Happy to be back with my first podcast in quite some time. I think the result is well worth the wait. Time jumps listed below…
0:00 Over 18 disclaimer and intro music
0:50 Long time no podcast
1:40 Seattle Grue
3:00 RambleGrue
4:05 DO Surrender
5:00 Random back pedally moment
6:05 Brain Lingerie
9:30 Speak
“There is no safety from a sophisticated Top.” – Max
“Do you deep throat?”
“Yes.”
“Open your mouth; tilt your head back.”
I sat on the ground by his knee. Cigar smoke loomed in the air.
It was the first cigar social at Paradise, the only one I’d be able to attend. Keet and Clash each enjoyed their tobacco just across from me. Other folks milled about. I had my kit open and at the ready, just in case anyone needed assistance.
I’d already prepped Kilawama’s cigar. Already had a fun day chilling in the camp site. Meeting new people. Chatting, relaxing. Taking a nap in the hammock. Laying across the leather couch (yes, he brought a leather couch; the campsite was amazing).
As everyone created their temporary homes, I felt the need to do something. These kind people had been so gracious, Kilawama especially. While he was away on an errand, I cleaned up Kilawama’s tent, folding clothes and organizing his things. When he came back, he was quite thankful. It was then I believe he realized my service nature. The campsite put me to work and I felt at home.
That night, as I sat on the ground by his side, I felt like a part of the group. With his question asked, and my answer given, I obeyed his request and opened my mouth. I knew, though, that Kilawama was never so straight forward as he might seem.
With a flick of his wrist, he opened his knife. The blade loomed above my face. Like a painter applying his first stroke onto canvass, he eased his steel down. I trusted him, sunk into my fear, and accepted his knife into my throat. I gagged, but didn’t move my head. I maintained control of myself; I wanted to do this for him.
He pulled the knife out, impressed by my act.
As the cigar social meandered on, Kilawama found time to wrench my hair, beat on me, assault me with his toes, and open up my ass for boot stompings from Keet (a delightful treat). But it was the blade that made the greatest impression on me.
~
“I need your permission. Because it’s your tent and your Hitachi, even though you’re not there, I still need your permission to cum. I know my brain; it’s weird like that.”
Kilawama lent me his Hitachi for the event. After the cigar smoker, he roamed through Paradise greeting friends. I, however, went back to the tent for some alone time.
The air was chill, but my writhing and heavy breathing warmed the tent just fine. Paradise has quiet hours, so I had to hold back my screams as I finally came while in Seattle.
The following day, in the early afternoon, my horniness surged again. I again asked for and received Kilawama’s permission to use his Hitachi. I crept into the tent, no noise ordinace in effect.
Naked, writhing on my borrowed air mattress, I could hear voices chatting outside, but I didn’t care. I came. And came. And came, screaming as little or as much as I pleased.
“My blade down your throat.”
I laughed, then came again.
Later Kilawama told me someone in their group felt a little uncomfortable, saying it seemed like he was violating my consent by talking to me while I masturbated in private.
“It’s my tent and my Hitachi.”
“Oh.”
Yup. Oh.
The buzz of the house built as the perscribed time crept closer. Metkat stood at the stove cooking his famous meat. Clash prepped the coffee. Amy took care of french toast, hot chocolate, and busciuts.
Watching the bustle of the homemates around me, I felt the need to assist. Amy put me in charge of pretty. As things finished cooking/baking/brewing, I sat them out on the tables in a neat and logical order.
Our first arrival was Kilawama; he brought fruit. A lot of fruit: multiple melons and bunches of berries. They were washed off, placed in bowls, and I found a spot for each sweet treat amongst the spread.
Next was a friend with cookies. And then a few more people, a few more food items, and a few more names. Within an hour, the house swelled from four to a dozen, everyone hungry for food and company.
We ate Metkat’s meat. We drank Amy’s hot chocolate and Clash’s coffee. We sat and chatted. Eventually, the suggestion was made to transition out onto the back porch. Also the not-at-all-subtle hint was dropped by Amy that she wanted to watch me give cigar service. I ran up to my borrowed room, grabbed my kit, and scurried back to the group.
Out on the porch, we settled into chairs in an amorphic circle. I sat between Kilawama and Clash, with Keet, a late arrival, on Clash’s lap.
Now, with everyone newly assembled, there was the question of who. To whom would I provide cigar service? To be honest, I sat in between three people I found highly attractive. Luckily, one of them was chosen.
