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lb_leeQueer Pride, Kinky Joy
Summary: Our experience at our first kinky play party. NSFW.
Series: Personal story
Word Count: 3800
Notes: This story was paid for by our generous Patreon supporters and originally made for a sexual assault survivors’ sexuality anthology that seems to have disappeared. Contains explicit sexual and BDSM content, all consensual: fetish wear, puppy play, D/S, Daddy/boy play, butt plugs, three ways, and sex toys. Also glancing mention of sexual assault, but this is a happy story. This story is also part of our prep work for the forthcoming Multi, MOREgasmic.
My husband Mac held up the tight black booty shorts and waggled his eyebrows.
“Oh nooo,” I said.
“Oh yesss,” he replied with a wicked grin.
“Your embarrassment kink has never been so obvious, sweetheart.”
He just laughed.
We had been together since 2007. I had been Mac’s collared boy since 2010. And now it was 2023 and we were finally going to our first kinky play party: a puppy mosh.
What had kept us solo practitioners for so long? Well, a lot of things: logistics, inertia, various hardships, fears, and neuroses. In the more immediate here-and-now, we were also recovering from a hysterectomy, much-wanted but nevertheless enough to slow us down.
There was also the fact that Mac and I shared a body. We were headmates, or “multiple personalities” in most people’s minds, and we had garnered a modicum of mild local and Internet fame for our comics and writing about it. We had been open about our relationship since 2008 and made works about multi sexuality before, even kinky stuff: Alter Boys In Love in 2017, Multi, Orgasmic in 2022, not to mention enough private drawings and writings to make a life-size papier-mâché leather daddy, but a relationship like ours was still shocking or infuriating to a lot of people. Mac and I had both eaten a lot of shit over the years for it, and it was hard not to withdraw in self-defense.
But COVID had devoured almost three years of our life, plus a few of our friendships, and if we didn’t find us some kinky community, we were going to smash a window and flee screaming into the night. We were sick of hiding behind closed doors, sick of having hardly anyone to talk kink with, just plain sick of trying to win a rigged game of respectability. Fuck this shit. It was time to bust out of the spice cabinet, run our freak flag up the pole, and salute!
Thus why Mac was holding up the booty shorts.
I had forgotten we even had them. They’d been a Goodwill purchase during the pandemic, back when the fitting rooms were closed, so I hadn’t realized how tight they were until too late. The moment I’d tried them on, I’d been filled with regret and shoved them between the leggings, presumably to never be worn again.
I’d forgotten them. Mac had not.
“C’mon,” he said, “it’s dress-up for grown-ups, and the vessel,” our shared body, “has a magnificent ass.”
I shook mine for him. “Trans boy bennies.”
“Don’t shame me.” Mac had the toned, flat ass of an ‘80s aerobics instructor and was forever in mourning for it. “Besides, the spandex won’t dig into the incisions, and I refuse to wear sweatpants to a kink party.”
“It’s surely someone’s kink.”
“It’s not mine. Now get dressed.”
Mac was the one with the fashion sense, so despite my reservations, I dressed the vessel in what he’d pulled out: the booty shorts, a white tank top, black leather fingerless gloves to protect our hands on the mats, and a black denim vest (borrowed from another headmate) with a big QUEER TRANS MULTI PROUD patch pinned to the back. In this outfit, our vessel’s bare arms showed my wedding tattoos—a turtledove on my right shoulder, a phoenix on my left, in reference to the Shakespearean poem about ideal love. Our gold wedding ring was on the left hand, our silver engagement ring on the right. Our wrists held my headmate boyfriend Biff’s “Male Survivor” band and his black O-ring.
Our vessel was adorned with years of the loves sharing my body, in bangles, in precious metal, in ink held safe within the embrace of skin. And now Mac pulled out my collar.
How I loved my collar. We’d bought it off Etsy, over a decade ago, from some Midwest lady who thought I was Mac’s dog. (All the kinky collars that we could find at the time weren’t my style, thus the subterfuge that I was a Chihuahua.) It was brown leather, lovingly oiled countless times over the years, and carved into it were two blue swallows bearing a banner with my name: Rogan. Years of wear had molded it perfectly to my throat, and it never failed to warm my heart, seeing it in Mac’s hands with the smile I’d fallen for so many years ago.
So many years we’d spent together, so many trials and travails, and he’d always been at my side, almost ever since the brain had pulled him out of our collective unconscious in 2006. I’d been getting assaulted (not the first, last, or worst time), and he’d tried to save me. He’d failed, and in fact, I’d ended up trying (and failing) to rescue him, but his kindness had stayed with me—the bewildered, frightened man, fresh from the depths, who’d nevertheless tried to intervene because it was the right thing to do. Our love and desire for each other had only come a year later, and now here we were, a thousand miles and fifteen years away, still dancing our way through life together.
