Protected: Follow That Bus!
Protected: From Bitter to Worse
Protected: Good Things Come in Threes — A Group Sex Etiquette Primer
Protected: Got Kink?
Protected: Hell-Bent in Leather
Not that I think there’s folks out there with no sense of humour. But, hell, there’s folks out there with no sense of humour. So, to those of you who are irony-deficient — better stop reading now.
You’ve heard of murderers of queers getting off on a “homosexual panic” defence? Well…
Heterosexual Panic by Elaine Miller
“HETEROSEXUAL PANIC” DEFENSE
Elaine Miller, notorious Vancouver lesbian-about-town, hopes she’ll be out of jail soon. You see, she’s got a rock-solid defense lined up, which she says will get her absolved of all blame in the murder.
“My lawyer told me all about it.” she chirps happily. “It’s called the ‘Heterosexual Panic’ defense.”
Diligent reporting work brought up the following facts:
On the evening of January 5th, 2005, Miller was engaged in cheerful converse with fellow lesbians in a local and well-known “dyke bar” — that is, an alcohol-serving establishment catering primary to homosexual woman — when Peter Smith, a heterosexual gentleman posing as a queer man, offered to buy her a drink.
“I looked at him and thought, Oh, what a nice fag.” says Miller. ‘I told him ‘Sure, I drink cranberry juice.’”
Witnesses state that the muscular Smith talked his way into the group of women with Miller, who looked at his tight tank top, fashionable jeans, and short clipped mustache and accepted him as just another queer.
“Sure, he was a bit more coarse-mannered than your usual fag.” says Spike Butch, one of the lesbians who was in the group that night. “But I thought maybe he’d had a fight with his boyfriend or something.”
The crux of the entire evening came when Smith allegedly followed Miller to the bathrooms when she went to check her lipstick.
“He pushed me up against the wall.” shudders Miller, remembering. “He attempted to grope my breast through my flannel shirt, and then he said… he said… ‘Hey, Baby, wanna fuck?’”
According to witnesses, that’s when all hell broke loose in the ladies’ washroom. While Miller confesses she doesn’t remember much after Smith’s clumsy advances, many of the bar’s dyke regulars will never forget that night.
“God, it was messy.” says Shara River, a local softball player. “Elaine just started screaming and beating this guy with a toilet paper dispenser.”
“He had the toilet paper all wrapped around his throat. It was great. I mean, horrible. It was horrible.” says Spike Butch, who dates Miller regularly.
Other witness came forward about Miller’s attack on Smith, telling about Miller’s yelling over and over “I am not your fucking spritz-head girlfriend!” and “Straight man! Straight man!”, seeming in great anguish as she beat Smith with everything that came to hand, including a toilet plunger and a rapidly disintegrating urinal puck.
All in all, it took 35 minutes for Miller to beat Smith to death, there on the floor of the dyke bar.
“We tried to intervene.” said lesbian V. White “But it just was over too fast.”
So far, attempts to interview the prosecution have not brought fruit. Pardon the pun.
Stay tuned!
Protected: Hitting below the Bible Belt: Sadomasochism, Roleplay and God
These instructions are text-only. One of these days I’ll get around to taking pics.
Read everything before you actually start, so you know what decisions you’ll be making.
Materials You Need:
a few rolls of duct tape
a non-sticky bodysheath, like a tight cotton T
heavy-duty scissors or shears
something for boning material
a helper-human
a hole-punching tool
lacing material
optional but recommended: a lot of eyelets and an eyelet-pounding tool or setter.
First Step: Wrap yourself
Put the tshirt or tank, or bodysheath on over your naked self. Say goodbye to it, you’ll never see it whole again. Decide where your corset will go on your body, and mark it on the sheath.
Second Step: Boning
Cut the boning material to the correct length, and tape it to the sheath.
I used inch-wide strips of the vinyl stuff that goes along the bottom of a wall in an office building. Six strips seemed to work for me, running vertically. If my body, seen from a vantage point directly above my head, were a clock face, with my nose pointing to midnight, the strips would have been placed at 10, 2, 3, 4, 8 and 9.
Third Step: Wrapping
Here’s where your helper human will come in handy.
