poeticdesires

Category: London

  • Go See Killing Them Softly

    It’s official: Gray picks all the movies.

    Killing Them Softly was another aftercare flick, which we saw on the Sunday of the London Grue. After Grue-cakes, extra poi practice, and more leather fun. After hugs, and thank yous, and goodbyes. After the Grue was officially over, Gray, Hedwig, and I ventured back to Hedwig’s place for quiet time.

    As we all decompressed, Gray looked up what movie we would go see. Somehow he found Killing Them Softly.

    The best way to describe the movie is by comparing it to another. Killing Them Softly is like an American version of Guy Ritchie’s Lock, Stock, and Two Smoking Barrels, but so much darker.

    The showing wasn’t until late, around 9pm, so our trio first headed out to find dinner first. We walked to a restaurant near the theatre, only to find it was closed down. Internets fail. Instead we dined at a small Chinese restaurant a few blocks closer to the movie.

    After dinner, we then searched for the theatre, hoping the internets did not fail us twice. We found Shortwave tucked inside of a block composed of multiple tall apartment complexes the surrounded a large bricked area. The offbeat establishment was a combination cocktail bar/theatre. I liked the modern style and atmosphere of the place.

    The movie theatre itself was small, maybe seating fifty people. We picked seats in the middle and waited. Gray and I had a few chuckles while viewing the British commercials before the film began.

    And then it started.

    Going in, I didn’t know what to expect. I had heard the description I gave above (minus the darker tilt). I also knew the film starred Brad Pitt, Ray Liotta, and James Gandolfini. Those three names were enough to get me in my seat, but the film far surpassed any of my meager expectations.

    The basic premise is this: A small group of people conspire to rob an illegal cards game frequented by mobsters. Brad Pitt is called in to figure out who the thieves are and kill them. Ray Liotta plays the person who ran the game. James Gandolfini is another hitman.

    So many aspects of this movie impressed me.

    First, there is an interweaving of CNN/radio/news clips that not only sets the time of the movie but also stands as a great juxtaposition to the actions of the characters. Many poignant notes hit as I heard a radio clip being played right before someone was to get shaken down, or right before we met characters, or at the very end of the movie.

    Fuck, the end of the movie. I will not tell you who says what, because this is a movie I do not want to spoil. It was just so good. But I can give you the quote.

    A certain person is giving a speech that is broadcast live and being shown on a television in a bar. One of the characters cynically quips, “Watch, he’s about to say some shit about how America is a community.” There is a pause. Something to that effect is said. The character then replies, in just a cynical a fashion, “America isn’t a community; it’s a business. Now pay me.” The threatening undertone in his voice, the anger, frustration, and willingness to get what he wants right now sold this movie for me.

    Second, the cinematography in this flick is gorgeous. Absolutely gorgeous. One scene in particular which I loved features a drive by shooting. The actions in the sequence are slowed down and set to music (oh my god, the music*).

    As bullets fly, everything is just so beautiful. The bullets crashing through the glass or puncturing the doors of the vehicle. The holes appearing in the victim. His brains bursting from the back of his head. And then the victim’s car drifting forward and being crashed into by traffic. The cinematographer made this brutal graphic death scene look like a dance, a slow waltz with lovely partners gliding across the floor.

    Third, the acting. Each of the men cited in the description of this movie play their parts so well. It is my sincere hope that at least one, if not all three, are honored from their work.

    One of my favorite moments was the introduction of Brad Pitt. He pulls up, parks his car, and gets out. The camera starts low and then slowly pans up. The boots. The pressed pants. The leather jacket. The hair. This man, though he had a brutal job, was impeccable.

    And, throughout the movie, he was always honest, even when he lied. Brad Pitt’s character was by far my favorite. The movie is so named because of a line he says early in the action. He talks about the difficulty of killing a man. No one is the same when you are about to kill them. They beg. They cry. They yell for their mother. They wet themselves. He advises against any of the normal ways, of beating someone up, of teaching them a lesson first. He says you should kill them quickly, softly, one last gift before their death.

    This movie is my gift to you, my fair readers. Excellent acting. Excellent writing, with crisp dialogue and a story I loved. Cinematography that made me want to weep. And a soundtrack I will be buying.

