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Vamp and Revamp

July 2, 2010 in Uncategorized by Ckazaal | No comments

The vampire has been a popular myth for over a millennia, but it’s only in the last two centuries that we’ve begun to characterize them as something other than monsters. Vampire lust has become quite the acceptable fetish over the years, and though I’ve caught the bug from time to time (can we say Eric Northman?) as the fashion has come and gone and come again, I still have a hard time understanding it.

I mean, it’s almost necrophilia, right? I know, I know, bloodsuckers are “undead,” but so often they’re described as having skin as cold as the grave and utterly untouched by the sun (but as far as I’m concerned, NOT glittery.  Capiche?) They are walking corpses. Why do we find that so appealing?

Image via The Money Shot Blog

Is it just the nature of their predatory attack? The classic scenario requires the vampire to obtain the trust of his intended so that she will bear her vulnerable throat to him. The erotic nature of that goes without saying. You don’t even have to have sex with the vampire to exchange bodily fluids. I mean, I suppose if Frankenstein’s monster had killed it’s victims by running a hand along the inner thigh, we might see a lot more sexy neckbolts and forehead stitching at Halloween.

But the vampire’s attraction is more than just the flirtation with erotic death. It’s what the vampire represents: life beyond death. It’s the possibility that the vampire’s kiss will bring one eternal youth and beauty. At least, that was my fantasy as a sixteen year-old with way too much eyeliner and a secret hunch that maybe, just maybe, Lestat was out there and he had chosen me.

But you know what? Suddenly I don’t really want to dwell on what makes vampires erotic because it’s obvious if you don’t think about the necrophilia angle too much. And quite frankly, vampires have been done to death, no pun intended.

Okay, okay, you know me too well. The pun was so totally intended.

I really started writing this post because I wanted that there title up there. I gave my hair a new color last week and resumed my workout regime. I’ve rearranged my computer desktop and I’m considering reordering my kitchen. That bug that gets into my brain from time to time again demands some change.

And so I’ve decided to fiddle with my blog a bit. As you may have noticed, I’ve discovered these fancy things called “images” you can actually embed into the text. No more must you exercise your imagination to picture what I have written! Ah, progress. Also: new header! Whatcha think?

I’m also going to attempt to provide more content here. No promises, but I have a few ideas I’d like to try out. And finally, Sebek has promised he’d help me play with some widgets, and sadly did not intend it as innuendo. Ha! Now you have to do it, slacker. Otherwise everyone will know.

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Big

June 25, 2010 in Uncategorized by Ckazaal | No comments

A year or so back, a group of visiting executive trainees came through my workplace. Among them was a beautiful woman that stood at least six foot five, towering more than a foot over me. Upon seeing her I was unable to keep from outing myself to a coworker as a sex freak by saying, “She makes me want to put her in heels and climb her.”

I’ve been thinking a lot about giantesses, the fifty-foot variety, what they call true giantesses, since writing last week’s post. That one clip I linked to keeps running through my mind. (Here it is again.) I was fascinated by it and I think I can almost understand not only macrophila but the even more esoteric fetish of vorarephilia.

It seems most macrophiles are men. The object of the fetish is generally the giantess, not the giant. In his article “Urge: A Giant Fetish,” Jon Bowen says,

In the wired world of macrophilia you find precious few females. For some reason, women don’t swoon over King Kong-size men, and their aversion may be more than a simple matter of taste. “We live in a patriarchal culture,” Friedman says. “Women already see men as larger and more powerful. They don’t need to fantasize it.”

So giants don’t do it for most, and while I like my men tall, I’d have to agree. I really don’t know what I’d do with a seven foot cock. But surely there are women who harbor a secret passion for other women of statuesque proportions. I’m not quite ready to lay claim to the fetish, but a fantasy or two wouldn’t hurt, right?

I can imagine scaling the silky mounds of her massive breasts and nuzzling between the folds of her labia…

It’s the vore that keeps coming back to mind, though. It’s the great, soft lips and tongue, the sucking embrace of the throat, the oblivion of absorption into another living being. It has its appeal when I’m feeling especially morbid.