Take duct tape, and wrap it tight around your body. Snug, not pinching. Keep wrapping. You’ll need several layers to be firm enough. Break the tape and wrap in the other direction frequently, because one-way wrapping will make your assets shift in a wierd twisty way.
Make the last, top layer as smooth as you can, or heck, tape a design if you like. Make sure the upper and lower edges are even.
Fourth Step: Removal
Take your shears, and cut the corset, and the now integral sheath, off your body. Use a very straight line down either your spine, or straight down your front.
Fifth Step: Make it two sizes smaller
On both sides of the slice line where you cut the corset, trim away 1 inch (or 2 or more) of the duct tape material. If you wanna get fancy, you can take slightly more corset away near the waistline, so the finished, cinched corset is more pinchy in the waist area.
Sixth Step: Finish the Edges
Using more duct tape, finish the edges with a couple layers of tape folded over the top and bottom edges of the corset, and the longitudinal cut edges.
Seventh Step: Make the Lace Holes
Using a hole-punching thingy, punch holes down both sides of the longitudinal cut. Make sure both sides match exactly in hole placement, so you’ll end up with an even number of holes.
If you’re wanting the corset to last more than one or two wearings, hammer eyelets / grommets into the holes you made.
Eighth and Final Step
If your lacing material is long enough run laces though the holes in the corset, step into it, and tight it up tight.
If you only have just enough lacing material, you’ll need help lacing it up while it’s actually on your body.
Final Notes
Duct tape comes in some pretty fancy colours. Do experiment.
Hardcore corset lovers may wish to open the front *and* the back to lacing.
Try it for size before punching all those holes and placing all those eyelets.
Use a thicker kinda material for the sheath-thing. If you use really thin or lace-like material, the tape glue will seep through and getcha.
Really, I do not write poetry. [grin]Â Â But I’ve been known to write songs.
I Know You Are But What Am I, by Elaine Miller
I’m beginning to suspect it
I don’t know if it is true
But I’m surer every day now
and I don’t know what I’ll do
chorus1
My lover shows these signs, you see
I’ll detail them right here
I’m watching very closely
Because… I fear that she is queer
Not only, on our second date
she drove a UHaul van
I’ve listened to her music, she’s
a big Anne Murray fan.
chorus2
My lover shows these signs, you see
on each and every day
I’m watching very closely
I’m pretty sure she’s gay
She eats tofu, brown rice and sprouts
and drinks these.. herbal teas
She goes to poetry readings
where admission’s “sliding fee”
chorus3
My lover shows these signs, you see
I know I’ve seen their like
I’m watching very closely
I’m convinced that she’s a dyke
Her best friend’s name is Riot Grrl
they both wear boots of black
her favorite shirts are flannel
there’s leather on her back
chorus4
My lover shows these signs, you see
maybe I’ll ask her friends
I’m watching very closely
she’s positively .. lesbian
She speaks of women’s issues
as she bakes for a potluck
her friends all like to gossip
they know every time we …
There can’t be any doubt now.
I’m as sure as I can be
but… if my lover is a DYKE…
then WHAT does that make ME?)
Protected: Just Say No
Protected: Leather Bed Death
This piece was written specifically to be read aloud, circa 1994 (grin)
Left-Hand Keys by Elaine Miller
I wear my keys on the left.
Even though I am right handed, and the left side of my black leather belt is sometimes a more than a little awkward to reach, I wear my keys on the left.
There is a reason for this seeming idiosyncrasy. (I’m sure there is.) I am advertising my Topishness for those fluent in the language of leather-woman-key-placement. Simple. Just a signal to other women.
I wonder, though, why I feel; bound; by a convention I’ve never voted on, when I have spent so much time during so many years putting a real effort into ignoring convention, and disregarding rules of conduct.
I’ve been putting some thought into it. And asking myself some questions.
It can’t be a fear of social disgrace, can it? What if, by chance, I am found dangling on the wrong side of the buckle? Perhaps my Top Membership Card will be canceled, my floggers tied in knots, my boots un-polished and my spanking calluses gently exfoliated to softness. I’d be lying if I said I couldn’t imagine that–after all, I do read Science Fiction –what I have difficulty with is the believing.