I knelt at his feet, closed my eyes, and raised my head so he could buckle my collar around my throat. His hands were warm and gentle, and as always, he gave the D-ring a gentle tug to let me know when he was done.
I opened my eyes and smiled up at him. “Thank you, Daddy.”
He beamed and tugged me up by the D-ring to kiss me, then helped me to my feet.
We inspected our reflection in the mirror.
“The textures of denim and spandex clash,” I groused. “And I don’t want to give up the vest; it’s our transphobe repellent…”
“Mm.” I could tell Mac agreed; his discontent rippled through the thoughtleak.
He took the vessel downstairs, where one of our roommates was doing graphic design work on the couch. They’d always known we were multi, and our switches didn’t bother them, so Mac waved to get their attention, then asked, “Do you got any headbands with animal ears on them?”
They pointed to the shelves full of board games. “By the triceratops skeleton.”
Indeed, there was a fuzzy black cat-ear headband, and this accessory, we agreed, balanced the outfit, complimenting and counterweighting the shorts and gloves so the vest no longer fought them for attention. Even I had to admit we looked good. Mac even took a picture in front of the mirror, doing a coy “Rawr!” pose, and sent it to a friend.
“Hell yeah!!” she texted back. “How fabulous!!!!”
I was still nervous. Talking to strangers was easy enough when I was barricaded behind a comic con table, but what did one say to a bunch of leathered strangers in jockstraps? Especially since we had no intention of drinking, dating, or tricking?
My headmate Sneak popped up like a sunflower, a presence behind and to my left. “I want to come and play puppies!” ze said.
“We can’t play puppies all the time,” I told zer. “We’re still healing.”
Ze pouted. “I’ll be careful!” Sneak had zero interest in sex or romance, but ze did love playing make-believe games, both as a child and now as an adult. Ze was also totally open and unafraid of strangers… for better or worse, which was why Mac and I would be chaperoning. But I was skittish around men, lacking confidence when I didn’t have my work as a shield. If only it was a life-drawing thing; then I’d be fine…
I got an idea. “I’ll bring my sketchbook! Surely there’ll be cool outfits there. That’ll be my ice-breaker: ‘your outfit’s amazing; may I draw it?’ Do you think that’d be gauche?”
Mac tossed his long red hair. “If I were them, I’d be flattered!” He, of course, loved being drawn.
“They can always say no,” Sneak pointed out. “Let’s try it!”
I was relieved. At least we wouldn’t be that guy standing alone awkwardly with a cup of cranberry juice. And if I got overstimulated, it’d give me an excuse to pull away and people-watch. If nothing else, I’d get some cool drawings out of the night.
“Okay,” Mac said, trying to prime the night for success, “what are our goals?”
“To play puppies!” Sneak declared.
“To life-draw and maybe make some new friends?” I said, more hesitantly.
“And mine is to show you off,” Mac said with a wink to me. “Let’s see what we can do!”
Unfortunately, my boyfriend Biff couldn’t join us. He’d been sober for years but knew himself well enough to know that going to a bar would hit all his bad buttons. Even though I was glad he was taking care of himself, I regretted that we didn’t have a sober event to take him to. Even though Mac wanted a drink, I had asked that we stay sober for the night; I didn’t want to risk Biff smelling or tasting alcohol in our vessel’s mouth, and I didn’t want to be tipsy around strangers. I was still nervous, even as I fed the vessel dinner and slipped it into a hot shower.
Mac followed me in. “I know what’ll relax those nerves,” he said, wielding our vibrator.
I laughed and pressed my ass back against him. “You’re revved up. You must really want to go to this party.”
“Mm.” His voice was deepening. He brushed his hand over the hairy rolls of my stomach, careful about the incisions, and tucked the vibrator between my legs. “I like the thought of all those men seeing you take me, wanting you but knowing you’re mine.”
I smiled. I knew it wasn’t just me he wanted to show off. Mac was a vain man, in the best possible way: he looked good, he knew it, and he wanted other people to appreciate it. I loved his playful confidence, his shameless reveling in his body; before meeting him, I hadn’t known such a thing was possible. Now that he was femme and over forty, he regularly needed reassurance that he was still pretty, and I was always happy to provide (and gently tease him that I’d love him even if he was bald, knowing he was especially vain about his hair).
He nuzzled my neck against the collar. “I wish they could see me fuck you.”
I ground back against his cock. “Show me how you’d do it.”
He groaned deep in his chest and started moving. “Your ass fuckable?”
“Sure, no incisions there,” I replied, arching against him. “C’mon, Daddy, give it to me.”
Mac was a big man in headspace, big enough that he’d always been mindful of moderating it. That made him a gentle lover, but it also meant he had a hard time letting loose. Tonight, though, he sounded excited enough to forget some of his caution. He was always so careful to make things good for me; I wanted to make it good for him.
