Wonderful picture, but I left for church pondering inspiration. That's when this started- I won't be sure of any labels until I'm done :D
“Revelation isn't sealed.”
Birth: “It's a girl!”
“Joseph Christopher won't work.”
1st grade: “Joelle is too pretty a name to shorten.”
Pregnancy: “I know I'm having a boy.”
July 4, age 15: “Mom, I'm questioning my gender.”
My age 40: “I'm non-binary, agender.”
What does it mean for me in partnered sexuality when most sexual orientations are focused on gender I don't feel?
I'm queer, that word that my tongue stumbled over when called on to identify myself.
Can I reclaim this wandering into hotness? Would it be as easy as jumping into talk about genitals? My mind cries for newness, something other than penis-in-vagina intercourse.
How was I, the Autistic introvert, talked into speed dating? At least, polyamorous people are welcome at this one.
“Hello, I'm Joey.”
The person stared at me open-mouthed, not introducing themselves.
“I'm not usually good at mixers, but I figured two minutes would help me control talking about my special interests. I'm Autistic.”
The bell rang; the person on the other side of the table changed.
“Hi. I'm Joey.”
“Joey?” the person echoed.
“Are you a lesbian?” Their nose wrinkled.
“Are you a bigot?” I replied.
“Of course not,” they protested.
“Your body language seems to disagree.”
Thankfully, the bell rang and people changed seats again.
“Hi, I'm Joey. My pronouns are he, she, or they.”
“Hi, Joey. I'm Pair. My pronouns are they, them. Might I ask, you appear flustered. Are you neurodivergent somehow?”
My shoulders relaxed. “Yes, I'm Autistic.”
Pair nodded. “Dyspraxia and Sensory Integration. Don't like that last word.”
“Would you like to skip out to a setting more comfortable for you?”
“Yes, please. I'd like that very much.”
Pair got up from the table and came around to me; the organizer rushed over, her cheeks flushed redder than her poorly-applied blush. “Joey and I are done here. No need to issue refunds.”
“But-but!” the organizer lady puffed.
“We're removing an equal number of folx from the gathering.” Pair walked to the place we piled our belongings; I followed just a step behind. They grabbed a denim bag covered in patches like They/Them and No TERFS/SWERFS and Queer. “Where would be somewhere you'd feel comfortable?”
“The library, but would you mind switching to writing so I can wear my headphones? They have those noisy lights that send me into sensory overload.”
“Me too.” They waited as I grabbed my bag. “You have your headphones with you?”
“Definitely. One partner said not to wear them and the other did.” I shrugged. “Not that I need to wear them with either of my partners.”
With borrowed netbooks in front of us, we sat side by side in one of the new booths at the library.
Pair typed, “This is much better. Mind I ask what's in your headphones? I'm listening to Holly Near.”
I typed, “I have the mixture of songs my daughter and I have placed on this MP3 player. Right now, it's Korn, Thoughtless.” I pursed my lips. “I just wrote about 'conversation as sex' for Masturbation Monday.”
“And that causes your current expression?”
Using my thumb and forefinger like a 'modified C hand' in ASL, I pulled the corners of my mouth up and down as my thoughts tried to catch up to their question. “I wanted something new, something different.”
“From what you've done? Or from what others are used to experiencing?”
I released my lips to just trace them with my index fingers, as if planning to sign “Talk-with.”
Without another comment from me, they typed, “This is our first time together; does that make it different from that other time?”
A small smile found its way onto my lips, changing their feel under my fingertips. I sipped from the new bottle that securely held my metal straw in place for me. Yum! Guava, mango, passion fruit juice! I placed my fingers back on the home row and typed. “I think my mind is clasping at minutiae. What I find sexy isn't necessarily what others do.”
“May I please touch your hand?”
I nodded before typing, “Yes.”
Their fingers moved under my palm as their thumb slid up and down the top of my hand.
As they continued to touch my right hand, I slowly typed with my left hand, “Good.” My toes curled in my shoes. When they released my hand, I typed, “Very good.” I sipped my juice and pondered our next date.