But I kind of get off on the other side too. I’d like a tiny man or woman to play with, to smother between my tits, to swallow whole.

Jenkies. I sound a bit like a serial killer, don’t I? My apologies, it must be this crazy cough syrup I’m on right now for The Cold That Won’t Go Away. I don’t have dead bodies in my freezer. Honest.

René Magritte, “The Giantess”, 1929/30

Oh! Looky! A picture! For the text by Baudelaire and several nice translations, follow this link.

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Fantasy

June 18, 2010 in Uncategorized by Ckazaal | No comments

Would you like to see me naked?

Metaphorically, of course. Let’s dig into the marrow. Forget all that doggerel I wrote about religion and sexual orientation and gender identity. This is real soul-baring shit I’m about to give you, things that I’ve only hinted at before. Are you ready? Hold onto your cocks…

Hi, my name is Ckazaal, and I’m a gamer.

Phew. It feels good to get that out in the open, because it goes beyond the occasional board game parties I host, where I generally dominate and crush my opponents like the pathetic little ball sacks they are. Board game night is a battlefield of shit talk and ego destruction, and in the end only one person stands tall atop the smashed hopes and dreams of the losers. I AM UBER GEEK!

Ahem.

But board games have little to do with sex, if anything. Sure, the jeers and taunts tend to drift towards the subject’s sexual inadequacies, but that’s just what you get when you put a large group of (mostly) heterosexual men in a room – a lot of chest thumping. And I thump right along with them. I engage in their rituals. I try to blend. I’ve always been hyper-aware that most of my friends are men, like this makes me some kind of a freak. Except recently I watched a movie and realized that it was the second one in a row that I’ve seen that features a group of people sitting around playing Dungeons & Dragons. In both movies, the group consisted of a bunch of guys and one weird, geeky girl. And I thought, aww, I’m a cliché… (“An archetype,” Sebek said. I’m not really sure the Nerd Queen qualifies as such, but whatever.)

But what I really wanted to write about is the part of my fantasy life I get to strut out in front of my friends on a weekly basis. I am currently playing in four, count ‘em FOUR, different epic campaigns in which I play five different characters. One might think I’m trying to escape from myself, and that may be somewhat true. I mean, who doesn’t need the occasional escape, and what else is a fantasy life for? But I also believe that the characters I’ve created are a reflection of myself, or maybe just a shattered piece of that reflection. I enjoy exploring those parts of myself.

In the game run by my friend Mordechai (of MILF-hater fame), I play Madame Masque, a shape shifting prostitute who can sense both your most fearsome nightmare and your most transcendent desire. I know.  That’s hard to reconcile with what you know of me, right?

In my husband’s game I play Bronwyn, the Nordic giantess, champion of the underdog, whose tatas rival mountains. I also play Tarn, a wickedly evil witch (think Samara from The Ring, only more goth) and yet another shifter. Gee, do you think I maybe have some issues with my body?

CiCi is a badass cyberpunk assassin. She’s my bubblegum. What can I say? Sometimes you just want to be the girl with the biggest gun.

And then there’s Ah’zura. Adherent to the strictly ascetic religion of the One True God in a world with many religions and many gods, she’s made a pact with infidels to save her own people. And of them all she’s the only one with even a hint of a sex life. We won’t navel gaze on that one for too long. I’ll just refer you to my previous post.

And then sometimes at night after the game is over, when it’s time to reach for what’s in my secret drawer, I can slip into whichever persona is calling to me. They touch something and reveal something in me that previously lay hidden and dormant. They are my truest lovers.

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On Penitence and Penetration

June 11, 2010 in Uncategorized by Ckazaal | 1 comment

Sex and Religion. Oh, how they do enjoy a dance together. Emily Nagoski and Bacchus of Eros Blog have both recently written pieces on the relationship of religion to sex, and as this is an issue of some concern to me, I thought I’d burden you with my two cents’ worth (though I have realized as I finish editing this that it might be more like a buck-fifty).