    Go see Killing Them Softly.

    *Footnote: The music was so good, Gray was actually occasionally pissed when they changed scenes because he wanted the music to finish. I’d say that’s an excellent recommendation for the soundtrack as well.

  • Postcards

    “Why are you sending me a postcard?”
    “Because I can.”

    It was my last moments in London.

    That morning, my last morning in London, we’d fucked like it was the last time for a long time, because we both knew it would be the last time for a long time.

    But now, a few hours later, we sat at a tall table by the bar in The Hung, Drawn, and Quartered. He called our venturing to the restaurant his “giving his respects to his relative”. Apparently a distant relation had been executed here, back when it wasn’t serving butternut squash risotto or duck, cranberry, and port pie.

    We each sipped on our drinks and lounged. My legs dangled from the tall chair in a way reminiscent of my youth, though I was not as happy sitting in the restaurant as I had been when I was young. It was almost time to say goodbye.

    About ten minutes earlier we passed by a small shop that sold postcards. Near the beginning of my London adventure, I’d purchased postage for five cards, thinking I would send them off to family and friends. As my time progressed in London, the thought rarely came back up. Until then, during my last hours, when we walked by the small shop.

    He needed to go to an ATM, so I waited, sampling their small selection.

    Who would I send a card to? Who did I want to send a card to?

    I chose three: one for a parent, one for myself, and one for him. I paid the small fee and waited outside the shop for him to return.

    With a little time on my hands, I thought about what I wanted to write. Something fun came to mind for my parent. Thoughtful intents emerged for his card as well as mine.

    When he returned, we walked the short distance to the restaurant. After a few commemorative photos outside, notably his starfish under the sign, we walked in, found a cozy spot in a corner of the bar, and sat.

    As I sipped my cider, I pulled out my cards and started writing. My parent’s was easy and short.

    For my card, I thought about my trip, and the many amazing moments I’d had. I made a list, bullet points to jog my memory of my fun times in London.

    When it came to his card, I wanted to give him the same gift.

    “What’s your address again?”
    “Why are you sending me a postcard?”
    “Because I can.”

    I thought about the moments we’d had and the times I’d seen him enjoying his latest trip to London. Again I made a list, hoping it would spark his memories of his adventure and possibly, maybe, get him to smile.

    After we’d ordered our food, our friends arrived. They joined us, snuggling into our cozy corner.

    When I finished all my postcards, I realized a slight flaw in my plan. There was no time for me to go to a post office before I had to head to the airport. Gray offered to do it, but I didn’t want him to peek at his card, spoiling the surprise. Instead one of our friends offered to send them off for me.

    And then Gray promptly asked our friend to read it. He and his partner leaned over perusing what I’d written. They then, thankfully, advised him to wait.

    “See, I’m thoughtful and shit.”

    Soon after, it was time for me to go.

    Gray walked me to the station, about a few blocks away from the restaurant. We switched Oyster cards (mine had unlimited bus and Zone 1-3; his was empty). He filled my card with enough money to get me to the airport.

    We hugged just beyond the entrance turnstiles, standing there for a moment saying a silent goodbye.

    “Please try to stay safe and sane.”
    “Thank you for helping me with that while you were here.”

    We kissed one last time.

    Then I turned, swiped my card, and stepped through. He handed me one of my bags over the barricade and I was off. I didn’t dare turn back. I didn’t want to cry and I had a long journey to traverse before I’d be home.

  • Locked In

    We could’ve kept going pretty easily. I’d just completed Gray’s boots and still had his chaps and vest to work on. But it was getting late and Gray didn’t want to keep others up just so we could have fun.

    The two people who had watched our scene were also ready to go. As Gray and I cleaned up, our observers thanked us for letting them watch and walked out.

    I put my things back into my kit as Gray began taking off his leathers.

    And then the duo returned.

    The door from the Dungeon to the main floor was locked. They checked the other entry door. Locked as well. We were locked in.

    I laughed a little, the idea that we actually shut down the Dungoen. But just as soon as the funny thought came, the problem sunk in.

    Could we get out? Weren’t personal items left uptairs? Did they really forget about us?