It was a joy to feel his guard fall, the delicious thoughtleak of him giving in to what he wanted. Mac’s soul felt like making love on silk sheets and a bearskin rug in front of a fire on a cold winter night. Even rough, his hands were gentle, his voice a dark velvet, his thoughtleak bubbling dreamlike images of the fantasy that’d gotten him so worked up: a dark club, a crowd of men, bending me over in a collar and jockstrap and giving it to me. Getting to embarrass me, own me, love me in front of a crowd of appreciative strangers who saw us exactly as we were, without prefacing or explanation.
Mac wanted to fuck me, and he didn’t want it to be a gender studies or disability liberation class.
He kept me turned with my back to him, so as to avoid accidentally squishing my incisions too hard. He knew just when to turn the vibrator up. He kissed my collar, let me work his cock with my ass, and when he was ready, he lubed up and fucked me. As he moved inside me, rougher and needier than he usually allowed himself to be, I marveled that I got to relish this man on a regular basis. My only complaint was—
“Goddammit, another month before you can fuck the other one…”
He chuckled and kissed my cheek. “Be good, and I’ll make waiting worth it.”
I was still adjusting to my post-surgical body, and not particularly het up myself, but his desire, the waves of want and beauty broadcasting from his soul, was irresistible. When I came, Mac did too, surfing my pleasure through the thoughtleak and purring with pleasure. Over the years, he’d come to find my orgasmic thoughtleak such an integral part of sex with me that he sometimes had a hard time coming before me. We’d used it for edging purposes before, but not tonight.
I slumped in his arms, laughing. When I turned to kiss him, he was all smiles and eye-crinkles. We cuddled, cleaned up under the hot water, and then it was time for the party.
“So what’re you wearing?” I asked as we toweled off, because what looks good on the vessel doesn’t necessarily look good on either of us.
Mac poofed a tight white T-shirt, black leather pants, and boots out of our imagination. “Butch drag. You know I look good in it.”
“Indeed you do,” I said, giving him the attention he deserved. “Very classic.” It was also a choice, I knew, that he felt safer in. With his long red hair, dresses, and Daisy Dukes, Mac more resembled a Disney trash princess in daily life than alpha leather daddy. No one could see him in here, but old habits died hard.
“What about you?” He asked, drying his hair and floofing it to the ‘80s bouffant he preferred.
I smiled and conjured up a white tank top, knee socks, and plaid kilt. “I know what you like, gorgeous.”
“You sure do,” he said, rewarding me with a kiss.
For zer part, Sneak wore zer usual clothes, which were appropriate for puppy rough-housing: T-shirt, shorts, sneakers, though with the addition of a pink spiked choker. Ze bounced on the balls of zer feet, both out of eagerness and to keep us warm in the winter cold as we waited for the train, then in the line outside the nightclub. Thirty-five years old, and it was my first time in a club. The crowd around me was mostly white men, mostly cis, and mostly bundled up against the chill like us, though one in front of us wore all leather and had a flogger clipped to his belt. A security guy checked our ID and vax card, and after fifteen minutes, we got in.
Dim red lighting. Pulse-pounding music. And along one wall, a bunch of men stripping down to collars and jocks. I had never seen so many butts in my life.
“Holy shit,” I said. “This is awesome!”
Mac beamed. Finally, he had found a venue for male vanity on par with his own.
We stripped down, bagged our layers, gave them to the coat check, and entered the party proper.
Everywhere I looked were collars, harnesses, jockstraps, and tails. There was a significant minority of trans men, a decent number of women and others, and fashion fetishes abounded: leather, latex, sportswear, rave gear, fursuits. Very few people wore plague masks like mine, but many wore puppy muzzles, hoods, and masks. One tall, thin person was completely sheathed in a shiny black latex suit with towering horns, covering all but eyes and mouth.
It was glorious. It was beautiful.
I started freezing up.
Mac saw my deer-in-headlights look. “Oh, hon,” he said. “Come on, don’t hide, we have to go and talk to people…”
But I felt glued to the spot. Who should I talk to? What should I say? Frantic, I texted my friend.
“Bark at someone!” she advised. “Actually—let Sneak do it!”
Good advice. Fearless, Sneak surged to the fore.
One area had rubber mats on the floor, strewn with squeaky toys and a ball. A couple puppies were already playing on their hands and knees. Sneak beelined for them, took off our shoes, and joined in. Another trans puppy invited zer to play with a bow, and the game was underway! Together, they batted the ball around, took turns squeaking toys, threw them back and forth. Sneak beamed, clapped with delight, and play-bowed, wiggling with joy. A handler, dressed in leather, went around giving pets and enticing his puppies to do tricks with animal cracker treats, but while Sneak watched him with curiosity, ze decided ze wasn’t interested. Ze only wanted to play with other puppies.
None of the play was rough, and Sneak was indeed careful, but nevertheless, we were recovering from surgery, and after a time, our vessel let us know it was time to stop. The sensation wasn’t pain, but if we kept it up, it would be.