I'm writing this second to the vlog I just recorded; I had thoughts for both the vlog and the blog, but I didn't think to write either of them down. So let me gather in the spark or sparks that gave me the idea for this vlog/blog combo. One big inspiration is Happy from my “Typing My Love” story. Joy (that's Happy's pronoun, not another person or even Happy's nickname)- starting again after explanation :D Joy was lucky in my book to have more people in joys life that supported the use of written communication, even when they meant they had to read rather than listen before the technology became accessible. Even when people in my life have supported my use of AAC boards, text-to-speech technology, I've had a difficult time asserting my desires and needs; for instance, my daughter prefers to continue learning ASL rather than using my AAC board when we're shopping. However, since figuring out the sign for “Remove headphones,” she annoyingly uses that to speak rather than write on the board.
Now when I brought my AAC board to the SOGI group my therapist runs (pretty sure I mentioned this in an earlier #TT post about AAC), she was supportive of me using the board, but I didn't see my way to using it. Other than thinking that I'm not worthy of the accommodation, I'm not sure why.
So whether it's a blog post or a vlog on my YouTube channel, I'll make sure to tell everyone how the therapy session went using Balabolka as a text-to-speech device on my computer.
And here's the link for the vlog; hopefully it will be properly close captioned by the time this goes live. Captions and transcript will be provided as soon as I can get them up.
Because I'm a dork, I forgot I wrote this and wrote something for #Masturbationonday on 8/13/2018, meaning you'll get this experimental piece the week after it was meant for. But it's stlll good to fap to, right? :D
I go to Pornhub. I select “Categories- Gay Men- Fetish.”
I struggled into my chest binder; I should have said that already.
Clicking on mute. I just need to see.
A large ass as black as coal dances as if waiting for something; I click on that video.
Once the video loads enough, it becomes visible that a large black man is bound on a light blue hospital-style bed. His naked skin shimmers in the muted light.
I reach behind me to grab some of the coconut oil lube.
“That's a good boy. Going plug your asshole before rubbing your bound clitorophallus?”
The Queen's icy blue eyes appear on the screen of my mind.
From a simple doorway comes another large black man, his nipples appearing dark purple against his chest skin, a rosy mahogany. His lips move; the bound man's hips move in response. The lighter-skinned man brings his hand down on the bound man's ass; he stills his writhing.
I rub lube on the smaller butt plug and The Queen gently inserts it into me. My breath catches in my throat at the slight stretch in my asshole. Physically, in the moment, I relax my left arm down once the flange sits against my cheeks.
The man walks away from the table and pulls a rolling racks holding up a hot water bottle and tubing. He rubs where he'd just smacked that ass. He releases the rack and grabs a bottle of lubricant from a nearby table.
The Queen holds the lube container and I grab some more. My fingers speed between my legs.
He rubs the cheek he hadn't smacked for a moment before pulling the gorgeous cheeks apart. The camera pulls in close to show the detail of the lube dripping from the bottle onto the needy, waiting asshole. Then a finger wearing a pale green glove pressed on the asshole, pushing just in. More lube. The finger goes in deeper.
“Boy, boy, boy. My boy. My dirty little boy.”
“Or are you my girl tonight? Or maybe just a little gender-less being for me to fuck?”
I pant; I'm so close to coming. Enema. The Queen's teasing. “Boy,” I gasp.
In and out. More lube. The finger goes into the asshole all the way to base of the finger.
The hand disappears from the shot.
“Tomorrow night, how about I give you an enema? Bound or unbound?”
My toes curl at his suggestion.
“Or maybe Audrey could take care of her little love?”
The bound man writhes against the table as much as the straps allow. When part of the table starts to move, forcing his legs farther apart, his massive balls come into view.
My hips shoot up, lifting part of me off the bed.
Carrying a long, semi-stiff tube, the gloved hand returns to the shot. One hand presses on the bound man's back as the other works first the tip of the tube and then more.
“Yes, yes, yes!” I hiss, dropping the pretense that my masturbating is a secret in my household.
A moment later, slightly off-white liquid starts through the tube.
Watching the bound man move as the enema solution infiltrates his colon and rectum, the orgasm explodes in my clit and my feet curl against the comforter.
