Apr 242015
 

Bra marksI’m getting nervous about breast reduction surgery. It’s coming up soon. This feels major – a decision bigger than getting married but less momentous than having a child. I had my tonsils removed when I was a kid, but this is my breasts. I am excited and a bit uncertain.

I’ve wanted breast reduction since I was 16. For years I’ve struggled with back and shoulder pain, seeking out a wide variety of healing modalities. I can’t sleep on my stomach or stretch fully without putting my back out. It hurts to run, even with great support. The worst thing is that I just keep getting bigger, even without gaining weight.

Breasts are awesome – all kinds of breasts. I think my breasts are beautiful, and yet when I imagine them smaller I feel incredibly happy. I could go braless. The permanent divots on my shoulders could smooth out. No more rashes under my boobs every summer, no getting stabbed in the armpit by out of control underwires. I could buy sexy little lace bras at Victoria Secret instead of them looking me up and down and sniffing, “We don’t carry anything your size.” (Which is currently 34I, in case you were wondering.)

FlattenedMy reasons for surgery are emotional as well. There is something about being fuller figured that makes some men feel like they can treat you like an object. I would like to choose the times that I present as sexy rather than being objectified over anatomy I can’t control. Imagine if penises were hard and protruding all the time and people you didn’t like saw that as in invitation.

I haven’t been feeling comfortable in my body for a long time. My clothes don’t fit right. As a genderqueer individual I don’t feel a strong pull toward either gender pole, except for the times when I want to play around with stereotypes. I often feel incredibly dysphoric over my breasts. Even when I bind myself severely, they show. I long to feel more neutral in my body.

FloatingThis is a step in my transition to being more fully myself. Everyone has the right to have their appearance reflect how they see themselves, but the road can be rough. Although my process is not as dramatic as full gender transitioning, I am still discovering that the emotional journey of reshaping my body and identity is just as intense. Who will I be after this? How will I be perceived?

I have no idea what size I will end up after surgery. I’ll be happy with anything smaller. I hope a B or C-cup. I’ve been fantasizing about my new shape, breasts that will disappear under a button-down shirt or look great in a push-up bra.

SacrificeI will have scars. That part bothers me. I like scars on other people because they tell a story of where they have been. I like my stretch marks for the same reason, but I am scared of what these scars will look like on me. Will I look in the mirror and feel mutilated? Will I still be comfortable being naked? I am losing part of my body. That feels strange. The idea of a doctor under my skin feels strange, but I will do it anyway.

I’m a bit sad to say goodbye to who I am right now. I took out my nipple piercings. I gave away all of my bras except the one I’m wearing right now. It gave me pause and I shed a couple of tears, but I am embracing this change. It made me think of a line from Hedwig and the Angry Inch, which we just saw in New York, “…to be free, one must give up a little part of oneself.”

Mar 222015
 

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An older man in high heels and jeans stood before me in line at the grocery store. His dangly earrings flashed against his greying beard in the harsh light as he fished around in his purse for his wallet. He wasn’t trying to be a woman, but he very obviously was comfortable blurring gender presentation in this small rural town. Attitudes are changing. People are starting to accept that gender is a spectrum, not a binary.

I grew up among lesbians when there were only two ways to be: femme or butch. I embraced femme presentation for a long time because I hated the way that butch lesbians just didn’t seem to care about themselves at all. It would be years before I saw the “dapper” style. I wanted to accessorize, wear clothes I felt sexy in, but then I started feeling uncomfortable in my femme gender role. I looked at being butch, but I wasn’t a lesbian and I just wasn’t a masculine woman. I have come to realize that I am both masculine and feminine and I don’t have to choose between them.

When my grandmother and her sisters were growing up people had fewer choices about who they could be and it was hard to change. They were mothers and wives, a secretary, a model, a sex worker. All of them were trapped in lives dictated by those choices and the society they lived in.

My grandma was always some of my best support, but also kind of judgmental too. she wanted me to do the right things, look the right way, know the things I needed to know to be a good woman. I feel that my grandmother found safety by following convention. I believe that I can only feel secure if I follow my own heart and let myself be as big as I can be. I refuse to be trapped in my life in any way. I am choosing my own happiness.

