It was so fucking worth it.
You see, I am pretty sure I know why I am sick. I kissed a whole lot of men this past weekend at MAL, I spent a lot of time in the cold smoking tent hanging with friends and kissing men, I went to a play party where I played my heart out and kissed men, and my roommate who I kissed also went out to kiss men. Did I mention I kissed a whole lot of men this weekend?
I really did. And then some. Getting sick? So worth it.
First and foremost, there is The Playmate. For a long time, I have been referring to The Playmate as my boyfriend. If there is anyone on this planet who fills a role that a boyfriend would, it is he. But using that specific terminology can be dangerous. The dating world is a fickle one, and when a hot guy is cruising another hot guy, but then hears the "B" word, the immediate thought is off-the-market. And The Playmate is very much on the market.
He is a market unto himself. ;-)
So, we found another term that suited us perfectly. Playmates - thus, The Playmate. We are very close friends, and have been play partners for many a year now. We spent time together at The Flea, and we roomed together at MAL. Probably one of the greatest joys of the weekend was the comfort we have together. We work really well together. We can go arm in arm through the lobby or vending, hang out together, and then in the next moment go do our own things, and then reconnect hours later as if no time had passed. Cuddling with The Playmate was wonderful at night. Especially Sunday night, after he had come home late from the dance.
"Hi honey, welcome back. What was his name, and how big was his cock?" I said breathlessly into my pillow.
When we admitted to each other that we had both been a little Jewish grandmother-esque worried about the other's late arrival, I laughed. (I had come home at 4 AM the previous night.) The fact that we worry about each other makes me feel comforted and safe.
Our scenes over the years have taken on a bit of a pattern. Flogging, singletail, hugs. Lately, we have become more hands on. At The Playmate's urging, I used my hands to kneed his already flogged and whipped back. Pulling at the skin, alternating slaps and punches with grabbing handfuls of skin and pulling roughly, my ministrations bring him to a point of catharsis. He told me how much he loved my hands. Inside a part of me melted.
Another man wrote on LJ a while back about a caning he took. It was a pure hellride - nothing but 6 of the best from the get-go. From what I understand, the screams were loud enough to garner unwanted attention. Understandably so, he was a little down on caning since that scene.
Caning is a very interesting animal in the gay male universe. You don't see it too often, and when you do, it tends to start at brutal and work its way up from there. Perhaps the elegant rattan stick is just too flimsy and weightless for the butch hand. I remember when I taught Caning 301 at GMSMA years ago, when I first started talking everyone looked at me like I was crazy for thinking that a small stick would actually hold interest to them. When I swung that cane down onto the massage table in a full English stroke, I suddenly got everyone's attention.
But, I come towards caning, and SM in general, from a different angle. For the most part, I get the most out of topping when my bottom is clearly enjoying what I am doing. When I saw how scared my friend was from his caning scene, I wanted to show him a different experience, and give him another impression of the cane.
My friend, his Master, and I went to the back corner of the club, away from the hard impact floggings near the front, but unfortunately near the speaker blasting horrendous music (really, really bad music selections). Plying my friend's trust with playful banter, I slowly warmed his delectable behind with my cane. I used gentle strokes, barely grazing his butt as I watched the tension slowly fade away from his back and shoulders. The entire scene was rhythmic caning - I must have gone 1/2 hour, maybe even more. Just a nice steady beat, with barely perceptible increases in intensity here and there. What was at first nervousness in my friend's response turned to slow breathing, turned to grins, turned to his body levitating off the medical bed as he arched his butt up to greet the cane even quicker. Soon his moans rang through the room, and when I stopped, he begged for more.
There were no marks visible, only redness. But the next day when I saw him, I was sure to hug while reaching around and grabbing that irresistible derrier. He was very sore to the touch - that caning would be one he would feel for days, and remember for a very long time. I'd say he'd consent to another one. Another convert was born.
To be continued.