something in orchard

something happened in orchard, that time i was shopping at forever21 and i meet with girl from Toronto. she is a blogger, she loves fashion. and she was interested with me and my friends. then she took shot of me and my friends, and enter our photo into the she blog. i'm very glad to meet her :)
let's check her blog http://cityflare.blogspot.com

universal studio

28june2010,I went to universal studio singapore with evelyn,diana,sevvy and stella
photo1: with all my girls,except diana ,photo2:action with evelyn and sculpture funny, photo3:I wear a crown cap,and it is not mine of course ,photo4:
in front of the far far away castle,I wear Rayband glasses, Gaudi cardigans, mini Zara jeans,unbranded shoes,

singapore holiday

june,24-29 I went to singapore with my friends .just a little trip.but I think this is a remarkable journey,I am very pleased with this trip, hoping the next time could be like this again with my girls :)
photo 1: I was walking with Evelyn in the orchard after shopping at Forever21 ,photo2:I wore a mini dress with flower vest, Versace handbags,rayband sunglasses,shoes are not branded,forever21 necklace,forefer21 bracelet, photo3: with evelyn,sevvy and stella in front of the Mandalay tower, captured by diana, photo4: at bugis street, photo5: in front of tan tock seng hospital :)

Week of Debauchery Date #4 - Feelin' Positive

                                                                       [via formoredetails]

What's happening, fags?

Right now, I'm in one of my favorite coffee places in Chicago - Swim Cafe.  

Swim Cafe is loaded with girls who appear gayer than hell...we're talking plugs in the ears, messenger bags, pinup girl tattoos, and fauxhawks. 

However, as this is Chicago, we can safely assume that every girl in here is just a hipster.

Whatevs.  I'm not bitter.

It's time to talk about Date #4, right?

And I have to tell you something: 

Right around 9 a.m. on Thursday morning, I was ready to hang up my hat.

What was the point of continuing my Week of Debauchery?
Why bother to fuck anyone else?


I had just slept with a butch dom who gave me flogging lessons.  Plus, I was sore.

Fuckit.  The week could only go downhill from here.

                                                                          [via wepushupflowers]

But...my date for the night did look promising.

Her name was Logan.  She had sent me this:

Hi,

I am a 33 year old, brown-eyed butch top. I just happen to like debauchery, conversation, pervy femmes, getting to know people in a variety of manners, pina colodas, long walks in the rain... 

 When are you going to be in town? I don't think I could be yours for the week but I wouldn't mind taking up a night or two on your calendar - it seems only fair if you are looking for all kinds of misbehavior that you sample several Seattlelites.  

Good, right?
Logan attached a picture.  I opened it.
 
AND WHAT DO YOU KNOW...
 
I recognized her.


I had seen that face before.

                                                        [by kelsey henderson]

Two years ago, I had been trolling Craigslist for a possible date in Seattle, and I came across a really good ad.  It was funny and well-worded.
The ad was in the "Casual Encounters" section, and it had a picture of a skinny, tattooed butch, smirking into the sun. 
 
Now, the ad was kind of old - this girl had put it up about a week before I saw it, but I figured:  if she wanted to fuck then, wouldn't she still want to fuck, seven days later? 

Instantly smitten, I spent the next hour composing a reply to her ad, hoping to woo this mystery butch with my cleverness.
 
After reading and rereading my reply, I went back to the butch's ad, to find out the address to send it to.
 
AND THE AD HAD BEEN REMOVED. 
 
Aaaghhwhygodwhy??? 

My witty reply was wasted! 

Crestfallen, I returned to sifting through the other ads on Craigslist.
 
Eventually, in a big sulk, I shut my laptop with a bang.  I think I spent the rest of the night watching reruns of The Bacholorette with Kelly.
 
That was two years ago.
 
And now, here, in a complete reversal of roles, was this cute little answer to my ad, along with the picture of the mystery butch I never got a chance to sleep with.  

Either it really is a small fucking world, or God is watching out for my crotch.

Anyway!
I was excited to meet this Logan.  She didn't know it, but our date was two years in the making.
 
Right about midday, though, I realized something: I'd forgotten to ask Logan if she could host; ie if we could fuck at her house. 
I never bring people back to my place - I have straight roommates in Seattle.
 
I quickly sent her an email.  Logan sent me one right back.  It appeared there was a little snag. 

We couldn't go to Logan's house.
But we couldn't go to mine, either.
 
What were we going to do?
 
Logan was quick on her feet.  Within 10 minutes, she had sent me a list of options.  They were:
 
Assuming we hit it off when we met....


a) We could get a hotel.

b) We could grab a blanket and head outside.

c) We could go to something intriguing called The Wet Spot, depending on how kinky I was.

Hmmm.  What do you think I picked?
 
The Wet Spot???  What the heck was The Wet Spot???
 