And what about the theory that hanky and key codes are passé, old-hat, out-of-style? Now I’m flagging my age as well as my orientation; Maybe if I got respect for having reached the venerable age of 27 years, 13 of which, in as much leather as I could collect and wear, maybe then I’d consider that enough of a reason.
Am I trying to become a babe-magnet? Because I tell you truly that I have never, not once, had a woman face me, her keys a mirror image of my own, and say “Ooooh, I notice your keys hanging there, dangling coyly. I never would have dreamed, were it not for the keys; Please take me home and spank me, sir.”
Also, on the flip side, I have never had a top heave a sigh of relief, steered away at the last second by the sight of my awkwardly placed keys–although it’s true that the one time a top did approach me, she hadn’t seen my keys. She was a very nice woman who’d just seen me in a magazine, and had liked my; ah; bottom. See, the reason she couldn’t tell where I hung my keys is that I was, at the time of the photo, naked.
I’m sure there is some lesson to be learned, there.
Perhaps I am simply sensitive about being a top; insecure. Maybe I have developed a burning, almost adolescent need to prove myself because I have been told over and over by so many near-strangers that I couldn’t possibly be a top, not me, not friendly, smiling, laughing me. I just don’t seem; mean enough. Not a sadistic bone in my body.
Such a quiet girl;
Maybe I am following an intense desire to teach passers-by about the intricacies of SM as I know it. Perhaps I invite a question & answer period starting with “Why do you put your keys in such a stupid place on your belt?” and continuing on with all the theory behind the motives behind the wishes behind my actions, my politically pure sadism, my squeaky-clean need to control, my sanitized-for-your-protection desires. I have all the safesaneandconsensual reasoning right on the tip of my tongue, really, come closer and I’ll let you read what’s written there;
That one sounds good, actually. A fashion martyr to the cause of education and enlightenment. A selfless teacher of naive newcomers and curious acquaintances.;;
OK, maybe not.
I’m worried that I may actually be limiting myself. If my keys say I’m a top, do I have to act like a Top all the time? And what does a top act like? I tell you, I’ve seen all those subtitled German SM porn flicks and I don’t think I’d have any friends if I acted like that.
“You will eat your ice cream immediately! Do not allow it to drip. Enjoy it or I will make you pay dearly.”
I don’t think I’d have too many successful relationships that way. Although I might make a mint in the movies.
If I decided to be a “top” all the time, where would I keep my attitude when I pet my cat? And does it mean that I can’t ask for a hug? Or we can’t play friendly, silly games and make faces? Or that I always have to decide on the movie, know the answer, keep my dignity? I can’t keep swapping my keys from left to right just because I’m feeling easy-going. What if there was an emergency and I forgot where they were in the panic?
I don’t want that limitation on my behavior. I don’t want you to think, for instance, that because I wear my keys this way; that I don’t want to – love to – be fucked. Don’t think that I won’t spread my legs for you and let you fuck me ‘til my throat is hoarse from screaming and I can’t think to form the words to say “Stop, I don’t think I’ve been breathing for the last ten minutes.”
I don’t want you to assume that at all.
But some of the things you could assume from the sight of my keys dangling at my left hip just might be right. They are a hint about my personality, telling you that I may have the desire to ride you to places that I will only know through the taste of your sweat. That I might possibly want to feel your throat under my teeth, my fingernails in your flesh. Perhaps I love the sound of my cane tearing the air–and all the other sounds associated with it. And it just could be that no matter how much I like to get fucked, I love to fuck you even more–feel you move for me, hear you scream for me, smell your lust.
I guess sometimes assumptions can be good things. What else would you guess?
That when I give an order, I want it carried out – but when you say “Make me”; I like knowing I can. You can guess that you should be in my lap – but whether snuggled up and telling me a secret or draped over, counting spanks – that remains to be seen.
Where I wear my keys tells you that your pain makes my skin come alive, and your tears are a gift to me. Just like your cunt wrapped so fuckin’ tight around my wrist, your hot wet mouth on my dick, your willing surrender, your trust. You feed a strange part of my soul, you give me what I need.
Yeah. I think I’ve got it. Maybe it is important that you can guess some of these things about me before we strike up a conversation – what with looks being deceiving and all;
Perhaps women like me should come with warning labels. Hanging my keys on the left of my belt is the best I can do, for now.