“Ooh,” Sneak mind-said queasily. “I don’t feel so good.”
I took over. “I told you to be careful.”
“It was so much fun, though!” I couldn’t be mad, because ze was right. Besides, ze had done me a huge favor: I wasn’t nervous anymore.
Carefully holding our abdomen, I scooted off the mat, then got to my feet. Immediately, a couple other puppies, one in full hood and latex suit, the other bareheaded, came over to check if I was all right. I explained the situation, and they found me a spot to sit down, asking if I needed water or the use of the nearby mobile clinic. I accepted the water, reassured them that I had just overdone it a little, and exchanged contact info with the latex pup, who upon hearing that I was new offered to hook me up with the local pet play scene.
We weren’t hurt, I was pretty sure, but playtime was definitely over. Sneak accepted this with grace; ze’d achieved what ze wanted and was well-satisfied. Settling in to rest, I took out our sketchbook and began to draw. Mac sat at my side, arm over my shoulders as he watched the crowds.
Everywhere we looked, there were beautiful kinky queers reveling in their bodies. The event rules had said no jerking, sucking, or fucking, and the reality seemed to work out to everything being fair game as long as dicks stayed in pants. I saw hooded pups making out, others wrestling, one with a butt plug tail padlocked in place. All over, people were stroking, fondling, fingering, groping, and kissing. A Hitachi Magic Wand was on the seat next to me. It was an unabashedly sexual atmosphere, and yet I felt no pressure to join in. I could just soak in the lusty, joyful ambiance.
Across the space, a threesome was working to thrill the lucky boy in the middle—the one in front gently holding his throat, whispering intently in his ear as the one in back fingered his ass open. I watched the pup arch his back, tilt his hips in unmistakable pleasure, and felt a shock of recognition: Mac and Biff had done that to me at home. Obviously I knew that my loves and I hadn’t invented these acts (ha!) but it was my first time seeing other people do them. It made it real. Suddenly, I wasn’t just a lone pervert: I was part of a community. My desires weren’t a freak of nature: many other people, in my very own city, shared them!
In my condition, I wasn’t aroused, but I felt soul-fed happy, cleansed even.
People acted like kinky queer sex was inherently abusive, scary, and dangerous—like a wedding ring was kinder, purer, less sexual than a collar. Even a pair of leather chaps was considered so disgusting and corrosive that people argued it must be hidden away, even at Pride, for the sake of the children, of asexuals like Sneak, of traumatized people like me.
I glanced at Sneak, who was looking around with polite curiosity, the way someone would watch a match for a sport they knew nothing about. I pinged zer with a nonverbal query: okay?
Ze shrugged and propped zer chin in zer hands. “I’m glad other people are having fun.” Ze had known what ze was getting into, and ze wasn’t bothered.
As for me, I was about as sexually traumatized as a person could get, and seeing these butt-plugged kinksters in diapers and dog masks didn’t scare or disgust me at all. On the contrary: it was such consensual joy! Such in-your-face refutation of the shame and secrecy I’d grown up with! The mobile clinic was offering free PrEP and STD testing and monkeypox vaccines, rather than the abstinence-only diatribes I’d grown up with, and it was clearly more effective and helpful! In that moment, I felt free.
Thus inspired, I drew a beautiful slender young man in a rope harness. I drew hoods, jocks, and harnesses of various materials from myriad angles. A tiny tomboy sat next to me, and they turned out to be an artist too, so we drew each other, swapped info, and talked about our kinks. My idea worked: a sketchbook was a great icebreaker! I filled page after page.
When I next checked the time, it was almost midnight. We’d only planned on staying out til eleven. Sneak had already curled up on the headspace floor, smiling in zer sleep. Our incisions felt okay, and a few tourists had plunked down next to me to laugh loudly, take an irritating number of selfies, and block me from further conversation, so I got our bag, pulled on our winter layers, and headed for home.
As we sat on the train, chugging its way across town, I still felt surprisingly awake, but Mac was half-drowsing against my shoulder, leaning against me for support. As he wrapped his arm over my shoulders, he crooned, “you went clubbing for me.”
“You know you can talk me into anything.” I kissed his cheek. “Sorry you didn’t get to show me off.”
“I’m happy,” he said, and I could feel the contentment radiating through his thoughtleak. This was what he had truly wanted—to be surrounded by the horny, happy crowds, to revel and celebrate and party. “What do you say next time, Biff and I play the big bad old leather daddies who cruise you and take your innocent ass home?”
I hid my face in his neck. “Oh nooo.”
I could feel his wicked grin. “Oh yesss.”
Summary: Our experience at our first kinky play party. NSFW.
Series: Personal story
Word Count: 3800
Notes: This story was paid for by our generous Patreon supporters and originally made for a sexual assault survivors’ sexuality anthology that seems to have disappeared. Contains explicit sexual and BDSM content, all consensual: fetish wear, puppy play, D/S, Daddy/boy play, butt plugs, three ways, and sex toys. Also glancing mention of sexual assault, but this is a happy story. This story is also part of our prep work for the forthcoming Multi, MOREgasmic.