Logan, via email, explained that The Wet Spot was a nickname - the place was actually named the Center for Sex Positive Culture, and it was a non-profit organization in Seattle where you could go and get your freak on. 
She said it was good, trashy fun.
 
A sex club sponsored by the government?
This I had to see.
 
Logan and I agreed to meet at 8 p.m. that night in Capitol Hill.
She said she'd be sitting outside a dessert bar called Dilettante.
 
At exactly 8 p.m., I crossed the street to the bar.


There was Logan, sitting on a bench, waiting for me.

                                                        [via lesfemmes]

No mistaking her - she looked, at first glance, like a 15-year-old boy wearing her dad's Carhartt jacket.


How. Cute.


Ahehehehe OMG she was adorable. Adorable.


We greeted each other.  She grinned. 
I was pretty much licking my chops. 
She steered me into the dessert bar with her hand on the small of my back.
We sat in a tall booth and faced one another.

Logan.
Logan was in her early 30's.  She had dark brown hair, cut like a boy's, and her skin was really, really white.


Not just "I'm a pale person" white; more like, "I'm-an-extra-in-that-scene-in-Twilight-where-they-go-to-Italy-to-stand-up-to-the-court-of-vampires" white.

She was extremely thin, with large brown eyes, and she had that sort of hunted look that I sometimes see on really butch women.


Now, you filthy sluts know that I don't eat gluten. Or dairy.
And we were sitting in a restaurant that served nothing but cake.
There was not a thing on the menu I could eat without instantly becoming unattractively puffy.

Not wanting to be rude, I pretended to scan the menu.  Logan was looking at hers.

(long silence)


Logan: You know what? (laughs nervously) I can't eat almost anything here. I'm allergic to everything.


Me: What??  Really?  Fuck, me too!! (in a relieved rush) I can't eat gluten! Or dairy! I just didn't say anything because I didn't want to be that girl.


Logan:  Ha.  Wow.  Me either.  The only thing here we can have, then, is the Mexican hot chocolate.  They brew it with water. And the chocolate doesn't have cream.  It's really good.


Me: Is it bad that I'm really happy you can't eat anything?


My fate was sealed.  Logan had food allergies.  And they were waaaay worse than mine.  Pretty much the only thing Logan could eat was rice and some kinds of vegetables.

                                                [via hipsterdykes]


Some girls woo with flowers. Some girls woo with candy.


Some girls woo with their ability to rattle off the entire ingredient list of any given food.


Logan and I spent the next two hours slurping on our hot chocolates and having a pissing contest about who takes more nutritional supplements.

I liked her immensely - she had a way of bashfully looking down at her hands when I complimented her.
Her nails were chewed to the quick on every finger.


She was direct; so direct, in fact, that it threw me.


Logan: So what, exactly, are you looking to get out of tonight?


Me: Honestly? I just want to get taken advantage of.


Logan: Oh good. That's all I do.

Logan filled me in on what exactly The Wet Spot was going to be like. 


The Wet Spot was a safe spot to have public sex. 
Apparently there were different rooms; places you could watch people doin' it, and places you could go to be private, with no voyeurs.


Understandably, I had some major questions, first and foremost being:


Are you sure that some guy can't just walk into our private room and watch us fuck?

Answer:  Absolutely not. Private rooms are private.  Public rooms are public.  Anyone who decides to crash a party they haven't been invited to gets kicked out.  Forever.


People behave themselves.


You have to be a member of the club to get in.  All members were directly responsible for the behavior of their guests.  So, if I lost my head in the Center for Sex Positive Culture, it would be Logan's fault and she would be banned.  Forever.

Logan warned me that there was some fairly interesting shit going on at The Wet Spot, and that most of it wasn't exactly...pretty to look at. 
Alcohol and drugs were not allowed.  Cameras and cell phones were confiscated at the door.  Safety was a priority.
She told me that if I was uncomfortable, at any time, we'd leave.


Let me just tell you, I could not fucking wait. 

It was pretty much a "checkplease" situation.

                                                                    [via hellogirls]

I trusted Logan at this point.  And I liked her.  I hopped in her little white car and proceeded to flip through her CD collection.


She had every Led Zeppelin album ever.  50 points.

Logan started the engine.  Then she turned to me and said, "You know what? Maybe we should try kissing, just to see if we really click. You know...sexually."


Um, Logan, you have every Led Zeppelin album ever made. 
Did you want to just fuck in the car?

                                             [via fuckyeahpyts]

I kissed her mouth.  Just to see.


Then we made out in the car.


Ten minutes later, Logan pulled away from me, turned the ignition, and we drove to The Wet Spot.

What to say about the Center for Sex Positive Culture...


It was a little bit trashy, like I expected. 

It was just a plain old warehouse space, with a teeny tiny sign and gravel parking. 

Inside, a strange blond girl with pigtails gave me a two-page waiver to fill out and sign.  She had fingerless net gloves and a very "I'm out of college and I'm sooooo open-minded about sex" vibe going on.