I stood up, took off my jacket, and laid it at Kilawama’s feet. Cigar kit in my hands, I knealt down and presented my selection of tobacco for his chosing.
As he looked through the few sticks I had, we made a fun discovery. NYRCherryBoundage had previously mistakenly purchased a cigar with the note Habe en Cuba on it. It turned out, she had not purchased one of those cigars, but two. This was the cigar Kilawama chose.
I prepped the stick using my Hot Ash cutter and presented the tobacco to him. As he smoked and I served, I introduced a few nuggets of information for his knowledge. I spoke about ashing into one’s hand or into another’s mouth. I suggested blowing smoke into my hair, one of my favorite activites in cigar play. He gave me the privelage of both eating ash out of his hand and feeling his smoke in my strands. People delighted in the display.
As conversation picked back up, Paradise was on everyone’s mind. Paradise is a local camping event held every year in Seattle as a fund raiser for the Center for Sex Positive Culture. Most of the people sitting on the porch were going to the event.
It was my plan to day pass on Tuesday and Wednesday. Seeing as I had no place to lay my head, I was going to drive out both days and come back to the city each night.
My plan was altered by two gracious gestures. Kilawama owned a rather large tent and an extra air mattress. He offered up his space for me to sleep. Keet planned to leave for the event on Tuesday morning; she offered me a ride to the camp grounds.
Amy, the person whose car I was going to borrow, had no problem with me borrowing her car less. She would pick me up for the airport for my flight home Wednesday night.
The plan was set. I was going to spend a day and a half in Paradise.
Daddy’s Baby Bitch
It was a small sketch, easy to just pass over, easy to miss. But, as I gazed upon it, blue ink on paper framed, just sitting on a wall, my eyes couldn’t look away.
She sat on the floor, her head in his lap; her hair cascaded down her back. It was as if she were holding onto him tight, finding comfort and protection with him there.
You don’t see him; only his legs and hand are featured. But you don’t need to. You see her, her devotion to her Daddy. It was a simple drawing, small and inconspicuous, but it was my favorite piece.
Bootlicker
Hot. Just so simple, and yet so hot.
Her eyes closed. Her tongue sticking out. Her hands holding up the boot she is licking. All of her attention, her focus on this one act, for this one person.
It reminded me of the times I licked boots, and did other things to leather. As I stood in the gallery, staring at the drawing, all I could do was sigh and rest in my immediate and sustained arousal.
Two Parts of a Threesome
They stare out at you, one with his eyes and the other with his presence. The two of them, both beautiful, staring at you. Through the lens, they pull you in. Through the photograph, they grab your eye, your attention, your desire.
You know who the missing part of the threesome is.
Burlesque Beauties
As I strolled around the gallery, I happened upon prints for sale. Most were out of my price range.
But then I saw a pack of post cards. The backgrounds were earth tones, a favorite color scheme of mine, and the small drawings were delightful. A dozen lovely ladies in various burlesque performance attire. From the subdued suits to the flashy feathers, each had its own personality and prowess.
I bought the pack, knowing I wouldn’t ever mail the cards. These images would be for my enjoyment, my own small pieces of art.
Gym Socks
Again, it was something so simple. Black drawing on a white background. Very little detail. More of an outline than a solid sketch. But the artist uses his sparse lines perfectly, indicating the curve of the body, the form, the nakedness. Naked, save for the socks.
Two pony tails fling out to the side and her body is twisted, indicating movement, as if she had just turn away in shyness or, more likely, in glee. It is simple, yet brilliant. As soon as I saw it, I thought Yup, that’s me.
~
As I walked around the gallery, taking in the art, I looked down once and saw boots. Doc Martens. The signature yellow lacing. They were immaculate leather, possibly worked on before the patron came out to the showing.
Their owner was on the other side of the art wall, behind the paintings, drawings, and photos I wandered past. I never saw who owned the boots, never saw the form above the knee. Just those pair of boots tempting me behind the wall, whispering for me to get on all fours and lick them.
~
There was art you could touch: a book with pages sown in, a block of ice melting with each new hand on it, a smooth stone with twisting folding forms. There were performances; the one I happened to catch was of a woman in geisha attire dancing with a fan. There were films playing on screens. The one I will never forget involved giving fellatio to a pistol.
The Seattle Erotic Arts Festival was much more than I expected. Photographs, paintings, sculptures, films, and live performance pieces spread out over a space for people to mingle and muse as they wished. I saw a few friends featured, which made me smile. I was captured in moments, captivated by work that I am still in awe of.