My husband Mac held up the tight black booty shorts and waggled his eyebrows.
“Oh nooo,” I said.
“Oh yesss,” he replied with a wicked grin.
“Your embarrassment kink has never been so obvious, sweetheart.”
He just laughed.
We had been together since 2007. I had been Mac’s collared boy since 2010. And now it was 2023 and we were finally going to our first kinky play party: a puppy mosh.
What had kept us solo practitioners for so long? Well, a lot of things: logistics, inertia, various hardships, fears, and neuroses. In the more immediate here-and-now, we were also recovering from a hysterectomy, much-wanted but nevertheless enough to slow us down.
There was also the fact that Mac and I shared a body. We were headmates, or “multiple personalities” in most people’s minds, and we had garnered a modicum of mild local and Internet fame for our comics and writing about it. We had been open about our relationship since 2008 and made works about multi sexuality before, even kinky stuff: Alter Boys In Love in 2017, Multi, Orgasmic in 2022, not to mention enough private drawings and writings to make a life-size papier-mâché leather daddy, but a relationship like ours was still shocking or infuriating to a lot of people. Mac and I had both eaten a lot of shit over the years for it, and it was hard not to withdraw in self-defense.
But COVID had devoured almost three years of our life, plus a few of our friendships, and if we didn’t find us some kinky community, we were going to smash a window and flee screaming into the night. We were sick of hiding behind closed doors, sick of having hardly anyone to talk kink with, just plain sick of trying to win a rigged game of respectability. Fuck this shit. It was time to bust out of the spice cabinet, run our freak flag up the pole, and salute!
Thus why Mac was holding up the booty shorts.
I had forgotten we even had them. They’d been a Goodwill purchase during the pandemic, back when the fitting rooms were closed, so I hadn’t realized how tight they were until too late. The moment I’d tried them on, I’d been filled with regret and shoved them between the leggings, presumably to never be worn again.
I’d forgotten them. Mac had not.
“C’mon,” he said, “it’s dress-up for grown-ups, and the vessel,” our shared body, “has a magnificent ass.”
I shook mine for him. “Trans boy bennies.”
“Don’t shame me.” Mac had the toned, flat ass of an ‘80s aerobics instructor and was forever in mourning for it. “Besides, the spandex won’t dig into the incisions, and I refuse to wear sweatpants to a kink party.”
“It’s surely someone’s kink.”
“It’s not mine. Now get dressed.”
Mac was the one with the fashion sense, so despite my reservations, I dressed the vessel in what he’d pulled out: the booty shorts, a white tank top, black leather fingerless gloves to protect our hands on the mats, and a black denim vest (borrowed from another headmate) with a big QUEER TRANS MULTI PROUD patch pinned to the back. In this outfit, our vessel’s bare arms showed my wedding tattoos—a turtledove on my right shoulder, a phoenix on my left, in reference to the Shakespearean poem about ideal love. Our gold wedding ring was on the left hand, our silver engagement ring on the right. Our wrists held my headmate boyfriend Biff’s “Male Survivor” band and his black O-ring.
Our vessel was adorned with years of the loves sharing my body, in bangles, in precious metal, in ink held safe within the embrace of skin. And now Mac pulled out my collar.
How I loved my collar. We’d bought it off Etsy, over a decade ago, from some Midwest lady who thought I was Mac’s dog. (All the kinky collars that we could find at the time weren’t my style, thus the subterfuge that I was a Chihuahua.) It was brown leather, lovingly oiled countless times over the years, and carved into it were two blue swallows bearing a banner with my name: Rogan. Years of wear had molded it perfectly to my throat, and it never failed to warm my heart, seeing it in Mac’s hands with the smile I’d fallen for so many years ago.
So many years we’d spent together, so many trials and travails, and he’d always been at my side, almost ever since the brain had pulled him out of our collective unconscious in 2006. I’d been getting assaulted (not the first, last, or worst time), and he’d tried to save me. He’d failed, and in fact, I’d ended up trying (and failing) to rescue him, but his kindness had stayed with me—the bewildered, frightened man, fresh from the depths, who’d nevertheless tried to intervene because it was the right thing to do. Our love and desire for each other had only come a year later, and now here we were, a thousand miles and fifteen years away, still dancing our way through life together.
I knelt at his feet, closed my eyes, and raised my head so he could buckle my collar around my throat. His hands were warm and gentle, and as always, he gave the D-ring a gentle tug to let me know when he was done.
I opened my eyes and smiled up at him. “Thank you, Daddy.”
He beamed and tugged me up by the D-ring to kiss me, then helped me to my feet.
We inspected our reflection in the mirror.
