Author Archives: Love, Femme
Sweet & Rough
Excuse me while I clean up the puddle dripping from between my legs and cool my blushing skin. I have spent the past two weeks curled up with Sinclair Sexmith’s new book, Sweet & Rough. And when I say curled; I mean toes curled, legs spread, nipples hard, hips rocking, and gasping for air. I had to make a mid-book run to my local gas station at the wee hours of the morning to purchase batteries and a sports drink. Simply said, this book is orgasmic.
I have been a long time fan girl of Mr. Sexsmith. Their work touched me while I touched myself as a young queer first discovering the love of the butch-femme dynamic, kinky sex, and the idea that love and lust could in fact be a real combination. Sugarbutch (www.sugarbutch.net) was the first blog I read on a regular basis, pouring over their words like a student prepping for an exam. It was there that I discovered that what I found kinky wasn’t sick or strange; that wanting to be roughed up, owned, desired, fucked, challenged, and held sweetly could all happen in one single afternoon romp. That kink and romance could co-habitat together in the most beautiful way. Mr. Sexsmith showed me the light I was seeking and I haven’t turned back.
Earlier this summer I saw a call for bloggers to interview Mr. Sexsmith (sorry, the submissive in me can’t help but to use a formal address). My whole body felt like it had been hit with lightening, the possibility of getting my painted fingers on their new book and interviewing them blew my femme mind. So I put on my bold face and sent an email, thinking that among all the strong hitters in the blogging world that my little pink blog would be passed up. And then, the email came from Mr. Sexmith and I nearly fainted. Holy fuck, he picked me (among many others, see the full list here…http://www.sugarbutch.net/sweet-and-rough/). I have no idea who I fucked to get this lucky, but I am glad I did!
Sweet & Rough is what I consider, the best kind of smut. Mr. Sexsmith has crafted stories of play and passion that are so realistic that you can easily see yourself in the characters. They create situations that are totally possible, sometimes with a large dose of luck on your side, and spin together a tale of kink that is totally inspirational for newbies and veterans.
Without further adieu, my Sweet & Rough book interview with Mr. Sexmith. I am in pink, they are in black. Oh…and buy your own copy of Sweet & Rough at http://www.sugarbutch.net/sweet-and-rough/!
- The depth and detail of your stories in Sweet & Rough provide a full sensory experience. Are your lusty tales purely imagined or they inspired from personal experience?
All of these stories are fiction, so none of them are exactly about a particular experience that happened. But as is with any fiction, the emotions and inner landscape that is depicted are based on real experiences and real feelings, real observations of how our inner landscapes look and feel. So there is always some truth to them. I often have a particular girl in mind, and tap in to some feeling I had in a particular scene—though fiction is more of a patchwork quilt of feelings and experiences than it is written from one in particular. I write those, too—the more memoir-sex style writing, and those are thrilling and a lot of fun, but I rarely publish them. They are almost always exclusively published on sugarbutch.net.
- The kink community is massive with a vastly wide variety of roles, fetishes, and practices. Do you feel pressure to represent the community as a whole or do you stay in the zones in which you feel you can best represent?
The kink communities are far more vast than I—just one person!—could ever represent. There are just so many fetishes and interests that I don’t understand and couldn’t adequately express, since I just don’t “get” how they work. Sometimes, things I don’t get are really fun to write about, to explore in writing, to see if I can figure them out through the act of going into them with a pen and ink. I do feel some pressure to have my collections be diverse enough that they aren’t just repetitive, though, which has been often said about my books so far. It’s true that I have a very particular palette, and so if you connect with that palette, you’ll see the incredible nuance within each of the stories, but if it’s not really your thing (or just the edge of your thing), it might seem more repetitive. In Sweet & Rough, I tried to pull stories that had many different sex acts, and there are handcuffs, rope bondage, flogging, and caning, but there are a lot of similarities, like public sex, strap-ons, blow jobs, butch/femme friction, and pick-up first-date play.
- Everyone in the kink world has their limits. Do you have any kinks you won’t write about? Where won’t you go with your characters?
I have kinks I *haven’t* yet written about, but I’m not sure I *wouldn’t*. I’m writing less and less about my own personal desires, though, so in some ways, my own sex life is just not the open book it was four or six years ago through my journaling on sugarbutch.net. I’m really interested in erotic transparency as both a form of modeling to others, and as a way of keeping myself honest and integrated. Some of my personal kinks I haven’t explored much yet in my writing are feet and toe sucking, and nipple sucking.