I do not feel like a boy OR a girl most of the time. I consider myself gender queer or gender fluid. Androgynous may be the word that makes the most sense to some people, but that implies a lack of gender. I am encompassing all genders! My gender is wherever I happen to be at the time. My gender is Evoë. My gender is pirate.

I know many people who have transitioned – gone from one gender polarity to another. Right now I do not feel a strong pull toward male or female, but if I do in the future I would consider making that transition. Right now I am becoming more me. Making choices based on what will truly bring happiness and satisfaction to my life strips away the irrelevant, leaving me living my truth. I am becoming more me every day.

I am not rejecting my body (because I love it!), but I am doing what I need to do to feel right in my body. I am exercising and lifting weights. I will have breast reduction surgery in a few weeks. This feels like a big step. I’ve always hated having huge breasts. It hasn’t ever felt right. My cup size is the only thing that makes me feel dysphoric on a regular basis. I feel burdened by my breasts. I don’t want to give up having breasts altogether, but I want small breasts that I can hide or put in sexy little bras depending on my mood. I need my body to reflect how I see myself.

Mostly, I don’t present as any particular gender. I pick clothes that make me happy, a huge mix of things. I hardly wear jewelry at all any more. My hair is buzzed except for a long curly bit in front. I always wanted to be bleached blonde, and I love it! I paint my toenails because I think my toes are ugly. When I feel a lot like a guy, I wear eyeliner and a jock strap. I adore bow ties. Big stompy boots go with everything. I have a lot of fun with presentation because the only person I’m trying to please is me.

Slowly, I am becoming. I am shaping my life to reflect my inner world.

That thought makes me cry because it feels so powerful. And then I laugh because it is simply marvelous. It is freeing to live according to my own compass. I do not care what anyone thinks of me, although judging by the fabulous gentleman in heels at the grocery store, people don’t really care the way my grandmother would have. I like to think that she would still support me. Her love meant the world to me, but ultimately, loving myself means more.

Jan 312015
 

Going downI wake up to him going down on me. My body responds before I am really awake – legs wrapping around him, back arched, hands making fists against the sheets. In the tent under the blankets the scent of his skin surrounds me. The darkness is soft and warm. I focus on the feel of his tongue passing over my clit. When did I get so wet?

I need this man like water in the desert. I’ve been so horny lately, so stressed. In the very early morning he comes to me like a river. He flows over my body. His tongue says, “Be hot for me Baby. Go ahead and burn. I will ease your fever.”

I let go. Sleepily, blissfully, I melt into him. The whole huge complexity of the world narrows to one point. Love. I can forget about everything else for a while. My burdens will wait. I exhale and release all my tension. I’m floating, but his body anchors me. This is the safest I have felt in days.

Heat builds under his mouth. I realize that I am making loud moaning noises and I try to be quieter, but it doesn’t matter. I am pressing myself against him as hard as possible. He pins my wrist to the bed with one hand and captures my soul. I don’t know if he’s doing it on purpose, but this small decisive action tells me that he owns me. I give him everything of me. It’s all his.

Making loveHe is still licking my clit with quick intense motions that make me twitch. Now his other hand roams up to my nipples. He gently pinches and my sounds get louder. I want everything all at once. I want to be right here forever. I want to come. “Harder,” I tell him.

He tweaks my nipples in earnest and my body stiffens as pleasure lances through me. Oh my god. I am gasping with each small jolt of pain. I am overwhelmed with love and flooded with lust for this man. I want more!

I love the weight of him on top of me. It feels secure, like a seatbelt. His is my shield against despair. I writhe under him, swollen with desire, blazing with need. He kisses me deeply and it is like diving into a lake on a summer’s day. His face is moist with my juices. I thrust my impatient tongue between his lips. His mouth is firm on mine. I invite him in.

I feel like a volcano heading for eruption, all lava and pressure. The feel of him inside me, pressing against my g-spot is nearly enough to make me explode. He hands me the vibrator.

That moment just before orgasm is the best – the slow build to powerful peak, poised at the edge of incredible intensity, striving both to slow the inevitable and speed the climax. I find it compelling and excruciating all at once. I think I live there.