I was raised Presbyterian by an extremely devout mother. Life among the Frozen Chosen was simple for me back then. There was only one rule: believe in God and you win a prize when you die. And my mother loved god. She spoke in tones so impassioned that I could not help but be inspired towards the same.

At the same time, when she sat down to explain the birds and the bees to me, her explanation was rather clinical. “A man puts his penis into a woman’s vagina.” That was it – my first understanding of what sex is. And you wonder how I got this way. Allow this to be exhibit A. There was no mention of desire or pleasure or love and for the life of me I couldn’t figure out why anyone would want to do such a thing. When I compare her bewildering explanation with with the ecstasy she experienced in worshiping God, I sometimes wonder if maybe she had a few wires crossed.

I lost my religion the moment I decided to lose my virginity. Faith was all or nothing, and one chilly February night as I lay in a small bed on the docked and gently rocking sailboat owned by my boyfriend’s parents, as his fingers moved deftly over my breasts and traced the path of the delicate elastic band of my panties, as he brushed his lips against my ear and murmured the question in my ear, I experienced an existential crisis.

I wanted it. My body was craving it, but in my head an argument raged:

SUPEREGO: Sex is for marriage!

EGO: But I love him…

SUPEREGO: Satan eats sluts like you for breakfast!

EGO: But his tongue is on my nipple… Besides, what about the hand job two nights ago? Is this really that different?

SUPEREGO: That was just being polite. But your hymen is a precious gift for your husband, so says God! You gonna argue with God?

EGO: Um. God who?

ID: Just shut up and fuck him already.

That was literally the moment that I decided Christianity was at odds with the person I wanted to be. And I let it go.

Well, sort of. I wrote last week about how my fears and my desires inform the themes that repeat themselves in my writing. My novels are utterly centered around a religion I created that uses sex as a sacred form of worship. At first I thought: this is the way I can make the sex scenes intrinsic to the plot. But I’m starting to realize that by writing I’m conducting my own therapy for the psychological trauma religion has induced in me.

I guess I have some wires crossed, myself.

I identify as agnostic, because the idea that I couldn’t be wrong about something is ridiculous and easily proven false. But for a long time there was a nagging doubt at the back of my mind about Christianity: HOLY SHIT what if my mother is RIGHT? I suppose I was too indoctrinated to ever really let it go. Or so I thought.

When my mother got sick with cancer, she decided not to fight it. She wanted her reward in heaven, and she was anxious to get there. And neither the pleading of her husband of 37 years nor the sorrow of her three children nor the pending birth of her second grandchild could convince her otherwise. I still have a lot of anger about that, and in the end, it was that which killed my capacity for religion. God might exist, but what the fuck do I want him for?

…

Oh my, what a monster of a post. Next time on Ckazaal Unpacks Her Baggage: Dad and my unhealthy relationship with food! Hooray!

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Insert Clever Title Here

June 4, 2010 in Uncategorized by Ckazaal | No comments

I’ve been feeling less than inspired about writing this week’s post. Very seldom does my drive to write vanish completely (though, let me just reach into Sebek’s lap and knock wood) but my interest in each of the various projects I’m working on waxes and wanes according to the position of the stars or the machinations of the hyper-intelligent parasites in my brain or… something; I’ve never been able to divine a pattern. Some weeks I’m all about the skits I’m writing for the theater troupe I work with and some weeks I spend all my free time fleshing out my next post for this blog.

For the past week and a half, I haven’t been able to take my mind off my novel. I finally slogged my way through a huge block I was experiencing – for a month my word count never seemed to change much. I kept saying, “How can this be? Surely I wrote more than 127 words today!” But alas, no.

Until this last week! The words have been just pouring out of me. It might have something to do with the fact that a number of things falling under the heading “shit happens” have caused my sex life to drop off to nil for the past couple of weeks. I have all this pent-up creative energy. And so I’m sure it’ll come to no surprise that for the last several days I’ve been working on an all-male orgy scene. (“Who isn’t?” Sebek asked me. Well, here’s who. Ya happy?)