“The textures of denim and spandex clash,” I groused. “And I don’t want to give up the vest; it’s our transphobe repellent…”
“Mm.” I could tell Mac agreed; his discontent rippled through the thoughtleak.
He took the vessel downstairs, where one of our roommates was doing graphic design work on the couch. They’d always known we were multi, and our switches didn’t bother them, so Mac waved to get their attention, then asked, “Do you got any headbands with animal ears on them?”
They pointed to the shelves full of board games. “By the triceratops skeleton.”
Indeed, there was a fuzzy black cat-ear headband, and this accessory, we agreed, balanced the outfit, complimenting and counterweighting the shorts and gloves so the vest no longer fought them for attention. Even I had to admit we looked good. Mac even took a picture in front of the mirror, doing a coy “Rawr!” pose, and sent it to a friend.
“Hell yeah!!” she texted back. “How fabulous!!!!”
I was still nervous. Talking to strangers was easy enough when I was barricaded behind a comic con table, but what did one say to a bunch of leathered strangers in jockstraps? Especially since we had no intention of drinking, dating, or tricking?
My headmate Sneak popped up like a sunflower, a presence behind and to my left. “I want to come and play puppies!” ze said.
“We can’t play puppies all the time,” I told zer. “We’re still healing.”
Ze pouted. “I’ll be careful!” Sneak had zero interest in sex or romance, but ze did love playing make-believe games, both as a child and now as an adult. Ze was also totally open and unafraid of strangers… for better or worse, which was why Mac and I would be chaperoning. But I was skittish around men, lacking confidence when I didn’t have my work as a shield. If only it was a life-drawing thing; then I’d be fine…
I got an idea. “I’ll bring my sketchbook! Surely there’ll be cool outfits there. That’ll be my ice-breaker: ‘your outfit’s amazing; may I draw it?’ Do you think that’d be gauche?”
Mac tossed his long red hair. “If I were them, I’d be flattered!” He, of course, loved being drawn.
“They can always say no,” Sneak pointed out. “Let’s try it!”
I was relieved. At least we wouldn’t be that guy standing alone awkwardly with a cup of cranberry juice. And if I got overstimulated, it’d give me an excuse to pull away and people-watch. If nothing else, I’d get some cool drawings out of the night.
“Okay,” Mac said, trying to prime the night for success, “what are our goals?”
“To play puppies!” Sneak declared.
“To life-draw and maybe make some new friends?” I said, more hesitantly.
“And mine is to show you off,” Mac said with a wink to me. “Let’s see what we can do!”
Unfortunately, my boyfriend Biff couldn’t join us. He’d been sober for years but knew himself well enough to know that going to a bar would hit all his bad buttons. Even though I was glad he was taking care of himself, I regretted that we didn’t have a sober event to take him to. Even though Mac wanted a drink, I had asked that we stay sober for the night; I didn’t want to risk Biff smelling or tasting alcohol in our vessel’s mouth, and I didn’t want to be tipsy around strangers. I was still nervous, even as I fed the vessel dinner and slipped it into a hot shower.
Mac followed me in. “I know what’ll relax those nerves,” he said, wielding our vibrator.
I laughed and pressed my ass back against him. “You’re revved up. You must really want to go to this party.”
“Mm.” His voice was deepening. He brushed his hand over the hairy rolls of my stomach, careful about the incisions, and tucked the vibrator between my legs. “I like the thought of all those men seeing you take me, wanting you but knowing you’re mine.”
I smiled. I knew it wasn’t just me he wanted to show off. Mac was a vain man, in the best possible way: he looked good, he knew it, and he wanted other people to appreciate it. I loved his playful confidence, his shameless reveling in his body; before meeting him, I hadn’t known such a thing was possible. Now that he was femme and over forty, he regularly needed reassurance that he was still pretty, and I was always happy to provide (and gently tease him that I’d love him even if he was bald, knowing he was especially vain about his hair).
He nuzzled my neck against the collar. “I wish they could see me fuck you.”
I ground back against his cock. “Show me how you’d do it.”
He groaned deep in his chest and started moving. “Your ass fuckable?”
“Sure, no incisions there,” I replied, arching against him. “C’mon, Daddy, give it to me.”
Mac was a big man in headspace, big enough that he’d always been mindful of moderating it. That made him a gentle lover, but it also meant he had a hard time letting loose. Tonight, though, he sounded excited enough to forget some of his caution. He was always so careful to make things good for me; I wanted to make it good for him.
It was a joy to feel his guard fall, the delicious thoughtleak of him giving in to what he wanted. Mac’s soul felt like making love on silk sheets and a bearskin rug in front of a fire on a cold winter night. Even rough, his hands were gentle, his voice a dark velvet, his thoughtleak bubbling dreamlike images of the fantasy that’d gotten him so worked up: a dark club, a crowd of men, bending me over in a collar and jockstrap and giving it to me. Getting to embarrass me, own me, love me in front of a crowd of appreciative strangers who saw us exactly as we were, without prefacing or explanation.