    I started having a vision of us all camped out in the Dungeon. There was a bed and a couch. Theoretically we could’ve slept there fine. There was also a bathroom downstairs, so using the restroom would not have been an issue. And people would be back in the morning, but not until late. Probably ten or eleven.

    It turned out, though, that the answer to all my questions above was yes. Gray’s things were upstairs, not the best situation in the world but there was nothing we could immediately do about it.

    Since it was left behind, Gray borrowed Hedwig’s sweatshirt.

    It seemed we were indeed locked out of the bar, but thankfully there was an emergency exit door.

    My few things were with me. Gray was fairly shielded from the elements with the sweatshirt, and thankfully his pants were downstairs with us.

    Ready to go, knowing we could not get back in til the morning, we left. Our duo, thankfully, offered us a ride back to Hedwig’s.

    We crashed, having had a good time, mildly annoyed by the inconvience, but knowing we still had things to do in the morning.

  • Release

    I was nervous, terrified even. I was going to try this, going to let myself go to a place where I didn’t know how I would react.

    I talked about it with him first.

    “For our scene, could you do something for me? Could you take off my necklace?”

    With all of the emotions wrapped up in the simple piece of chainmail (my expectations for myself, my incessant need for freedom, to the point where I claim ownership of myself), I wanted to know what it would feel like to take it away.

    Put down the armour. Let go. Be free, exposed actually. To be adrift, but almost in a comforting way. To open myself up for possibility.

    So I asked, and he said yes.

    But, there were two conditions. His taking off of the necklace was only for the scene, only for the experience that night. Also, he would not put it back on me. I wholeheartedly agreed to both his terms.

    This was me sticking my toe into the water. This was me opening up to the possibility, to the idea, to the thought of power exchange. This was me letting go, letting the idea in, letting myself be open and vulnerable, naked, exposed like I had not been before.

    I trusted Gray. I knew this try, this action, was without commital, without the big scary idea of really delving into the power exchange pool. Just a toe in the water.

    I had been scared to ask him but did so anyway. When he said yes, a new fear sunk it. How would I feel? What would happen when my necklace was gone?

    We started our scene as we often do. I placed my bootblacking kit by the side of my mat. I stripped for him.

    Then he turned me around and had me kneal down. His fingers tickled the top of my neck.

    He had trouble initially finding where the metal unhooked. But then I felt the brush, the tell tale motion that he’d undone the necklace. It lightly fell away, sliding down my skin and off my body.

    My eyes watered. A wave of ease settled over me. I felt lighter. It was, of all things, a release. It was as if my necklace, the metal, had been weighing me down.

    I think it was the idea, the incessant need to be free, independent, to own myself because no one else would. The idea that I had to guard myself from the world, had to protect myself from being taken. Yet, instead, it was as if I was holding myself back, holding my feelings, my desires in.

    Gray handed my necklace back to me when the evening ended. It stayed in my pocket for the rest of my London trip and has stayed in my pocket, whether at work or home, ever since.

    I know eventually I will put it back on. Eventually I will want it back around my neck. Maybe during my next event (my last one for the year). Maybe one random day when I want the feel of the metal against my skin.

    My necklace symbolizes many aspects of myself, a large chunk of emotions, but also in encapsulates my persona as poeticdesires. Most asurredly it will end up on my skin again.

    But not right now. Right now, I feel light. I feel free. Right now I’m poetic, with or without the hardware.

  • Syncretic

    “You called me a good girl. I didn’t tell you that I liked that.”
    “I notice things.”

    He kept his voice low, almost a whisper.

    “Close your eyes.”

    I could feel his fingertips tracing along my face, lightly over my skin. Down my body, never quite touching, and then grazing my calves, and then digging in his fingernails into my thighs. I squealed.

    “Keep your jaw shut.”

    My noises became muted but never went away.

    He grabbed me and pulled me somewhere. He yanked at my jacket, exposing flesh. I heard the seam break. I didn’t care.

    “I’m going to hit you. When I do, you can breathe out and then breathe in. Only that. Only when I hit you.”

    His fist slammed into my chest. I stumbled, exhaled out, took a deep breath in, and then waited. His fingertips again traced lines across my face. My breath burned in my chest.

    He punched again. Breath out, breath in. Again. And again. Each time always making me wait. Each time always making me want the hit just so I could breathe.