I went through a rough few years in 2012-2013, and there was a big part of my erotic life that I wasn’t writing about and wasn’t recording, partly because I was in such grief and sadness that the fantasies felt really fucked up. I wasn’t sure how much I’d stand by them after I got back on my feet. And while it is really interesting what the body does and where the erotic mind goes when in trauma, those aren’t particularly fantasies that I would dive into and write about.
It’s really hard to write about things that the larger queer or sex-positive communities would deem “problematic.” I’m not sure how to do that, or how to talk about it when I am attacked for wanting (or getting) those things. I’m really curious about that, though, so I may, at least someday, write about that.
- You have written many amazing stories that have kept many of us fans very happy. What is the story you want to tell, but haven’t been able to tell yet?
Hmm. Maybe that’s the “happily ever after” story, the story of a relationship that stays, rather than one that escalates until it explodes and breaks itself. I want to know about how to keep a relationship sexually healthy, thrilled, and exciting, for a long period of time—that’s an edge in my own erotic work, and a story I wish I could tell.
- And one non-book question, because I have been beyond curious. The tattoo on your forearm that looks like a ruler, what is the story behind that wonderful piece of ink?
It *is* a ruler! It measure 6″, or if I put my palm flat onto a table it measures 2″ from my wrist, so 8″ total. It has a lot of layers of representation. I got it the weekend I took the Buddhist refuge vow in 2011. I’ve always been a trail-blazer, someone who is creating my own paths and my own way. The Buddhist path, while not exactly linear, is the most known path I’ve ever been on, and the symbol kept coming to me over and over while I was in the meditation retreat that weekend. I also like how I can make all sorts of sexy jokes about it, like, “I always have six inches on me.” I also initially conceived of it when I would get into (mostly in jest) arguments about precisely how high those femme’s heels were, and so I joked that I’d now be able to settle that bet. Mostly when muggles ask me about it at the supermarket or wherever, I say that I’m a graphic designer (which is true, I was professionally for about 10 years) and I like how it’s a functional tattoo, not purely aesthetic.
I also saw a ruler tattoo on a forearm of a gay male porn star who liked to fist asses, and that resonated too. I like how it can be very dirty (fisting, cock) or also relatively tame (buddhist path, graphic design) and that it has so many layers that it will grow with me.
This summer is the deepest and darkest in my life. I struggled with daily thoughts of ending my life, feeling that the only option out of this hell was a swift and permanent exit. It wasn’t just the imense lonelness I felt, but also the loss of a life and a dream. I had spent two years spinning my being and my hopes with another person, the swift unwinding left me dizzy with despair.
So I made myself go out.
The rule was that I couldn’t say no unless I had a prior social engagement, starting at Memorial Day ending at Labor Day. And so I went. Brunches, hikes, shopping trips, beaches, classes, dance nights, concerts, road trips, social gatherings. Despite feeling completely numb and lost, I got my ass dressed and out of the house. Trying to get lost in the moment instead of the thoughts in my own head. Allowing my skin to be touched, my body embraced, and my heart to be filled with love. I tried to get lost in the moment to laughter or intellect. Even in the moments where I wanted to burst into tears and run back home to crawl into bed, I stuck it out and pushed myself further. I had to shove myself forward and further then ever before.
I would like to thank those for the invites out this summer. Unknowingly, you saved my life.
Three years ago today I sat down and wrote my first blog posting. Three years seems like a lifetime away.
I have abandoned you all for several months now. Many have reached out in support, love, and encouragement. Too all of you, my heart thanks you. I had to take some time this summer to heal, grieve, and figure out the mess that I was left after my breakup with T-Rex…which I must congratulate him on his recent engagement, if he is in fact still reading this.
My world is slowly piecing back together. I have traveled, drank, and cried. I put all of my remnants of T-Rex away in a box and burned sage in my apartment. I got my first tattoo and officiated a wedding. I danced with friends four nights in a row over Pride weekend. I did more yoga then I care to admit. I ate great meals with friends and family. I learned that I could breath without my heart hurting.
I don’t have my shit together, but at least it feels less scattered.