There are many reasons why I loved my time in Seattle. SEAF was the icing on the cake.
The music pounded. Lights danced through the air. I sat on the other side of the room and watched as people let their bodies move.
Metkat, one of Amy’s partners and one of her housemates, stood behind his laptop dictating the playlist for this part of the evening. MissAmyRed was one of the persons dancing. Occasionally Metkat set a song to play and himself joined the folks moving as their bodies wished.
I sat in a chair, nerves taking hold. Even though I knew that’s where I wanted to be, on that dance floor, even though I knew how good it would feel to let go, I felt tied to my seat.
I looked around the room, taking in the play.
As I gazed left, I glimpsed a suspension in progress. The rigger was an attractive man, tall and broad, strong. The bottom was a beautiful woman. I let my eyes drift between the bodies on the dance floor and the pair in their scene. Later I learned the rigger was Kilawama, one of the people Gray and Amy mentioned in our conversation in the Barn at Rope Camp.
With a bit of voyeurism under my belt, I relaxed somewhat. I stood up from my chair, let myself walk the corridor to the more lounge-like area before walking back towards the dancing.
As I strolled for a spell, I saw Clash. I’d met him earlier that day, too; he was Amy’s other housemate. For the week, I was staying in the house’s spare bedroom on the third floor, the same floor as Clash’s room. We attempted to chat over the din of the music before he had to go back to his rounds. That night he was acting as a monitor for the event.
Even though I’d grown more comfortable in the space, I had yet to do what I’d wanted to do all night. I took my spot in the chair again.
As I went back to watching, I saw Tandava and Amy setup for a scene. Also, to my right, I saw a hot fisting scene on a nearby couch.
I also got into a conversation with a guy who took the chair next to me. I forget what we talked about though, because of the song that played next.
I recognized the beat as it began, recognized the music and the voice.
“I’m sorry, but I know this song. I have to dance.”
I excused myself from the conversation, stood up, and walked towards the dance floor.
Still, I couldn’t step on it, not yet. There was a column just off the wood. I leaned against it, moving my head back and forth and swaying my hips.
She Wants Revenge blasted about me, their song Out Of Control, one of my favorites.
As the half way mark came in the song, I started mentally pushing myself. It’s just a few more feet. No one will notice. No one will judge you. No one will care. Do what you always do. Close your eyes. Let the music take you.
I took a step. And then another. And then another.
I let my hips sway, let my arms move. I found an open area on the dance floor and closed my eyes. I felt the music in my flesh, in my bones. I let my body do what it wanted. I let myself dance.
I stayed on the dance floor for a few more songs. I let myself be in this tiny world. Just the back of my lids, or my feet, or the lights filled my field of vision. I let my body do its thing. I let go.
I felt happy, truly happy, to be in Seattle. And I realized why they named this party Grind.
As I waited outside in the cool air, I knew only that Tandava drove an Insight, described as an odd looking car, and, through the convenience of FetLife, I’d seen a picture of him.
As I waited, I looked for an odd looking car. After about ten minutes, I saw it. I waved as Tandava saw me and parked.
For a split second, it dawned on me: I was about to be picked up by a person I had never met, driven away to a city I had never visited, and I was staying with people I barely knew.
Tandava got out of his vehicle, helped me put my things inside, and we were off.
~
All I wanted was hot chocolate.
The airplane had been cold, much colder than I expected. Thankfully I had dressed warmly, but that was out of mere practicality than an expectation of flying in what amounted to an icicle in the air.
Even through the leather of my boots (the most bulky item I brought) my feet froze. With one jacket on and the other draped over my legs (the jackets were my next two bulkiest items), my torso and legs remained moderately comfortable. But my feet were unhappy for the majority of my trip.
As Tandava drove, I voiced my request for my warm drink of choice. He found us a little cafe close to where MissAmyRed worked. I sipped my brew as we chatted and waited for her lunch break.
~
After savory crepes for lunch and fro-yo as a sweet treat, MissAmyRed had to go back to work.
Tandava and I had some hours to kill, so we decided to be touristy. He knew random trivia about Seattle, and I loved hearing all the tidbits of info.
First we went to a shop called Gargoyle’s Sanctuary, a hole-in-the-wall full of art and incense, sculptures and jewelry. It was a place one could easily spend hours exploring all the nooks and crannies. But there was much more to Seattle than one shop. We pulled ourselves away and moved on.
After dropping off my things at Amy’s house, we drove to the Freemont neighborhood.