    “You can breathe normally.”

    He nuzzled his head against mine. I returned the affection.

    “Good girl.”

    He grabbed my dress and lifted it above my breasts. He pinched nipples, pulling them, elevating them, and simply said, “Up. Up. Stand still. ” On my tippy toes, I tried to relieve some of the pain but I could not get high enough. With my eyes closed, I couldn’t even keep my balance. He let my nipples go.

    His arm across my chest, he was now behind me. Pushing my body against his arm, he exposed my back. He punched. And punched. And punched. I gripped onto his arm for support.

    He turned me, now facing him again. He slapped my face. He grabbed my throat. He squeezed, just a little.

    He pushed me, willing me onto a nearby bed. One strike. Another strike. It felt like flogger hits on my ass. Then he used his hands.

    “Since you can’t get away, a closed fist means go on. An open hand means stop. Show me. Do you want to go on.”

    I made a fist.

    He punched my ass. Up, down, alternating cheeks. He slapped my ass, hard. I screamed out.

    “That’s different.”

    He pulled me up from the bed, spun me around and around. I didn’t know where I was, what direction was where. I was bewildered, breathing heavy, trying to stay on my feet. The room felt enormous.

    He stopped my body, held me, and told me to open my eyes.

    “Done?”
    “Done.”

    He led me to the couch. We nuzzled, his arms around me.

  • Water Torture

    I was fried, hanging on by a thread. And then the thread was cut.

    We were out to dinner, a group of nine of us, sitting around a large table in a pub about a fifteen minute walk from the Flying Dutchman.

    We were all tired, the rush of the Grue slamming to a halt as the event had just ended about an hour ago.

    It was all I had in me to not curl up into a ball and start crying. Having experienced another Grue, I knew this was normal. The intense event followed by the sudden end caused me physical exhaustion and emotional havoc. I knew this was to be expected. I was just barely hanging on.

    We ordered drinks. I decided I needed a beer. Just one beer. My pint arrived and I took one sip. Then two other drinks arrived, one of them being Gray’s. Because he sat next to me, of course I was going to reach over and pass the drinks to him.

    And then my hand clipped my pint glass. And all of my beer, save my one sip, spilled onto the table and onto Gryphon. Gryphon, who sat on my other side. Gryphon, who offered to share his french fries with me. Gryphon, who had made me smile even though I was feeling like crap.

    As soon as the glass hit the table, we both jumped up. I grabbed it, but it was already too late. His pants and half his shirt were soaked.

    I had to get away. I quickly slipped from the booth and rushed to the bathroom. One of the two stalls was free. I got inside and started crying.

    I had been hanging on by a thread. And then the thread was cut.

    All the horrible thoughts came to me in a rush.

    You’re so clumsy. You’re so stupid. He won’t like you now. You’ve ruined dinner. They’ll all hate you now. Why did you even bother coming? No one wants you here.

    CherryBondage soon came into the restroom and knocked on my stall’s door. I let her in and she held me as I wept. Hugging me tight, she asked me what was wrong.

    “I was hanging on by a thread. And then that happened and I just couldn’t hold on any more. And the bad thoughts came and I know logically Gryphon doesn’t hate me and the table is probably laughing about this right now, but yeah. I just… I needed to cry.

    “I’ll be okay. I just needed to cry.”

    And then I was okay. I actually laughed, knowing this would be yet another inside joke directed my way.

    When I returned to the table, I apologized profusely to Gryphon. Gray gave me a big hug.

    And waiting for me was another pint. The bar had spotted me the loss.

    But now I found myself in a new dilemma: I feared picking up my beer.

    I feared touching it even. When I went to drink my beer, I used both hands to lift the pint. When the next round of drinks came, I held my arms in tight to my chest and sat back in my seat.

    To make matters worse (or hilarious, depending on how you saw it), Gray and Gryphon taunted me for the rest of our dinner with my new found fear.

    Asking one to refill my water glass (since he could more easily reach the pitcher), he filled my cup all the way to the top. I stood up and leaned over, sipping the top off just so I wouldn’t spill my water when I lifted it.

    Then the other, the next to refill my glass, held the pitcher high in the air as the water flowed out. I was visibly nervous that the liquid would spill all over the table. Of course it didn’t, but the boys enjoyed egging me all the same.