Some stand up comedian said that women watch porn movies to the end to see if they get married. Not this agender, AFAB person; I watch them until I come.
I hope that "Laura Learns" will have a release date soon; it's back from the beta reader and I'll be giving this coming week to work with those comments and then turn it into Baronet Press. I hope you enjoy this lightly edited snippet.
"I want kids' music!"
"That's it!" Jack thundered. He turned off the radio. "Five licks of my belt, bedtime ritual, and bedtime."
"Please, Daddy, I'm sorry." She felt the tears welling up in her eyes as she lifted her head off the little pillow.
"If you sit quietly and close your eyes until we're home, I won't add to your punishment."
"Yes, Daddy," Laura whimpered. Her eyelids slammed shut and she settled into cuddling her pillow.
"That's Daddy's good girl," he murmured.
Would this blurb encourage you to read this book? :)
Laura's challenge for Jack and herself continues into ageplay. For a wonderful week, they enjoy a variety of roles and play that falls under ageplay, including Jack finding himself experiencing a long held fantasy. Little girl, strict Daddy, rowdy boy, stern schoolmarm- they try it all and more. They find that their ages won't stop them from making new friends and learning new things.
Their relationship including and beyond their BDSM play continues to grow, leading Jack to buy a ring. How does Laura respond to Jack's proposal?
If you haven't gotten to "Laura Challenges" yet, please enjoy the blurb and then buy it here:
When Laura goes out one night, she doesn't expect to meet a handsome eligible man. She definitely doesn't expect him to be interested in her or to ask her out on a date. Laura hits it off with Jack right from the beginning and there's an easy connection between them. But an experience on their remarkable first date pushes her to wonder if she can have something more with Jack.
Would he be a compatible partner in meeting her sexual desires? Laura decides she wants to push her own boundaries and explore the world of BDSM. Can Jack still be the man for her? She'll find out if he's up to take her challenge.
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It feels so weird to be writing from the inspiration picture, although it was only last month that I pre-wrote. So I was excited to look at the picture Kayla had picked; Amy Norton shared a wondrous picture with us. Oh, the stripe-y socks; did I just create a spelling? :D Looking at them, I could imagine myself looking at the display of fun socks at Spencer's or hearing my Master exclaim with dismay over whichever pair of knee socks I'm wearing on any given day. Of course, there was also looking at the finger-cuffs and sadly remembering the wedge platform shoes I used to have with similar cuffs on them, but the straps kept breaking. I'm not sure what will happen now with the inspiration picture...
I looked down the black and white stripes of my knee socks. Well, on a full grown person they'd be knee socks, but they're a few inches above my knees of course because I'm just barely not a little person. My gaze continued beyond my toes to Audrey, who seemed to considering me considering myself.
"Hey, lover. I found interesting- your pondering the other day about relationship words, the reduction of importance of anything not cishet-mono by the choice of things like 'lover', and how you still want to reclaim the word."
"It's been too long since you've talked much in my mind. Your sentences are looking too much like mine rather than your own."
"And how do you know what my sentences look like? Or all my sentences, I should say? We aren't monogamous."
I closed my eyes even as I nodded in recognition of her words and my continued thoughts about voices, perspective, societal judgments about rationality. "Radical politics can and should be sexy."
"Because sexy comes in so many forms," Audrey replied. Her voice washed over me. "So my voice? Do you protest my voice, definitions of things like schizophrenia, and a writer's mind?"
"Maybe. Like why are writers seemingly one of the few types of people whose listening to the voices in their head isn't straight out judged as a mental illness." I shuddered at m ableist word choice. "Isn't directly judged." No no no... no "Rick and Morty" phrases slipping into this.
"My voice." She lifted her hand to sign TALK.
"Talk, talk, talk." I breathed in deep. "Are you learning sign too now? What of your voice in sign? People signing, especially native Deaf and children of Deaf adults, have a voice. Non-verbal people using Augmentative and alternative communication forms have a voice. I'd say that I possibly have or could have three different voices: the one I use when writing, the one I use when speaking, the one (largely in my head) when I'm signing. I'm excited to think of how that third voice will develop as I learn more ASL."