I finally feel l like I have something to say that doesn’t involve T-Rex. I have a whole collection of stories to share, advice to hand out, and a major interview coming up. I want to rediscover my voice and have it gain epic strengthen. I just want to move forward. I need to move forward.
Please, take me back.
Maybe someone didn’t explain the rules. Which, is unfortunate for you on so many levels.
When one enters into a D/s (Dominate/submissive, and not the capitalization of one title and not another is no mistake), negotions need to be made. The Dominsate doesn’t get to just make a set of rules, then bark orders to the submissive, and expect for all their wishes become instant reality.
I am a submissive in the kink community. Not a shock is you have been reading my blog regularly. I like to a play on the bratty bottom/submissive side of the pool, teasing the Dominates with flashes of cleavage and a dirty mouth elegantly painted in bright red matte lipstick. I have been kinky as far back as I can remember, although I haven’t always been with partners who shared my same love for all thinks naughty. If I were to have to rank my kink experience on a scale from 1-10, 1 being vanilla as a cupcake and 10 as kinky as a old school phone cord, I would give myself an 8.715.
I agreed to meet you for a second time. Our first meeting left me bored and confused and sad for my future all at once. You had asked me out and I had said yes. Which was probably my first mistake, I am so far from being ready to date or even fuck again, still recovering from the deep wounds of my recent breakup. However, you were nice enough and I liked the restaurant you picked. The first meeting was a disaster, a hot fucking mess. But apparently you thought it went great because you continued to text and call me, and since you seemed sweet enough I agreed to go out for a second time and start negotiating a possible fling.
So when you, a self-proclaimed Dominate, approach and inquire about having a D/s summer fling with me and start off by barking orders and making demands before we even leave the restaurant on our second “date” (using that term very loosely) you shouldn’t have been shocked when I walked away. Literally. And it wasn’t just backing and demanding, you went right into insulting me and my character. I may be a submissive, but I am still a human with feelings and rights, you fucking asshole. When I asked to meet to chat about interests, limits, and arrangements; I didn’t expect to be on the receiving end of threats and intimidation.
Dominates lead with a cool confidence. An air of complete control and admiration for their submissive. You are a tool who likes to boss ladies around. I don’t regret walking out and immediatly deleting you from my life. I enjoy being bossed and tossed around in the bedroom, but I do expect to walk into that situation with a Dominate that respects my limitations and understands wheat is on and off the menu. I really enjoy dirty talk while fucking, but you started before we even got undressed. You hit me with words uglier and harder then any toy or impalement I have ever used during play. The bruises you left were emotional and left me so furious.
I may be lonely, but I am not desperate.
I have never been a fan of the typical popular holidays: Christmas overwhelming, Thanksgiving is too commercial; and although I enjoy Saint Patrick’s Day, I have never really been able to get into the American version of the holiday.
For me, fireworks make a great holiday. New Years Eve and the week between Pride and the Fourth of July. These are my favorite times to gather, celebrate, and over-indulge.
I come from a big fireworks family. I was probably 5 or 6 when I had my first sparkler in my hand and 8-9 when I held a Roman candle for the first time. Each celebration; birth, death, graduation, marriage, divorce, deployment, homecomings, etc. are celebrated in my family with explosions of color and noise. I am addicted to the boom that starts in the air, shakes the ground, and then makes my heart go fucking crazy. Fireworks are like shocks to my heart, pulsating with the purest form of joy.
This past New Year’s Eve I was with friends and T-Rex. We celebrated with silly hats and a small amount of wine. It was the perfect gathering after a very stressful holiday season. I kissed my man outside in the fresh winter air, with the smallest snowflakes falling. It was picturesque and romantic, and there were fireworks. I am not sure if it was the passion and dedication for T-Rex or the fireworks that made my heart beat faster. All I knew that I was so in love with T-rex and that he was so in love with me, that we were walking fireworks.
And then Pride came this year, the kick off to my favorite holiday week of the year. I dragged myself to go out and dance and drink with friends. All I wanted to do was stay in my bed and shut out the world. But, I didn’t. I knew that getting out and getting stupid was the best solution. I knew that al the vodka, tequila, and gin in the world wouldn’t help heal my heart, but maybe I would just get drunk enough to make the hurt pass out long enough to allow me to feel more numb and less broken.