He fills me. I am rocked by his motions. Suddenly, like seeing a waterfall approaching, I know I’m going to come. I get swept over the edge, and I am tightening around him in powerful waves. A flood of emotion Connectedovercomes me and then evaporates. I am awash in love. Sweaty, steamy love.

We snuggle in stillness for a few moments. Maybe this is the best part. I feel grounded, connected in a way that has been elusive lately. There are no words here, no need to talk, just us. In the early morning, in the warm quiet dark, we lie in each others arms and we whisper, “Let’s try that again in a few hours.”

Jan 142014
 

Squeeze my breastsDarling, I suddenly really want you to squeeze my breasts, I say out of the blue. We are lying side by side on the bed. We’ve been talking, but this wave of longing has swept over me. I am envisioning him sitting on top of me, massaging my breasts. This isn’t something we normally do, but since the desire is there, I am trying to communicate it.

Harold is game. He straddles my waist and gives my breasts a good squeeze through my shirt. His hands are very warm. I start to feel turned on. He pushes my shirt up and I think – no, no, I want it through the shirt, it feels awesome – but I don’t say anything. He starts to focus on my nipples, which is normal foreplay for us, but not really what I wanted. Still, it feels pretty good. He peels off my panties and goes down on me. Harold is very skilled with his tongue and I am torn. This isn’t what I wanted. Do I stop him and explain again what I was hoping for? Do I let him keep going, trying to let go of my disappointment and resentment and lose myself in the pleasure?

He senses that I am not fully present and stops, gazing up at me. I take a deep breath and decide that trying to explain the type of connection I am lusting after is going to be best for both of us. It’s obvious that Harold can tell I’m not so into what we’re doing. I know he wants to know what is going to drive me wild, so I direct him back to my breasts. Not my nipples, full breast massage.

After a few awkward instructions, we are starting to get the hang of this breast squeezing thing. I am writhing in ecstasy, just feeling his hands cup my breasts. I kind of lose control, moaning, back arching – I am on the verge of orgasm with just his palpating. I watch his face. His eyes are closed and the look on his face is good. He looks very young, around 13 or 14, and maybe like a boy who has been given permission to do something he’s always wanted to do, but didn’t want to be bad.

Now he adds some nipple stimulation and I’m ready for it. I’m incredibly turned on. I think I could come just like this, but he’s pulling off his pants as fast as he can and sliding his cock into my super wet cunt. He keeps squeezing my breasts while we fuck. It all feels perfectly right.

I don’t quite manage to come before he does, but I can feel him throbbing inside me while he yells in the throes of his orgasm. As soon as he finishes, he digs around in the bedside table for the vibrator. He makes sure that I have a happy ending.

We bask in the afterglow, holding hands and talking about squeezing breasts. It’s funny that this hasn’t come up in all our years of flirting and fucking. I really enjoy attention paid to my breasts. I ask why he never grabs my boobs the way he grabs my ass when we are messing around. Don’t they appeal?

No, of course, he says, my breasts turn him on like crazy. He thinks a little, puzzled.  He realizes that he had early experiences where women had strong negative associations with having their breasts handled. Grabbing breasts was what disrespectful boys did. Considerate boys, apparently, only touched breasts with exquisite delicacy. On some level, without realizing it, he had adopted this as a universal preference, and it took me very explicitly requesting fondling and squeezing to even be aware of his preconceptions.

I’m glad that I did. It can be so hard to speak up about sexual desires, even in an open and accepting relationship like ours. It takes practice to say no to the things you don’t want. I find it even harder to insist on the things I want, but it seems to pay off big time. Harold stands ready to squeeze my breasts whenever I desire it.

Jun 192013
 

Breast tie portraitFunny how things stop seeming kinky when I do them all the time. Squeezing Harold’s balls seemed shockingly, outrageously, horrifyingly kinky when he first proposed it to me. Now I knead his testicles pretty much any time we are sexual together. It has become normal. In fact, I would say that we hardly ever do anything kinky any more, but I know that other people think we do. I am beginning to see how the definition of kink would change from person to person and even for the same individual over time.