~
It was a troll. An actual honest to god troll. Under a bridge. Holding, of all things, a punch buggy. That was when I knew I liked Seattle.
It was at least fifteen feet tall, but only the upper torso rose from the dirt. Adults and children alike climbed all over it, taking photos and laughing. A grin was etched on my face as I took in the sight.
A nearby plaque explained the sculpture was a project for the community, donated to the people living there.
After about ten minutes of whimsy, Tandava had me turn around. Instead of admiring the sculpture, I was now in awe of the architecture. The bridge above us, the bridge under which the troll lived, cascaded down a hill for hundreds of feet, art in its own right.
~
The air was cool, windy without being a bother. The sky was overcast but without being gloomy.
We stood on top of the hill, water far below us, kites flying about, and a gentleman operating a glider nearby. Sea planes took off and came in for landings. Duck boats and personal vessels skimmed across the water.
Across the bay I saw buildings and homes. Tandava pointed out the smoke stacks of a structure across from us. He explained how it now housed a medical facility, but in order for them to use the building they had to preserve its fascade, including the smoke stacks.
To my left was the remanants of an old gas plant, competely fenced in, over run with grass, a bit of graffiti high up on two seperate towers drawn by some brave taggers.
Behind me, inlaid into the ground, was a sun dial. Decorated with an astrological motif, it combined metal and stone and included a key as to how to read it according to the time of year. The piece, though only partially practical in a rainy city, was another bit of art for me to admire.
I looked around Gas Works Park. Saw people biking, kites in the air, families, a couple sitting in the grass together, and so many smiles.
Yeah, I liked Seattle from the start.
“I just came back from my trip to Seattle.”
My friend pat me on my back.
“Well, it was nice knowing you.”
“What do you mean?”
“Almost every single person I know who visited Seattle moved there.”
~
“I’m going to keep poking and prodding because you’re awesome and we want you here.” – Clash
~
@poeticdesires
– Maybe I should just stay here. #iWish
@Graydancer
– @poeticdesires toldjaso.
I doubted them. I seriously doubted them.
It was the night of the Roperlesque at Rope Camp. The festivities had ended. Everything was winding down.
I found myself in conversation with MissAmyRed and Gray about Seattle. Amy had previously mentioned having a spare room in her house in case I ever wanted to visit. But as I sat on the bench in the Barn, Amy and Gray began suggesting a little more insistently that I take the trip.
They talked about the Center for Sex Positive Culture. They spoke about how there is a party there every night of the week, different groups all converged in this one building.
They spouted names of people I should meet, how I needed to talk to them about leather or bootblacking or rope.
I happened to mention SEAF, the Seattle Erotica Arts Festival. It was being held the first weekend of August. As I weighed my options, stay or go, taking the leap or letting the moment pass, I just knew I was going to buy a plane ticket once I got home.
Amy and Gray spoke so highly of the city. Yet still I thought there was no way it would seduce me as it had them. Not that fast. Not in one trip.
One week. I landed last Thursday morning. I returned home this morning.
I spent seven days meeting people, going to parties, and experiencing the life and culture of a wonderful city.
All too often, I realized how much I loved being in Seattle. How much I loved the people I met, the community that welcomed me, and the moments, both big and small, that defined my trip to the northwest.
Not only did I quickly grow to love Seattle, the people around me seemed to quite quickly grow fond of me.
There was my new title, The Bane of Pants, so dubbed by Amy because I keep charming them off of people.
There was the Sunday brunch on Amy’s deck, where Clash first asked if I thought about moving to the city. My response: “I can’t answer that question.”
It had only been four days, yet I was already feeling the pull of the people around me, the pull of the community, the allure of the city.
The whole group chimed in. Half a dozen people who had just become a part of my life wanted me to stick around. They knew I had to go, but they didn’t want me to leave.
There were my last moments at Paradise, a local camping event. The goodbyes before my departure. And the gentle needling, the suggestions, and dare I say hopes, that I’ll make my way back to them.
As I sat in the airport, I didn’t want to go. I didn’t want to get on my plane with screaming babies and an aisle seat where almost everyone on the plane bumped into me. I didn’t want to deal with grumpy flight attendants and a sore neck. But, most of all, I didn’t want to acknowledge how sad I was that I had to travel away from what felt like a new home to me.
I don’t know what my life will be like next year. Or the year after that. Or the year after that. But I know Seattle is there, looming in the back of my mind, a mistress I cannot deny. Her fingers somehow wound their way around my heart. Only time will tell if her hold grows stronger or gently eases.