When you thrive in the fetish environment you meet a lot of open-minded people, me loving to discuss the way I do and having recently came out as a trans-man, I am a bit of a get to person for some people on my opinion on those things. This evening one of my open-minded friends approached me on feeling tricked, mainly by a set of pictures on twitter, were apparently there was a trans-woman or a cross dresser involved. Now his problem was that she had not disclosed this until later, after he already had sexual fantasies about her.
My first sexual memory dates far back, when boxes were pirate ships, summer endless and my n’unkle a jungle gym. The couple next door had a daughter about the same age as me and through the grapevine, we grew besties pretty quick. We exchanged stickers that we saved, we climbed trees, we build castles for our dolls and we dressed up in her mothers make-up. We did all the typical things that little kids do, alongside the first glimpse down the breaches.
She had a nurses play-set, complete with stethoscope, band-aids and a thermometer. Sitting in the dimmed basement, in between the tiny train-tracks we weren’t allowed to operate yet, I lay gravely ill. As most recollection from that age, this is a hazy interval. One image remains to me, clear as a Polaroid snap. Her little hands fiddling the instrument, her white plastic jacket in the background. Our giggles over the pill-box that we filled with M&M’s. The stern look Dr. Sophia would wear when she proclaimed I was going to die of Mikelarenditieris and her whispering “You’re sick. I need to take your temperature.”
She’d hand me the trinket and I would slip out of my panties, crouch and slide the toy inside me. Afterwards I’d hand it back to her, she would examine it thoroughly, then toss it back in her medical case and heal me according to the condition of the day. It was our favorite game to play.
I was sick with nothing, but happy little tickles in my lower abdomen.
It was one of those interactions children see no harm in whatsoever themselves, but when parents find out, they become a problem. Her dad walked in during an examination, saw us and got seriously upset. My mother picked me up, and playtime was over. Sophia never came to my house again. I received no explanation, safe from a firm look and no dessert. When I finally had the guts to ask my mother why, she sat me down and said sighing that we did a bad thing. If I ever tried that sort of thing again, I’d never keep any friends. And that was that.
This story is not unlike to a variety of others. But at age five, it set the tone.
Toying with the no-no zone was bad.
Fotografe Keren Moscovitch besliste samen met haar man om hun huwelijk te openen en ruimte te maken voor verschillende sekspartners. Wat dat met zich meebrengt zette ze op de gevoelige plaat. Daarbij koos ze bewust voor close-ups van lichaamsdelen waardoor je een heel intiem wat ambetant gevoel krijgt. Je zit er als het ware bovenop.
Stepping out of the car, the cold evening air hits my face like a bucket full of freezing water. Unusually cold evening for this time of year. Positioned under one of the still functioning lights, I overlook the street. Two people at the far left corner, discussing something, very aware of their surroundings, dealing drugs? A man, wobbling, probably drunk, walking away from a bar, passes by. I instinctly keep my arms up, ready to form a barrier. He doesn’t notice us. Another man, quickened pace, enters a door at the opposite end of the street. Casting my eyes upon the two-storey building, I know instantly that this is definitely the place.
Standing right behind me, at 5’2″ over one feet shorter than I, my sub is getting a bit restless. She is scanning her surroundings, aware of the fact that we are parked right in front of a sex shop, and a very dingy one at that. The door looks like a ten-year-old could break it down, the windows haven’t been washed in years and the neon name sign, shining a bright red light on the shop every few seconds, makes it looks even more sleezy. Peeking inside is made totally impossible by ugly curtains, that block any attempts to have a quick look to determine whether someone would even want to enter. Overall, this establishment seemed about as inviting as a bible belt bar to a black gay couple.
. I pinch her elbow and cup her chin, tilting her head upwards so that she has no choice but to look at me.
“You don’t feel like backing out, do you?”, I ask her.
She contemplates this question. I can see right through her, reading every tiny change in her stance, facial expression, the way her eyes move. It’s like reading a book for the tenth time. I know her answer long before she finally opens her mouth.
“I do, sir, I want to please you. It’s just…”
“Why is that?”
Another question that bears some consideration. As the cold is starting to get to my bones and I’m eager to get started, I answer for her.
“You are ashamed because you are gonna let her out again.”
She nods ever so slightly.
I roll my eyes as I move my hand from her chin to her hair and pull her head back. Gently I slide my fingers under her skirt, which barely reaches half way to her knees. Her legs feel frozen, but the closer I get to her pussy, the more heated I find her skin. I slide into her panties and she moans as my finger finds her clit. Making sure not to overdo it, I rub my finger against it. Then I bend forward, going even further down her panties, to find out what I was actually looking for. I push deeper and deeper inside of her.
“You are soaking wet. Don’t tell me you don’t want this.”
A deep, raspy growl escapes from her mouth, as if a primal urge is awoken somewhere inside of her. She does want it, badly. The mere thought is making her horny beyond comprehension. When I feel she starts shuddering, near to her orgasm, I suddenly stop fingering her. Laconically I smell my fingers, dripping with her juices. I’m sure that my smirk must be a great sight.
“Lets go inside”. It’s not a question, but she knows that she can still backout. She just smiles and clings to me as we start moving. As I grab her hand, squeezing it to assure her I’ll be there every step of the way, we cross the street and enter the store.
I’m pushed down on the rugged chair, towel draped over the cushion. He’s gotten cautious since the last time.
The minute I crouch, his hands are on my shoulders. The edge catches my back with a snap of bone on wood, too impatient for my indicate behavior.
He holds a firm grip on my neck, icepick locks of flesh, so forceful they may as well be metal straps.
The collar rattles.
This morning, she waves as I turn the corner and start the long silent walk home. My phone is dead. The sun should be out, but all that lays over the canal is a blanket of darkening grey storm. It’ll drizzle soon.
Reverse, motion in displacement, emotions muted out in comical displacement. Mouths gasping, the occasional dancing white shaking line of snow, up, ripped, scroll.
Liefde kent geen grenzen. Geen leeftijd, geen ras, religie noch geslacht. Alles is liefde en net dat wilde de New-Yorkse fotograaf Braden Summers vastleggen op de gevoelige plaat.
Met wat hulp van Kickstarter, hij haalde er 23 000 dollar op, trok Summers de wereld rond. De zelfverklaarde homo maakte prachtige beelden van gay en lesbische koppels uit Frankrijk, India, Libanon, Brazilië, Zuid-Afrika, de VS en de UK.
For Alex, whose laugh will always stay with me.
I remember that day well, back in june 2012. You came over, all the way from Maastricht, taking a bus to some town in Belgium, not knowing a single word of Dutch. You made that trip just because I asked if you wanted to have a casual date together. Later you told me I hadn’t made that much of an impression on you in my message. You wouldn’t have come over if you weren’t extremely bored. That was so typical of you, always looking for potential adventure and thrills. We had a thrilling day alright. If our eyes had shot actual sparks, we’d have set that library ablaze. That time in the bathroom was the first of many.