CALICO LANE

This entry brought to you by the idea that it is awesome to masturbate, and I would be in a much better mood if I did it more.  But the mess… sigh!

You see, strong external vibes (Hitachi, Acuvibe, even my Pocket Rocket) can make me squirt.  (That’s supposed to be a G-spot thing.  But I am given to understand that the g-spot and clit are either related or connected or parts of the same thing. My experience isn’t typical, but not unheard of.) I can get off with my hands and no puddle, but it’s not the world-rocking, overwhelming orgasm I have with a partner… or a vibrator.  Usually it just winds me up more.  A vibrator is fun and intense, sort of a mechanical middleman, like the old joke about jerking off with a non-dominant hand.

So I asked Twitter:

MissCalico bets you’d know: is there an elegant solution to the problem of squirting in bed? Puppy pads, while effective, are not that solution.

What I couldn’t fit in a tweet is that disposable chucks are also expensive and not ecologically friendly.

The answers rolled in:

Dr_Memory @misscalico plastic mattress cover, cheap sheets?

mrsexsmith @misscalico the liberator throe is pretty great.

20_Sided_Dave @misscalico towels, or a receptive mouth!

elisabettampls @misscalico liberator throw ($$$) or washable chux- that’s what I use and they are nice- eBay.

MistressAlexNYC @misscalico Nasty Pig in Chelsea has gorgeous heavy rubber bedsheets.

EssinEm @misscalico I love my @liberator throe!

nikolasco @misscalico towels seem like the obvious way to go. beach towels for size, doubled- or tripled-up as needed

MsMaggieMayhem @misscalico Rubber sheets under your top sheet go unnoticed for the most part.

johannapotente @misscalico Nasty Pig Play Sheets?

lqqkout @misscalico Liberator Throw?

DominaSnow @misscalico Bamboo towels. Super absorbent and super soft. Match them to your sheets. #squirtingsolution

MJCino @misscalico Towels could be more elegant than puppy pads. Bonus elegance points for matching/complimenting bedsheets. Squirt doilys are no

StrapOnJo I vote against the Liberator Throw. No traction for hard fucking b/c it slides around. @misscalico Liberator Throw? via @lqqkout

That’s four for the Liberator “Fascinator Throe“, one against; three for the Nasty Pig Play Sheets, which are actually a sort of machine-washable neoprene; four for towels; one for a plastic mattress cover; two (counting an email vote) for washable chucks like the Luv Linen; and one (sigh, someone had to say it) for a mouth.

These are all great options.  But it still boils down to the question: would I rather have an orgasm, or do laundry? And it seems silly, but fuck, I hate doing laundry.

Luckily I have generous friends with waterproof vibes and big bathtubs.

Like any day I fly cross-country to work for Kink, Wednesday was a loss.

I shot hot, hot porn on Thursday. I found myself in a padded cell with one-way glass to the observation room. When Lochai closed the door on me I thought I was going to come right then. This time the bondage didn’t kill me; the forced orgasms almost did. I squirted on the padded floor of the padded room. I fell in love with a fucking machine. I might have proposed marriage to Tomcat. Oh, you’ll have to see the update… it was fun.

My evening was a blur: dinner, drinks. An old coworker from the Hidden Chamber bumped into me on the street, but after two glasses of wine with her I retired to the Armory and passed out.

Friday’s shoot was long. Afterward, Maitresse Madeleine and I dolled up and took the city by storm. We had sushi, burlesque, drinking, dancing and a long trail of admirers in our wake.

Saturday I woke up a bit the worse for the whiskey. When I’d recovered sufficiently, my San Francisco boy arrived and took me to my hotel. He fucked me and fucked me and god, it was so good. Often my San Francisco boy confuses me: how can anyone bring me so much pleasure? Orgasms are easy. What I get from him is joy in being alive; it’s gratitude. Gratitude that he can be so fucking sexy, and inspire such uncontrollable arousal in me. Gratitude for his energy and enthusiasm and easy affection. For his long, slender fingers and his pierced tongue and his beautiful just-too-big cock.

I haven’t posted about the last time I saw him, but I wrote about it; I’ll post that, too.

On Sunday it was back to the Armory. Lochai and I, who met as fine art photographer and fetish model, had never managed to shoot art. I hadn’t brought clothes (oh, fuck it…) or more than one pair of high heels (leave ‘em…) and so he tied me up in a corner of a set. The lighting was high contrast, falling into shadow. My hair came up strawberry blond, mingling with the brick and the soft wood floor.