Gorblimey, my novels just sound so trashy when I try to describe them. Oh well.

Many months ago I read an excerpt of The Successful Novelist by David Morrell, and it revolutionized the way I write and think about writing. Of particular interest to me was this concept: 

“…It’s understandable why the subconscious would transport us from boring real-life situations into pleasurable fantasies. But why on earth does the subconscious sometimes transport us from those same boring real-life situations into fantasies that are terrifying? From one point of view, the mechanism doesn’t make sense. From another point of view, though, it makes all kinds of sense, and it parallels my question to my students: “Why do you want to be writers?” Why do you have spontaneous wide-awake nightmares? And what is the principle of selection by which your subconscious terrifies you in one way while my subconscious terrifies me in another?

We’re at the heart of the issue. The difference between fiction writers and civilians is that we make it our life’s work to put our daydreams and day-nightmares on paper. Most of the time we don’t understand the secrets and demons that our spontaneous imaginings contain. All we feel is that there’s something in us demanding to be released in the form of a story.”

After reading that, I began paying much closer attention to the fantasies my brain parasites dropped me into, and I believe that my writing was rarified. And so you see, the focus of my writing rides on the whims of the winds.

Or something a little less pretentious.

Oh, look at that – post written. Guess I’ll get back to my novel now. Where was I? Ah, here we go: “Alex took Orr’s cock in his hand, and Orr’s head swam, so quickly did he become erect…”

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The Ass Is Always Greener

May 28, 2010 in Uncategorized by Ckazaal | 1 comment

There’s this chick I know whose accent makes my knees turn to jelly. I’ve had a crush on her for well over a year now, but unfortunately for me, she’s not into snatch.

Just to be clear, my crushes are legion (I think I’m nursing five or six right now), and tend to be like soda pop – sickly sweet and effervescent and ultimately without much substance. It’s a willingness to get naked with someone, I guess, if only they would ask. But that’s not quite right, either, because there are many, many people I know who I wouldn’t kick out of my bed. Perhaps desire is a better word than willingness.

But it’s a desire I can do little about. Every single one of the objects of my infatuation is utterly unavailable to me, and mostly because their sexual identity doesn’t allow room for girls. I seem to keep falling for straight girls and gay boys.  I mean, I can imagine scenarios in which we are somehow thrust together, and thrust and thrust and thrust, but each is extremely unlikely to actually happen. That’s what makes them fantasies, I suppose.

And this phenomenon of wanting what you could never have is hardly unique to me. We can’t have it in life and so we have it in porn. Hell, even in film and television, it’s always so easy for the hot young lesbian to seduce the straight girl, for the male protagonist to be the one to turn the head of the hardcore dyke, for the straight girl to finally get that perfect man, even if he is gay.

Some of my favorite gay porn sites follow in this vein and make their money from people wanting to see heterosexual men seduced or enticed into homosexual acts. Think about that for a second. I’m turned on by men, some of whom would normally be obtainable for me, suddenly becoming unobtainable. How crazy is that?

Or maybe that’s not the nuance that gets the girly-bits a-tinglin’. Maybe I’m aroused by that sense of experimentation and adventure, by someone being guided down a path they wouldn’t normally travel. Bi-curious is such a wonderful term. It’s where the hopeless find their hope. I can stroke the box and delve into dreams of pretty girls with Russian accents saying, “I’ve never done this before, but there’s something about you, Ckazaal…”

And I don’t despair of my chances because it all lies within the realm of possibility. Just don’t mind me while I sweep probability under the carpet.

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Wee

May 21, 2010 in Uncategorized by Ckazaal | No comments

This week, we’ve been trying to potty train our toddler.

I know, I know, you’re all: WTF, Ckazaal? I come to you for insightful commentary on sexual taboo. And hot porn links. And you give me this word, “potty.” That word does not belong on any adult website! Where are the hot porn links?!

Chill out, dude. I’m getting to that.