    Gryphon smelled of beer for the rest of the night; he didn’t have time to go home and change before the After Grue. I kept apologizing; he kept telling me it was okay.

    Eventually, I believed him.

    The night was not ruined. No one hated. I was okay again.

  • Orange

    The look on her face was almost serene. I had never seen her experience this, never seen this play before.

    Yes, I had heard about it. It was a scene she was known for, a class she had given before but never was I able to attend.

    As I sat so close to her, watching it all unfold, I felt a wave of appreciation flow over me. She shared this amazing experience with all of us, this place she did not always go to, a depth few are willing or able to achieve.

    I sat close to the front so I could see it all. Her face. The rope work. Her body’s reactions. The room grew quiet quickly, taking on an almost ritual-like feel as the scene unfolded.

    It started slowly, methodically. First, the chest harness, binding her arms back. Not comfortable; that was not the intention of the scene. A line secured to the box tie was thrown up and tied tight, lifting her frame up. She could only stand on her toes.

    Next, the meanest part: her crotch rope. Coconut rope. It was to be a gift from the scene. Tied tightly, going into the creases of her thighs, then through her vulva, knots both on her clit and in her cunt. Cinched so that there was no give.

    A line tied to the side of her crotch rope, looped above her head, back down to the other side of the crotch rope, back up and secured. There would be no ease. This was never meant to be easy.

    A cuff on her right ankle. The rope stretched out to the side. Her leg up in the air. Her body off balance, trying to hold on. Pushing herself further. How long would she last?

    A cuff around her left thigh. It was time. The line went up. She was lifted completely off the ground. She floated in the pain, the pain visible on her face, in her body, the twitching muscles, the breathing. Still, she endured.

    A vibrator placed on her pussy. Could the pleasure make the pain worse? (It did.)

    Her breathing changed. Her voice warbled. She called out as she came, the pleasure mixing with the pain. How much longer would she last?

    She asked for the vibrator to be taken away. (It was.)

    But then her thigh was lifted more. You could see it. It was almost time.

    And then it happened. She called it.

    They took her down slowly. They released her bonds. The crotch rope was the worst.

    She’d done it. She pushed herself, pushed her body and mind to a place we, the attendees of the class, were so very grateful to witness, a scene we were so very grateful to see.

  • Knuckle Sandwich

    Hmm, a punching class at the London Grue. Was I going to attend…?

    Knuckle Sandwich was presented by Gryphon, with his demo bottom Hedwig.

    Gryphon started his class session with some precautionary info: avoiding the neck and face (on a first date), targeting large muscle groups, and the proper way to throw a punch (curves, not corners). He brought along some accessories for his presentation, including boxing gloves and wrist wraps.

    With the talking portion over, he encouraged everyone to get up and have a go. I gravitated towards the wrist wraps.

    After a demonstration of how to apply the fabric, CherryBondage volunteered to be my punching bag. I liked the look and feel of the wrist wraps, especially since I have a physical job; fucking up my wrists could leave me unable to perform my work.

    With a little time on our hands, I learned the proper way to execute the three inch punch. [Tip: Use your body weight, not your arm strength.]

    “You hit hard.”
    “When I have a person to hit, yes… yes I do.”

    As pairs continued to pummel each other, I looked over and saw Gryphon was finishing up with one of his students. I thought this would be the perfect time for me to ask for what I wanted. (See; I’m learning.)

    Gryphon happily fulfilled my request.

    He struck my back, my ass. He jabbed, he hooked. My front, my side. I stumbled, I stood. Happily, I did not slam my face onto the stage when I dropped to the ground.

    Deep pain resonated throughout my body with each of his strikes. I cried out. I came back. I loved every moment of it.

    He struck my ass in a way I had not felt before, hitting down at the top of the shelf, the pain reverberating like a sine wave throughout my rump.

    He targeted under my arms, connecting with my ribs. I hadn’t felt that type of strike in quite some time, the bite of the hit chewing on my lungs. It was horribly fun. For his efforts, I currently carry a memento of our interaction: a lovely big red bruise.

    [For those who wish to dive into my Twitter feed or browse my Fet page, you can see a picture of my bruise, which also happens to include a rather nice view of my ass.]