"I would suggest that you have a fourth voice, that of touch. And I find it your sweetest voice because there are few people who get to enjoy it. Of course I don't just mean physical touch as I have no flesh-and-blood body for you to touch, but when we make love and you touch the essence of me."
I need to stop editing in the middle of sex, of lovemaking. "The flow is slipping from my grasp, lover."
"You only think it is. Stop worry about dialogue tags and concentrate on the flow of politics and sexuality."
"Impostor Syndrome is a thing. Remember when you challenged me to look at visibly older Black people?"
"Yes and you engaged in my challenge decently for a white girl who grew up middle class and now is part of the working poor, who continues to work at unpacking your whiteness with few physical examples around you. Thank goodness for the Internet, huh?" She kissed my forehead. "Turn up the brightness on your computer so you don't have to pause Write or Die." She kissed my cheek. "I know, baby, it doesn't feel great, but you have those new contacts in and they only block UV light, but they seem to help a bit with artificial light sensitivity too." She laid down on her side facing me.
I turned and pressed my face between her breasts. "Is it really possible to discuss politics, philosophy, and more with my face between your breasts?"
Her rich laughter stroked my skin. "With you, most anything is possible. Of course, any signing either us know isn't possible at this closeness."
"But we can talk in each others' heads?"
"That we can do." She hugged me. "So where the socks just a lure to get this conversation out of me?"
"Not a lure, specifically, my love, but admit that I couldn't have this conversation in such a position with Shaman."
"Yes right, but you slowly manage to help him learn, no matter how much his systemic privileges slow the learning. So consider lookisms now. Do you picture me as an Iman-type model, acceptable despite my Blackness because of the ways my body matches what white supremacy says is attractive? I notice you keep seeing me with natural hair styles."
"I hope you feel comfortable in them and that I enjoy them because they are an unrestrained expression of yourself." Conversation as sex. I come.
Thanks to planning and writing in June, I wound up with the first Monday in August written; next week I'll be looking at Kayla's inspiration pictures again. *I'm hoping before this post goes live that I've already won Camp Nano in July.*
I haven't spent enough time with my virtual family before pre-writing for July and so another one happened with "Vala's Story" people- this time, The Queen and Vala.
“Joelle, you were right! A tricycle like yours but sized for me is divine.” The Queen caressed the polished chrome of the handle bars.
“I'm glad you enjoy it, but are you going to keep talking to me, ignoring your ride and Vala in the basket?” I laughed.
“Fine. Thou can finish your ride and I shall enjoy mine.”
I snorted. Thou.
“This should be a good workout, my Queen.” Vala giggled.
The Queen reached back to pat Vala's floppy sun hat. “Are you saying you are too heavy?”
“Never, my Queen. My thinking about my weight isn't that disordered. Remember, Amy considers me largely recovered from my anorexia?”
“Of course.” The Queen leaned forward to take a sip from his water bottle. “If you need a drink, let me know. I'm planning to take regular breaks when the road shifts from paved to gravel.”
“Yes, my Queen.”
He turned his focus to peddling and the road before them. Getting up to a good speed on paved road was nothing, but he worried that his physicality had fallen some since retirement, even if that was only from business. He took a quick look over his shoulder at Vala; her sundress, its powder blue silk sliding against her skin, sparkled in the sunlight. Why would I think I'm less physically active with my loves? I lifted Vala and placed her in the basket. No cars traveled down the road as he turned right at the first intersection.
“May we please stop at the frozen custard place, my Queen?” Vala suddenly begged.
“Sure.” He shoved extra force into his legs as they started over a patch of gravel road. His fingers curled tightly around the black leather handle grips. The pressure of the bike seat against his balls pushed him to greater speed even as the gravel made it more difficult. Words came to his lips, but he held them inside.
After adjusting the blanket underneath her, she quickly stilled again as they were still on the gravel road.
Such a good girl. Maybe after this, she can lead me in that special yoga breathing that she learned at the school Simon enjoys. The strength in his thighs pulled his attention to that part of his body. He pulled air into his lungs until a slight burn stroked him; he released it as they headed down a sloping road. He pondered. How alike climbing a hill and climbing toward orgasm are alike.