Do you want to be beaten? he said, and I said Possibly, by which I meant Oh, yes, fuck, please. He tied my hands to a ring and pulled it overhead. He caned me. He whipped clothespins off my breasts. I never let people hurt my breasts, but I didn’t need him to know that.

I’m trying to be a little more laid-back when I bottom. It works… sometimes. One thing I hated about pro-domming was meeting the odd submissive who showed me how not to be admirable, how not to be sexually attractive. I want to be more like the submissives I lust after and admire. That means trust. It means talking, too, but I will get there.

I did want more. I wanted him to ask me to take more for him. I wanted him to keep going because I was reaching the point where it didn’t hurt, where he would hit me harder and I would moan and beg for more, more pain, beg him for all sorts of things. But he seemed to be winding down, and so I didn’t ask for any of this.

I don’t want to mark you too much, he said. I worry about your work.

Right, I said. I shivered a little and he petted me. Yes. He was right. I was already buzzed, bruised, deliriously happy. It was smart to be done.

I dressed and we took a tour of the place (unreal!), and then I went back to my hotel. I realized it was the first time I’d been alone all weekend. I sat on the bed and burst into tears.

Was this what the experts call “sub drop”? Or just my perennial guilt trip about play winning over work? This really wasn’t going to do. I tried the usual Band-aids: put on a sweatshirt, drank some water, and turned on the TV. Then I called a good friend for coffee and she sent me back with a burrito.

Living in Manhattan has reacquainted me with the joy of the take-out bag. I’ve spent many mornings lately staggering home from the club, clutching a squashy foil packet from the bodega. I can taste it, the anticipation, every step of those ten post-subway blocks: the roll, the tender egg and cheese, the crunch of thick-cut bacon sweet with grease.

As a New England girl, I don’t understand why rice goes in a burrito. It’s served alongside a burrito, drowned with lard-rich refried beans and melted cheese. Tex-Mex — what else? But these are Mission burritos, and Mission burritos have rice. I ordered mine with black beans, rice and all.

When I am in New York and crave these burritos — and I do — I think about the peachskin wrapping of the freshly steamed tortilla, waiting to part under my teeth. This one did not disappoint. It was soft and yielding and toothsome. I ate it in bed. I decided that I could make it back home.

…brought to you by my campaign to clear my draft folder. If it ever empties, I may have to either a) have more sex, or b) start writing fiction.

There was a knock on the door, and I jumped up from the desk to answer it.

He was early. In my eagerness to let him in, I fumbled the door.

He pulled me in for a kiss. God, he was delicious: tight-wound lines of muscle, with just enough softness to his frame to be toothsome. We made out like teenagers until he threw me on the bed, and then I wrapped my legs around his and squirmed and rubbed with breathless abandon.

“I did have dinner in mind,” he said when I let him up.

“I’m hungry too. We could always fuck, go out to eat, and then come back and fuck some more.”

“I like the way you think.”

He shoved me down on my knees. I mouthed the crotch of his jeans, eliciting an encouraging groan, as he unbuckled them for me.

His cock is beautiful, if rather too big for me. I always take it as a challenge. When I finally fit it into my throat, he made a sound — that sound — and his hands clenched convulsively on the back of my head, forcing it down as far as it could go. So much for pacing. I was still wearing professional makeup from my video shoot earlier in the day. Ten minutes of cocksucking, and there was tears and spit and snot and that thick, mucilaginous drool that coats everything.

I reveled in the mess.

He grabbed my hair and tilted my head up. My face was streaked with tears (they were involuntary; he does not make me cry) and spit gleamed on my cheeks. I smiled. I’d missed him.

“You’re beautiful,” he murmured. He slapped me hard across the face.

When he fucked me, I sank my teeth into the inside of my arm to keep from screaming his name.

——————————————-

I was on my knees, but he came around behind me instead. He guided my head back, all the way back, so that the floor and ceiling traded places in my vision. I held on to his thighs, made docile by fear of falling, and opened my mouth for his cock. I had to admit the angle was favorable. He fucked my throat with hands locked behind my head; spit gurgled and foamed in my mouth. It ran into my ears and down my chest in cooling rivulets, soaking the waistband of my jeans.