I figure, if Heather Armstrong can talk about penises and porn on her mommyblog, then I think I have every right to mention the utter torment of toilet training on my sex blog. In is out, flip is flop, straight is gay and comparing myself with Heather Armstrong is not a laughable concept in this topsy turvy universe! So: because of this Herculean challenge I’ve undertaken with my child, I’ve been thinking about urine. A lot.

Okay, come a little closer. I feel we’ve gotten to know one another pretty well over the past few months. I’m not sure I’d lend you any cash, but I feel comfortable enough to divulge to you one of my many secret kinks: piss.

I’ve never actually participated in a golden shower before, and quite likely it’s one of those things that needs to stay firmly planted in my fantasy life.  To be honest, urophagia in the real world sets off my gag reflex.  But the idea of a person addressing the needs of his bladder onto another human being does get the juices flowing. It’s part of my humiliation fetish, certainly, and I enjoy the aspects of D/s territorial marking as well. Or I did.

Because this week may have killed that kink in me. Bludgeoned it to death. Chopped off its head and shat in the bloody stump of a neck that was left. Right now, the very concept of voiding one’s bladder just… well, pisses me off. It doesn’t seem like people would continue to breed if it was always this hard. I feel like if I have to say “Puh-leeease make pee-pee in the potty” one more time I’ll start punching pregnant women in the face, shouting, “Is this what you want? IS THIS WHAT YOU WERE HOPING FOR?”

Sigh.

I’m assured again and again that the kid’s resistance to the process is perfectly normal, and that a breakthrough is undoubtedly forthcoming. Maybe in a few years I’ll look back on this folly and have a private little chuckle. Maybe it’ll turn out that, like a soap opera character long thought dead who turns out to have had miraculous head-reattachment surgery and has only been languishing in a coma all these years, my kink will return.

Maybe.

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Swallow

May 14, 2010 in Uncategorized by Ckazaal | 2 comments

Bitter. Salty. Gingery. These are some of the words I might use to describe the taste of semen. Naturally, not all cum is alike. A large variety of things factor into a man’s particular flavor. Of the samples I’ve savored there was a wide range of pungency, none of which I found unpleasant. But I don’t think I’ll be flavoring a panna cotta with it any time soon.

And so, while browsing through Violet Blue‘s sexual education archives, I was intrigued by an article on the taste of a man. Essentially, what she said was common sense: you are what you eat.  Or perhaps more specifically: you taste like what you eat.

She included a recipe for what she called the “Super Spunk Smoothie”. Though the title may not be the most spectacularly appetizing you’ve ever heard, it features a variety of purportedly jizz-sweetening components.

Dude, I had to try it out.

Not having the proper equipment to produce spooge, I enlisted my husband as my willing guinea pig.  It’s not that I have any problem with the way he tastes.  I just thought it might be an interesting experiment.

“Hey,” he said, “even if it means I have to drink delicious smoothies and endure more blowjobs, I’m in.  For SCIENCE!”

A caveat on my brand of “science”: I have something of an aversion to recipes.  I feel like cooking should be an ephemeral art, and so I look at recipes as guidelines rather than set rules.  Or maybe I’m just lazy and I don’t like to measure things.  You decide.

The first time I made the smoothie, I pretty much followed the recipe she laid out.  After that, I kept the same ingredients but fudged a bit on the amounts.  And then when I ran out of something, I made occasional (but I don’t think fundamental) substitutions.

All that said, my husband drank one large citrus smoothie a day for five days.  He didn’t change his diet otherwise.  At the end of the five days, he got a little visit from the blowjob fairy (deposit your ejaculate and she leaves you a shiny new quarter!)

His precum was noticeably sweeter, I’ll admit, and that’s nothing to sneeze at (sorry sneeze fetishists!), but when the finale arrived I tasted no difference in the actual crème phallique.

*shrug*

Maybe a small part of me was hoping for canteloupe and honey, but in the end, semen tastes like semen, and there’s nothing disappointing about that.

SCIENCE!