Light, billowy clouds traveled in front of the sun; the coolness seemed like Vala wiping his face with a cool rag after they'd made love.
They reached a valley of road, small ranch houses on either side. Birds chirped through the rural wilderness.
A groan vibrated his lips although he swallowed the sound. He breathed in until he smelled her jasmine-based perfume. The trembling of release passed through his body while he struggled to turn onto another street. Soon he was climbing another hill, although this time, it was on a paved street. The release intensified when he reached the summit of the road and he gently worked the handbrakes to prevent the bike from going out of his control.
“Yay! Frozen custard!” She clapped her hands.
Near the base of that hilly road, he turned into the stand's parking lot. That was an experience.
The Queen hunched over the handle bars, Vala leaned forward and wrapped her arms around his chest. She pressed her face into his hair, against his neck. “That was beautiful. Thanks, my Queen.”
When I got to this prompt, I struggled to decide if The Queen was before or after a plot twist in the Vala's Story series. So I decided to do "before" and after." Here's "after," but if you'd like, refresh yourself with "before" first.
The canopy of trees brushed against windows of The Queen's brilliant red sports car as he pulled into a secluded spot in the forest.
“So nice to still have nooks like these, in a developed forest.” The Queen leaned his head back against the seat rest. He turned off the engine, although he left the battery going so his mix CD would play. “Mix CD, like I am a teenager, but I was never a normal teenager.”
Light flakes of snow started to fall through the dusky sky; they made a pretty dusting over his car's windows and the leaves of the evergreens around him and his car.
He ran his hand through the scruff that was slowly becoming a beard; his subs, slaves, Audrey and his sibling subs all loved it. “Even with all my loves though, I need to be able to make myself come. Right?”
Audrey laughed in his head. “You're just enjoying that I don't have you under rules about your orgasms right now, boy.”
Grinning, he shook his head. Somehow, coming out as a BDSM switch still confused him. “Wasn't I done coming out as a teen?”
Memories of Audrey clicked her tongue.
With light fingers, he traced the pendent that hung from his collar and then down onto his chest. The zap of pleasure was so intense that he had a thought of his steel-toe boots curling up like fancy slippers. “Yes, my Lady. No contractions, my Lady,” he groaned.
Gaze fixed on the falling snow, his attention traveled downward to his cock and he saw the maddening echoes of Lady Audrey's fingers moving over his skin as she readied his cock to take her urethral sound. The sensation was beyond classification of pain or pleasure, especially when she chose the sound held within its case of metal shaped as the Gates of Hell.
His chest pounded as his arousal climbed. A vibrant blue-colored bird played on a tree branch inches from his side window.
The orgasm blossomed within his body, although he didn't ejaculate. “My, my--“ His words jammed in his throat and gravity seemed to tilt as his breath came in tiny snorts.
“That's it. Feel better, my Queen,” Simon-in-his-head murmured.
He pressed back against the luxurious seat. “Gender set, not like Joelle.” His fingers traced over his nipples through his tank top. “Unh!” He shuddered, orgasming again, without ejaculating.
Lady Audrey: Come to my house for your dinner, boy. I've already called Simon to let him know I've ordered you. See you soon, my darling little boy.
“Yes, my Lady.” Shaken lose by his pleasure, he moved the stick shift through its spots to reverse. “Maybe I can earn an ejaculation tonight.”
While I wrote a 2-paragraph post that went up yesterday, I wanted to simply some of the images into a 6-line poem.
Child alive- her existence confirmed with new name and pronouns
Must we go to the city to feel comfortable and alive?
I conjured few dreams because those are for her
Happiness, queerness, community
Transgender and agender- we're together again.
Can't be the only reason I don't grieve.
Enjoy the other great Rainbow Snippets sharings here- both fiction snippets and book recommendations.
I question- is the narrative of (especially) parents grieving a transitioning child problematic in general or just for me because that story doesn't at all resonate for me? I'm not sure if it's because I'm on the Autism Spectrum or because I'm agender and I needed my child to start me putting my own gender questioning into words- or any other number of things. I read things after my daughter told me that her assigned gender had been wrong that talked about gay and lesbian parents worrying about transgender children because of assumptions. I guess, I'm already so far from the mainstream that it never occurred to me to worry that my sexuality would be used as a reason why my child is transgender.