Mac wanted to fuck me, and he didn’t want it to be a gender studies or disability liberation class.
He kept me turned with my back to him, so as to avoid accidentally squishing my incisions too hard. He knew just when to turn the vibrator up. He kissed my collar, let me work his cock with my ass, and when he was ready, he lubed up and fucked me. As he moved inside me, rougher and needier than he usually allowed himself to be, I marveled that I got to relish this man on a regular basis. My only complaint was—
“Goddammit, another month before you can fuck the other one…”
He chuckled and kissed my cheek. “Be good, and I’ll make waiting worth it.”
I was still adjusting to my post-surgical body, and not particularly het up myself, but his desire, the waves of want and beauty broadcasting from his soul, was irresistible. When I came, Mac did too, surfing my pleasure through the thoughtleak and purring with pleasure. Over the years, he’d come to find my orgasmic thoughtleak such an integral part of sex with me that he sometimes had a hard time coming before me. We’d used it for edging purposes before, but not tonight.
I slumped in his arms, laughing. When I turned to kiss him, he was all smiles and eye-crinkles. We cuddled, cleaned up under the hot water, and then it was time for the party.
“So what’re you wearing?” I asked as we toweled off, because what looks good on the vessel doesn’t necessarily look good on either of us.
Mac poofed a tight white T-shirt, black leather pants, and boots out of our imagination. “Butch drag. You know I look good in it.”
“Indeed you do,” I said, giving him the attention he deserved. “Very classic.” It was also a choice, I knew, that he felt safer in. With his long red hair, dresses, and Daisy Dukes, Mac more resembled a Disney trash princess in daily life than alpha leather daddy. No one could see him in here, but old habits died hard.
“What about you?” He asked, drying his hair and floofing it to the ‘80s bouffant he preferred.
I smiled and conjured up a white tank top, knee socks, and plaid kilt. “I know what you like, gorgeous.”
“You sure do,” he said, rewarding me with a kiss.
For zer part, Sneak wore zer usual clothes, which were appropriate for puppy rough-housing: T-shirt, shorts, sneakers, though with the addition of a pink spiked choker. Ze bounced on the balls of zer feet, both out of eagerness and to keep us warm in the winter cold as we waited for the train, then in the line outside the nightclub. Thirty-five years old, and it was my first time in a club. The crowd around me was mostly white men, mostly cis, and mostly bundled up against the chill like us, though one in front of us wore all leather and had a flogger clipped to his belt. A security guy checked our ID and vax card, and after fifteen minutes, we got in.
Dim red lighting. Pulse-pounding music. And along one wall, a bunch of men stripping down to collars and jocks. I had never seen so many butts in my life.
“Holy shit,” I said. “This is awesome!”
Mac beamed. Finally, he had found a venue for male vanity on par with his own.
We stripped down, bagged our layers, gave them to the coat check, and entered the party proper.
Everywhere I looked were collars, harnesses, jockstraps, and tails. There was a significant minority of trans men, a decent number of women and others, and fashion fetishes abounded: leather, latex, sportswear, rave gear, fursuits. Very few people wore plague masks like mine, but many wore puppy muzzles, hoods, and masks. One tall, thin person was completely sheathed in a shiny black latex suit with towering horns, covering all but eyes and mouth.
It was glorious. It was beautiful.
I started freezing up.
Mac saw my deer-in-headlights look. “Oh, hon,” he said. “Come on, don’t hide, we have to go and talk to people…”
But I felt glued to the spot. Who should I talk to? What should I say? Frantic, I texted my friend.
“Bark at someone!” she advised. “Actually—let Sneak do it!”
Good advice. Fearless, Sneak surged to the fore.
One area had rubber mats on the floor, strewn with squeaky toys and a ball. A couple puppies were already playing on their hands and knees. Sneak beelined for them, took off our shoes, and joined in. Another trans puppy invited zer to play with a bow, and the game was underway! Together, they batted the ball around, took turns squeaking toys, threw them back and forth. Sneak beamed, clapped with delight, and play-bowed, wiggling with joy. A handler, dressed in leather, went around giving pets and enticing his puppies to do tricks with animal cracker treats, but while Sneak watched him with curiosity, ze decided ze wasn’t interested. Ze only wanted to play with other puppies.
None of the play was rough, and Sneak was indeed careful, but nevertheless, we were recovering from surgery, and after a time, our vessel let us know it was time to stop. The sensation wasn’t pain, but if we kept it up, it would be.
“Ooh,” Sneak mind-said queasily. “I don’t feel so good.”
I took over. “I told you to be careful.”
“It was so much fun, though!” I couldn’t be mad, because ze was right. Besides, ze had done me a huge favor: I wasn’t nervous anymore.