Today we did something that felt kinky. Actually, a couple of things – we tied up my breasts and filled my cunt with chain. That added edge of knowing that I’m doing something that pushes my boundaries is so sexy! I find that there is a fine line between hot and not when working with kink, so communication becomes super important. I need to be able to let my partner know when things feel more uncomfortable than provocative, but hovering between the two can really turn me on.

I’ve had my breasts tied up before, but it didn’t do very much for me, other than seem weird. For some reason, it was just the right thing to do today. I tied them myself, bending over at the waist and wrapping each breast tightly, crossing over in the middle. The effect was to make my breasts firmer and to stick out more. Having all that blood trapped made my skin so sensitive. Harold couldn’t stop stroking and tweaking. Every touch sent a rush of heat to my cunt.

Tied and happyIt was pretty easy to bring me to orgasm the first time. Wow. I might have been able to orgasm with breast stimulation alone, but we added oral sex and then a vibrator. I came so hard with Harold’s hands on my breasts! As the sensations subsided, the ropes around my chest suddenly didn’t feel right any more. My breasts were also turning blue. It was time to unwind the binding, but I was still pretty turned on.

After such an amazing orgasm, I was wet and I wanted something inside me. Our backpack of sex toys yielded up a length of chain that we have tried vaginally a couple of times. (You can read about it here.) Basically, we didn’t start until I was warmed up and we used a lot of lubricant to insert the chain, one smooth link at a time.

Initially, the only sensation was Harold’s fingers pushing the chain into my vagina. Then involuntary spasms of pleasure would clench my internal muscles around the chain and the resistance would make me spasm all over again. I started experiencing a feeling of fullness and the links started to feel pinchy going in and we halted there. (I’m getting good at stopping before things get uncomfortable!)

I can’t describe what it’s like to have my cunt full of chain. Physically, there is a sense of heaviness or fullness that is both comforting and erotic. Intellectually, although I know that we are doing this as safely as possible, chain registers on my danger meter. There is some part of me wondering what the hell I’m doing. Isn’t it just plain wrong to put foreign objects in your cootchie? Emotionally, I take all of the raw sexual energy of those thoughts and transform it all into blindingly hot sex.

SensationsI don’t know how else to explain. I was nearly coming the whole time Harold was inserting chain. Once it was in, I used a vibrator on my clit and orgasmed right away. Harold slowly pulled the chain out (about 5 feet worth) as I came and the orgasm lasted the entire time and then some. Having chain in my cunt is the most fabulous thing ever. And it’s kinky (for the moment).

Apr 132013
 

I wait for you by the window, body lush and ready, flesh bathed in moonlight. I wait for you, aching, longing, naked and open to you. I wait for you my darling, tending the life we have built together, feeding the fire that is our love. I will wait by the window for your return, for my body and soul are yours.

Waiting by the window

 

Please click below to see what other sexy people are doing for Sinful Sunday!

Sinful Sunday

Apr 062013
 

Some of my favorite sex toys were never meant to be used in erotic ways. A journey through the hardware store always sparks my imagination: fiberglass reflectors for canes, giant zip-ties for bondage, lengths of chain to fill a vagina. Even a stop at the gas station can turn up a fly swatter for spanking or some cotton clothes line. I keep my eyes open for interesting possibilities – anything that might offer sensual delights.

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I use these antique silver sugar cube tongs for just the right amount of pinch on nipples. We found them at a flea market in Geneva a few years ago. I love how beautiful the tongs are as well as functional!

 

 Wanna see what other people are doing for Sinful Sunday?

Sinful Sunday

Jan 122013
 

We have a problem with beavers. (Yes, it’s a never ending source of jokes!) The beavers have caused some flooding on our property, so we had to buy a pair of hip waders to muck around in.

Now, I’ve occasionally been told that I could make anything look sexy, but hip waders are a challenge. That thick, olive drab neoprene just doesn’t lend itself to sexy. Fortunately, I like a challenge, so Blyss and I went out into the backyard so I could rock the hip waders in 26 degree weather, in the half frozen creek.

Do you think I got it?

Evoe in hip waders

Evoe in hip waders

victory in waders

 

Photos by Blyss Enns 2013

Sinful Sunday