When I hear/read other parents speaking of mourning the lose of the child they thought they had, I have to keep my eye rolling to a minimum, keep my opinions to myself; I don't think most parents with newly out children are ready for the radical gender exploration in my head. First off, I don't think that grieving should ever be put on transgender/gender non-conforming people. Secondly, my child didn't die when she came out as transgender. I believe that my child is a whole person who doesn't exist to live out my dreams; at a PFLAG table when she came out, I said, “My only dream for my child is that she moves to an urban area where she's comfortable, and where I'm comfortable to visit.” I have no need to grieve the wonderful, intelligent, beautiful daughter who often sits next to me at SOGI (sexual orientation and gender identity) support meetings.
“Touch is a solid theme”- the words of a dear friend when I was trying to come up with posts for July- well, possibly into August as I'd like to work on submitting at least two manuscripts to publishers in August once Camp Nano July is done. I saved her suggestion because, at first, I wasn't really sure what to do with it. However, as I was reading “Too Loud, Too Bright, Too Fast, Too Tight” by Sharon Heller, I realized that I indeed have tactile challenges that I didn't realize. Dr. Heller talks in that book about how tactile is one of the earliest scenes; I was six years old when I didn't want my mother to touch me ever. In my opinion, the book does a great job talking about tactile difficulties as not just being “clothing tags make me itch”; if we went by the stereotypes of “sensitive people,” I wouldn't fit them because I'm underreactive to much tactile sensation. I wonder if that's part of why I've made such shiny spots on my keyboard's keys :D. I also wonder if improving tactile sense is part of why I don't need BDSM impact activities to be as harsh as I used to want them.
“Here's the box from the therapy company.” Ziba placed a small brown box on the kitchen table between Happy's and her mats. After joys nod, she continued, “Would you like to open it?”
Happy passed the letter opener to Ziba.
Quick work with the opener and Ziba had the box open. Not too loud. “It's your brushes.”
Happy typed on joys tablet and pushed a button. “Can we try them now please?”
While I'm not working on this WIP currently, when my friend made her suggestion, I immediately thought of “Typing My Love.” Happy (the character who's on the Autism Spectrum in that book) doesn't get diagnosed on the spectrum until adulthood- this also joy (Happy's pronouns are joy/joys/joyself) to avoid things like Applied Behavioral Analysis. Another friend responded to my post about EMDR and skin brushing by mentioning how skin brushing had been awful for them because it was done to them as a child; we talked about the differences between their childhood experience and me choosing skin brushing as an adult. I'm not sure if the little bit of fiction between the paragraphs will be fit into TML, but it's definitely a scene percolating in my brain.
Overreactive to tactile. That one has been a track in my head. Even though I feel comfortable saying that I'm on the Autism Spectrum without a formal diagnosis, I definitely struggle with stereotypes about not liking hugs, kissing, sexual activity, etc. Then I realize that my behaviors with that are rather complex and do include a bunch of avoidance. I want to be hugged more, but not by strangers; I'm good with my Master, my girlfriend, my daughter hugging me, the occasional person at church who doesn't put me off too much. But when others with Sensory Processing Disorder and/or on the Autism Spectrum talk about not wanting anyone to touch them at all? I struggle with that; I'm not sure why, with my former comments. Just because *some* people are okay doesn't mean I'm at all average on this. While it doesn't fit Happy very well either- the idea of overreactive to tactile- I'm pondering when an intimate scene between one or more people with overreactive tactile sense might look like. Of course, that sends my mind to a #MasturbationMonday post in which I showed intimacy between an allosexual and an asexual persons.
What to do when an idea is so far from your knowledge that stereotypes are what come to mind? I don't have any characters already created, breathed into life that hate all touch, even most touch- even Didier, asexual but not sex-repulsed, wants cuddles. I'm glad for my reading that explained how touch is more than just people or things touching one's skin, but also the air, the temperature etc.
I want to ask my readers a specific question now, but words fail me as I write this the evening before seeing my med manager (who I don't entirely trust). What are your thoughts about someone being over- or underreactive to touch?