    When Gryphon finished, we hugged. I thanked him and he thanked me.

    “You are fun to punch.”
    “You are fun to play with.”

  • TPE

    “However you do it is how you do it.”

    It was my question in the Fish Bowl.

    “How/What/Why/Would you commit to full power exchange?”

    The five bottoms all faced one another, speaking softly, speaking to only one another. No one was allowed to say anything to them. This was a time for the bottoms to speak.

    And then my question was asked.

    I’d picked a spot close to them so I could hear. I needed to hear them, needed to hear people who’d done this before talk about it. It was my question they spoke about. It was my question, my burning inquiry, that I was so relieved was actually asked.

    “It’s like living without chocolate.”

    Later, after the Fish Bowl, another class was added to the Grue schedule, a discussion just on Total Power Exchange, hosted by one of the bottoms from the Fish Bowl. I had to attend.

    Only a few people sat in, but they were the people who needed to be there.

    Two of the bottoms from the Fish Bowl sat next to each other, physically opening their bodies out towards me. One of the bottoms asked the rest of us who attended what our intentions for the discussion were. The other four people just wanted to listen. I needed to listen, but I also wanted to ask questions. For the most part, we pretended the three people sitting beside me, and the one who’s knee I leaned against, were not there.

    The two bottoms, though both in power exchange relationships, had varying experiences. One developed organically while the other set out for a TPE experience.

    At first I was nervous to ask them anything. I played with my pen, put my notebook aside, and just listened. Later, when my knee-rest left, and the bottoms had spoken more, I finally got up the courage to talk.

    Total Power Exchange scares me, and yet I find myself desiring such an interaction. The fiercely independent side of me keeps screaming, NO! You cannot want this! And yet (similar to how I can’t deny my dominant side, much as my brain would scream that down as well) I cannot deny my longing to submit in such a way, the desire under the deluge that I want to give, and possibly live, in such a manner.

    I left both the Fish Bowl and the TPE discussion with more information, which was more than I’d expected from the Grue.

    Total Power Exchange has been on my mind for quite some time, both as a fantasy and at the possibility of opening myself up in such a way.

    I’m glad I got to discuss it, and I know I need to keep discussing it going forward.

  • Poi Is Awesome

    Going into the London Grue, I knew there was one class I absolutely positively wanted to host: Poi Is Awesome; Let’s Practice.

    At first I wasn’t sure how it was going to go. I even had jitters about suggesting the class session at all. But a friend said they’d brought two pairs of poi, and their partner had another. With their assurance that they at least were interested, my mission was set. There would be poi practice at the London Grue.

    As luck would have it, we practiced during the first session, which turned out to be a great pick me up for the day.

    I plugged my iPhone into the sound system, turned on my current favorite song to practice to (Skrillex (feat. Sirah) – Weekends!!!), and we started.

    I was a novice. I’d created my practice poi out of two tennis balls and a pair of clearence tights from Target, total invesment $6.14. For less than a month I’d stood in my living room, watching myself in the mirror (a no-no; poi is about muscle memory), swinging my tennis balls about.

    I practiced front and side planes, worked on butterfly (two side planes close together), and had even gotten to a point where I could spin my butterfly in off time. A few times I experimented with trying to spin planes in front and behind me simlutaneously, as well as trying to move while spinning.

    Now, with the opportunity to practice with people far more experienced than myself, I knew I could only get better.

    When we started, just myself and my two friends practiced. Then one person who had experience fire spinning came over and showed me a trick or two.

    One in particular, which I have come to love, involves me spinning my poi alternately behind my head and in front of my face. When I first tried the trick, I was nervous. Since learning the trick, whenever I want to practice it, I remind myself I have to let go and let my poi fly. It’s exhilirating in an almost dangerous way.

    As people drifted in and out of the class, some knew nothing and I found myself teaching and encouraging people to at least try.

    At one point, Gryphon wondered into our area. He had experience flourtine flogging and took to poi quite easily. I, who still had not figured out how to do a basic weave, was impressed.

    Once, when we were having a particularly good and racous time, Gray yelled over to our group. Apparently we were a bit loud and were inadvertantly interrupting the nearby Rope 101 class.

    Opps. What could I say? Poi is awesome.