power Exchange

(Originally posted on FetLife on 4/27/2015)

I am in a power exchange with my emotions. If I let myself, I can access the pain from every disappointment I’ve ever experienced. These days, I have the upper hand.  I am in control.

Anybody who knows me knows how much I fucking love being in control.

(Those who don’t know me – the answer is “not so much.”)

Wait, what?  The empowered princess doesn’t like to have control?  But what about all those rules? All those limits?  All the hoops you make people jump through to pull down the granny panties you wore ’cause you were pretty fucking sure nobody would clear the edges?

Those are my armor. Some people put up walls around their emotions. They don’t want people to see they are vulnerable, scared, angry, hopeful.  I don’t do that.  Take a look, you’ll see everything.  I’m an exhibitionist in person and on paper, and I don’t hide who I am from anybody (except my parents).

My walls may be transparent, but they are still there.  People who aren’t paying attention will bump into the glass while I sit from the inside shaking my head, getting a manicure, and watching for the next prince to give it a shot.

I get accused of “topping from the bottom,” but I don’t think people who say that understand what I’m doing.  I’m establishing where the bottom is. Setting the ground rules.

Because once I give consent, it gets very difficult for me to say the word “no.” It becomes way too easy for someone to add to that emotional pain bank that I can withdraw from when I let my emotions top me back.

My walls protect them as much as they protect me.  They say they want to hurt me, and they do.  I’m fun to hurt in the fun hurty way.

But when they hurt me in the way that doesn’t get erased with a hug and a little bruise balm, it’s not pretty for either of us.

I’ve had people tell me how they want to make me cry. It’s the same answer every time.  You can’t make me cry from physical pain.  I’ll endure it until I call yellow, but I won’t cry from it.

I cried during one of my scenes this weekend. Not because of the pain, which was delicious. Not because of the people watching, because I enjoy that.

It was because he started untying.  Because the scene would soon be over.  And in that moment of not being in any sort of control, I accessed that disappointment and every disappointment I’ve ever experienced in my life – and I cried.

Last night I started to hear the noise in my head again. The one that sounds like a lonely girl in a large empty house. If I let myself, I could have dropped.  I wanted to drop.

But I’m in charge of my emotions right now. And I refused to let it happen.  Instead, I posted a status update:

I love my life.

And I do.