When he released me I fell down onto the floor, coughing. “Stay there,” he ordered.

He fetched a charger and a cord. I watched in bemusement.

“If it plugs into the wall,” I warned him, “you don’t want to use it on the carpet.”

He returned with vibrator and towel, the latter of which he kicked under me. When he pressed the vibrator to my clit, I nearly screamed. Warm liquid gushed between my legs. “Fuck!”

He pressed his cock back into my throat and I choked, shaking, while I came again and again, soaking the towel.

I was so sore that when he fucked me, I made little keening noises, like a hurt puppy. It wasn’t friction soreness: my cervix felt bruised from the violence of our earlier couplings. Neither pain nor reticence are my usual reactions to sex with him, but even without an explanation, he seemed to like the whimpers and my creased forehead.

I squirmed trying to tilt my hips, but it was rather like trying to stop the tide. I gave in and let it happen. The tenderness of it rolled all over into pleasure somehow, and soon I was moaning — yes, fuck, yes yes yes — and he pounded into me harder and harder, until with one monumental thrust he fell forward growling, and we shuddered together until we were still.

Forgive my crudity, please, but this post was no good without the title.

The other night, I curled up in bed for some quality hands-on time. All I wanted was an orgasm, possibly followed by a nap. Instead, I got a huge wet spot.

I was annoyed (I just moved in! It’s too soon to ruin the mattress!) but not entirely surprised.

On that previous entry in May, one of the commenters had assured me, “someday you are going to find someone who knows what they are doing and you will have a g-spot squirting orgasm.” Ladies and gents, we appear to have the latter.

Squirting was not a happy discovery for me.

Even the name sucks. “Female ejaculation” is no better: it’s clinical and derivative (we don’t say male ejaculation, do we?). Whoever named it didn’t have a poetic bone in their body.

I can remember exactly when it happened, too. I was 20, and I had just dyed my hair its customary color of screaming orange the day before. I was on the set of my very first bondage video, having my very first encounter with the Hitachi Magic Wand.

“Did you squirt?” said the top, pointing to a small puddle on the floor.

“Nnmm!” I said, which meant roughly, “I’m wearing a ballgag and I can’t feel my hands, but hell if I know what you mean.”

It was my first time alone in California, and a friend of mine was sharing his makeshift accomodations, in the spare room where he slept on the floor. During the week I stayed there we became much better acquainted. When a couple days after that shoot he produced a similar vibrator from his closet, I came promptly, soaking his sleeping bag to the carpet. I was shocked and mortified.

“I adore you, and all your various fluids,” he assured me.

I don’t! I wanted to wail.

In my mind, what had heretofore been a neat and tidy affair was now a hazard. I stopped masturbating with vibrators entirely, and protested whenever my boyfriend would bring the Hitachi out. Any appeal it might hold was offset by the idea of squelching around in a cold, wet bed. I would hold back during sex for fear that a tide might be forthcoming.

Apparently most women need G-spot stimulation to squirt. That’s never done it for me yet, for which I give thanks. I need a strong vibrator to squirt, directly on my clit.

Even given a towel or a plastic sheet, I was annoyed with the affair. Squirting was messy and effusive and, in my opinion, utterly unnecessary. I’m not polite about my orgasms: being quiet usually means I need a pillow to bite. What was wrong with the way things had been?

Mostly I dreaded being one of *those* girls. I’m already one of the mythical women who can come, quickly and reliably, from penetration. I can come from vibrators; I can come from fingers; I can even come from certain types of pain. (Caning, or chest punching, for example.) In a couple of years I’ll probably discover more: orgasm by chocolate, Martian rays, or something equally preposterous. I don’t really need to get on film and demonstrate how easy it is for a woman to come. Even before learning to squirt, I was the exception to the rule.

And then there’s the question I’m always asked: Is it pee? Scientifically no one has convinced me either way, but when it happens for me it’s either clear or milky, and neither smells nor tastes like urine. (Nor can I prevent it by going to the bathroom beforehand, more’s the pity.) Is it inconceivable that sometimes, I pee by accident, and neither of us realizes? I don’t think so, but I suppose anything’s possible, including the undignified.

I should be at peace with it, I know. Everything else in sex is messy and wet and undignified. I might as well welcome one more thing.

But first, we need a better name.