Carefully holding our abdomen, I scooted off the mat, then got to my feet. Immediately, a couple other puppies, one in full hood and latex suit, the other bareheaded, came over to check if I was all right. I explained the situation, and they found me a spot to sit down, asking if I needed water or the use of the nearby mobile clinic. I accepted the water, reassured them that I had just overdone it a little, and exchanged contact info with the latex pup, who upon hearing that I was new offered to hook me up with the local pet play scene.
We weren’t hurt, I was pretty sure, but playtime was definitely over. Sneak accepted this with grace; ze’d achieved what ze wanted and was well-satisfied. Settling in to rest, I took out our sketchbook and began to draw. Mac sat at my side, arm over my shoulders as he watched the crowds.
Everywhere we looked, there were beautiful kinky queers reveling in their bodies. The event rules had said no jerking, sucking, or fucking, and the reality seemed to work out to everything being fair game as long as dicks stayed in pants. I saw hooded pups making out, others wrestling, one with a butt plug tail padlocked in place. All over, people were stroking, fondling, fingering, groping, and kissing. A Hitachi Magic Wand was on the seat next to me. It was an unabashedly sexual atmosphere, and yet I felt no pressure to join in. I could just soak in the lusty, joyful ambiance.
Across the space, a threesome was working to thrill the lucky boy in the middle—the one in front gently holding his throat, whispering intently in his ear as the one in back fingered his ass open. I watched the pup arch his back, tilt his hips in unmistakable pleasure, and felt a shock of recognition: Mac and Biff had done that to me at home. Obviously I knew that my loves and I hadn’t invented these acts (ha!) but it was my first time seeing other people do them. It made it real. Suddenly, I wasn’t just a lone pervert: I was part of a community. My desires weren’t a freak of nature: many other people, in my very own city, shared them!
In my condition, I wasn’t aroused, but I felt soul-fed happy, cleansed even.
People acted like kinky queer sex was inherently abusive, scary, and dangerous—like a wedding ring was kinder, purer, less sexual than a collar. Even a pair of leather chaps was considered so disgusting and corrosive that people argued it must be hidden away, even at Pride, for the sake of the children, of asexuals like Sneak, of traumatized people like me.
I glanced at Sneak, who was looking around with polite curiosity, the way someone would watch a match for a sport they knew nothing about. I pinged zer with a nonverbal query: okay?
Ze shrugged and propped zer chin in zer hands. “I’m glad other people are having fun.” Ze had known what ze was getting into, and ze wasn’t bothered.
As for me, I was about as sexually traumatized as a person could get, and seeing these butt-plugged kinksters in diapers and dog masks didn’t scare or disgust me at all. On the contrary: it was such consensual joy! Such in-your-face refutation of the shame and secrecy I’d grown up with! The mobile clinic was offering free PrEP and STD testing and monkeypox vaccines, rather than the abstinence-only diatribes I’d grown up with, and it was clearly more effective and helpful! In that moment, I felt free.
Thus inspired, I drew a beautiful slender young man in a rope harness. I drew hoods, jocks, and harnesses of various materials from myriad angles. A tiny tomboy sat next to me, and they turned out to be an artist too, so we drew each other, swapped info, and talked about our kinks. My idea worked: a sketchbook was a great icebreaker! I filled page after page.
When I next checked the time, it was almost midnight. We’d only planned on staying out til eleven. Sneak had already curled up on the headspace floor, smiling in zer sleep. Our incisions felt okay, and a few tourists had plunked down next to me to laugh loudly, take an irritating number of selfies, and block me from further conversation, so I got our bag, pulled on our winter layers, and headed for home.
As we sat on the train, chugging its way across town, I still felt surprisingly awake, but Mac was half-drowsing against my shoulder, leaning against me for support. As he wrapped his arm over my shoulders, he crooned, “you went clubbing for me.”
“You know you can talk me into anything.” I kissed his cheek. “Sorry you didn’t get to show me off.”
“I’m happy,” he said, and I could feel the contentment radiating through his thoughtleak. This was what he had truly wanted—to be surrounded by the horny, happy crowds, to revel and celebrate and party. “What do you say next time, Biff and I play the big bad old leather daddies who cruise you and take your innocent ass home?”
I hid my face in his neck. “Oh nooo.”
I could feel his wicked grin. “Oh yesss.”
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Date: 2023-04-27 03:03 am (UTC)--Hikaru
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Date: 2023-09-30 01:52 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2023-04-27 05:16 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2023-09-30 01:52 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2023-04-28 05:18 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2023-04-28 04:09 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2023-09-30 01:52 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2023-04-30 04:52 am (UTC)Is vicarious joy a thing?! Glad y'all had fun.
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Date: 2023-09-30 01:53 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2023-09-08 02:37 pm (UTC)anyway; that sounds like it was a great experience! we'd love to try out something like that but the body is a minor. that's alright though. we wouldn't know how to find these kinds of events anyway. glad you guys had a nice experience though!
-Dottore
no subject
Date: 2023-09-12 04:44 pm (UTC)