I kept my spirits up by reminding myself that a week full of fireworks was ahead of me. Starting at Pride and ending with the Fourth. But this year, I felt nothing. Night after night of displays, and nothing. I watched with awe, but my heart sat heavy in my chest. For the first time ever there was no joy.
Maybe I am already dead inside.
I am beyond broken.
Almost two months later and still I have no idea how to move forward from this immense sadness I feel. It is almost like there is a balloon inside of my body and each day someone blows air into it, each day I feel like I have lost room to breath. I have considered ending the blog. Almost three years isn’t a bad run in the cyber world. But, I can’t seem to pull the trigger and put my readers out of their misery.
I have lost my wit and sass, buried under packed boxes and tear stained tissues. Also missing is my drive. By nature I am a true Type-A, over-achiever, sexual bunny with new batteries who loves caffeine and my well-worn planner. Gone is my energy and desires. I keep expecting to move my feet one in front of the other, to start to feel like myself again. But I have failed to even cross the starting line in the healing journey.
So I ask you all, my sweet and supportive virtual friends to be patient with me. I have read your emails and messages, your kindness and grace has been a blessing. The rest of the June/Seven Steps of Grieving posts are written, I just am having a hard time exposing all of those raw emotions and stories to the world. I am trying to hard to protect T-Rex and what we had. I am still so fucking in love with him, even in the aftermath. Is my desire to protect overthrowing my ability to heal, very possible.
I am at driving at full speed towards a dead-end road, I just hope I can turn myself around before I crash.
I shook my head at you from across the table, trying to remove your words out of my ears and my memory. I had just reached the denial stage roughly two weeks before T-Rex ended the relationship. Before I even knew about the seven stages of grieving a relationship and my upcoming plummet into them.
Over drinks, you had told me the secret you could no longer keep inside of you. You told me the one fact about my relationship with T-Rex that I was refusing to face. You and I both knew that this was not news to me. That sick, deep, stabbing feeling in my stomach had alerted me before our meeting.
For months I denied and justified. Even though the signs were like the sunlight peeking through lace curtains, growing brighter and bolder with time. Until the end when I was blinded with what I was refusing to face for months, when the words came out of his mouth. I had chalked up worry in my brain and nerves in my stomach as my own insecurities. I would find pieces of the truth in the house, pushed into drawers and under piles of paper, hoping not to be found. I didn’t have to go seeking them at first, they found me. The more that I discovered without intention, the more I closed my eyes and covered my ears. This was not going to happen, not to us.
I coated nausea and uncertainties with hope. That is all I could hold on to, hope and trust. I couldn’t and wouldn’t accept the truth. If I ignored it, it would just go away. I started to tell myself I was losing my mind until I started to believe it. I used logic to remove my doubt, but the feeling remained. I just kept telling myself this wasn’t real, I just kept shaking my head and moving forward.
Lesson learned, always trust your gut.
I sat across from him, dumbfounded on how we got to this point. My mind raced over our history; memories came to me in four picture strips from photo booths and familiar song lyrics that we danced to late at night. Like a microfilm scrolling between the good and the bad and the somewhere in between.
How the hell did we end up here?
Sitting at the table that we shared countless late night taco dinners, the table he had taught me how to use a sewing machine, the table that I used to write blog posts as he looked across at me with a proud smile. Here, at this table, is where it would all end. His words were clear, but I couldn’t connect the letters with the meaning behind them. Like falling into ice cold water, I panicked. Feeling dizzy and sick trying to put the puzzle together that after two years together we were to be no more.
I knew that we had been shaky. That the air between us had gradually become heavy with an unexplainable tension, but I never thought that we wouldn’t be able to make it through. We had been through hell and back together, managing to fit almost every major life stressor in the two years we had shared together. What we faced right now was a piece a cake, just new job jitters and exhaustion.
He and I were unstoppable. A force to be reckoned with. Together, we were a warhorse.
Or least so I thought up until a few moments ago. Until he said the words that I never thought I would hear from him. I shook my head, thinking that somehow I hadn’t heard him correctly. But, his words were crystal clear and his eyes filled with so much sadness that I cried harder knowing how his heart was breaking as he was breaking my heart.
I wasn’t ready for this, I would never be ready for this. Especially not at this table.
Dear Butch, I held my breath as his words came at me, in hopes that my lungs would start to panic and I would wake up from this nightmare I must be having. Of course this can’t be happening, I thought, it…just…can’t. … Continue reading