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Wood

May 7, 2010 in Uncategorized by Ckazaal | No comments

I go into the woods this weekend. I enjoy nature but I think I might enjoy it more if I didn’t feel like I was having to battle it all the time, what with the poison ivy and mosquitoes and sunburn and snake bites. This be camping. Sort of. We’ll be out in the woods but with a kitchenette and a hot tub. That’s about as rough as I get, at least outside of the bedroom. I mean, I’m going to be without the Internet for TWO WHOLE DAYS. Can you fathom it?

Long have we held the forest as a place of dark mystery. It lives in our collective unconscious as a place of utmost danger, and we once had good reason to fear it. Living in a tiny village on the edge of a primordial wood, untamed by man and filled with vile things from one’s worst nightmares – it must have been terrifying. People went into the woods and never came out again.

Ah, what a metaphor for sex¹ the woods are, especially for the uninitiated – an adventure both frightening and enticing, and one fraught with peril. We have played with the notion for centuries and passed the message of warning along to our children in the form of fairy tales. Little Red Riding Hood (a more blatant hymen metaphor I do not know) goes into the woods and is met by the wolf, who would have the goodies in her basket. In the end her naiveté and innocence is rewarded with rescue by the burly, hirsute² huntsman.

I actually prefer Hansel and Gretel. They are thrown into the woods, little prepared for its dangers, and are unable to resist the temptations they find there. It is the reverse of Little Red Riding Hood, and the monster is the mature woman who is fast and free with her candy, preparing the young boy to be gobbled up. But with cunning and manipulation, the two protagonists save themselves and come out stronger and richer for it in the end.

So go out into the forest, I say! Meet its challenges with an adventurous heart. And a condom. Be subtle and clever and in the end you will master the wood.

*  

¹Or maybe I just have a tendency to see sex everywhere. I did have to hide my child’s copy of Fox in Socks because I could no longer keep a straight face while reading the line, “Chicks with bricks come, chicks with blocks come.” YMMV.

²“Hirsute?” my husband asks. “What?” I respond. “That’s how I pictured him. He had to have been one hairy bastard, in my opinion.”

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Lock and Key

April 30, 2010 in Uncategorized by Ckazaal | No comments

It’s an enduring, if disturbing and decidedly Euro-centric, image: the brave Medieval knight leaving home to wage war in the Crusades to safeguard the Holy Land, resting assured that he has nothing to fear for his wife’s fidelity, thanks to the magic of the chastity belt.

Most experts these days call bullshit on this myth; generally concrete evidence of the use of chastity devices only goes back so far as the 15th century. Some say they were originally used as rape prevention or to hinder masturbation (because spanking the frank is BAD FOR YOU).

Nowadays, some women have taken to wearing them temporarily for short outings to prevent sexual attack, mostly in war zones. And I imagine some unfortunates have been forced to wear them, non-consensually, by those that would wield power over something they had no right to control: another person’s sexuality. But for the most part, chastity devices are designed (perhaps paradoxically, though hardly surprisingly) for stimulating sexual arousal.

Ah, orgasm denial. They say there is no sauce worth so much as hunger. I imagine what’s true of one appetite is true of another.

Chastity devices come in all shapes and sizes, from full belts and corsets (typically custom made) to chastity cages and simple piercings (though maybe only a woman would describe a Prince Albert as a simple piercing). While we tend to think of the belt as a garment strictly feminine in nature, anecdotal evidence from chastity belt manufacturers and sellers suggests that most devices are made for men, with both male and female key holders. I suppose for a man, giving up control of his cock is likely the most submissive thing he can do.

I’ve never had any experience with such contraptions myself, though from time to time I have tried to refrain from stirring the honeypot, to test my discipline, to see how long I could last. Turns out: not long. Apparently, I have no self-control. I’m actually not too surprised by that. I mean, I can hardly help it if I’m a horniest horndog that ever did horn, as Sebek puts it. I’ve learned to accept and embrace who I am.

Also, I spend a lot of time looking at porn. For this blog. For you. APPRECIATE IT, ALREADY.

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