Logan flashed her member card, which thrilled me.  I love going places where you have to be a member.  The exclusivity of it all!


Past the front door, interesting things were happening. 


First of all, there was the music.  The music was hilarious.
It was the kind of industrial shit they play at Hot Topic - music for 14-year-old goth kids.

There were couches and chairs everywhere, and I asked Logan if we could just sit and watch for a minute.
We curled, somewhat awkwardly, onto a couch. I snuggled into her. She smelled like soap.


We were looking into a fairly large, cement-floored room, and it was pretty dark.  There were strobe lights flashing.  Typical club stuff.

What was not typical, however, was what was going on.


A very large, mostly naked middle-aged woman was dancing with herself in the center of the dance floor. 
She didn't need no partner.


She had enormous breasts, and she was holding both nipples with her pinkies out, like a slut who'd been asked to tea.
She closed her eyes and swayed to the music.  She had a blissed-out smile on her face.

Next to her, a straight couple was necking, their arms around each other.  The man had a black latex executioner mask on, with holes cut for the eyes and mouth.  The woman had a perm and mom-jeans on.


There was a fairly hot dyke with bright blue hair and lots of facial piercings.  Her eyes were darting around the room.  She was alone. She looked hungry.

There was a woman in her fifties wearing a black leather leotard and a high fake ponytail.  She was brandishing a French tickler - a long black pole with a feather on the end of it. 
She was using the feather on a buck-naked, very pale bald man, who was strapped, spread-eagle, to something that looked like a leather spiderweb.
They both looked really happy.

Lots of other people were dancing.  Lots of people were watching the dancers.  There were big posters everywhere advertising safe sex.


Meh.
I grabbed Logan's hand.  I wanted to check out the other rooms.


There was another room, very well-lit, that had more of a college-dorm feel to it. 
There was a little cluster of twenty-somethings who appeared to know one another very well, and they were swinging from the ropes that were attached to the ceiling and jokingly climbing on the medical equipment that littered the room.


They were all fully dressed, laughing a little too loud, and seemed to be competing to see who could be the most blase about the fact that they were in a sex club.

Meh.
Gyno stirrups as a chair. Ov-er it.


I was ready to see these 'private rooms' I had been told about.
Logan led me through a chilly corridor into the last open area. 


I was expecting to see doors.
A dark hallway, lined with doors, like a creepy motel, maybe.


I was not expecting...a fort.

[by skunkboy]

You guys, it looked like a giant fort.
One huge room that had been divided into eight "bedrooms" by sheets!


You could hear everything going on in each room.  Everything.


What the fuck.

There were eight mattresses in this big room.  Each mattress had ropes surrounding it.  You could pull them closed.  Sitting on each mattress was a set of freshly laundered sheets and two pillowcases.


On a little shelf near the bed were: condoms, dental dams, a box of latex gloves, water-based lube, and a water cooler with paper cups.


I shook my head, unable to believe my eyes.
This was a non-profit. This was a non-profit!


Jesus, let's move to Seattle.
My fondest daydream is that Focus on The Family gets wind of this place and realizes what American tax dollars are funding.

All around us, other couples had accidentally-on-purpose left their curtains open.

Eesh.

I got a good eyeful of a sweating man rogering his ladyfriend from behind.
She seemed to be having a really good night.

Giggling like crazy, I helped Logan make up our bed.  I couldn't believe how strange this was.  People kept moaning.


"We will be keeping our curtains closed," I informed her solemnly. "Tightly closed."


Homos, this whole night was...completely weird. 
And completely fun.
We both took our shoes off.  We climbed onto our freshly made bed. 
We shut the curtains tight.


Then we made out for a solid hour.
Logan really knew how to make a girl wait for it.

All around us, the music thudded and growled.  Women in other 'rooms' shrieked and groaned theatrically.  It was like they were competing with each other to see who could be the loudest.


I laughed my ass off the whole time.


Logan had stripey white knee-high tube socks on, I discovered in my explorations. 
And cute red cotton boy underpants.
"Those stay on," I commanded.

Logan was a tease. She built me up slowly, until (I'm embarrassed about this) I actually begged her to get on with it.


She was real top - a stone-cold, fuck-you-all-night-no-I-don't-need-a-break kind of top.

She was psychotic about safety, which I appreciated. 

Every now and then, she paused to get me water, and, near the end of the night, she came back with peanuts (for protein!), when I felt like I might collapse.

At one point, the music switched to the theme from Street Fighter, and a woman in the room next to us screamed, "I LOVE THIS SONG!! UH!! Uhhhh!!!!"


I pretty much lost my shit laughing.


Dorks! Public sex is for dorks!

Dorks like me.


The Wet Spot was closing.
They flashed the lights on and off for a 5-minute warning.


Logan and I got up and started trying to find our clothes, which had kind of flown everywhere.  I couldn't find my pants.  Logan couldn't find her bra. We were the last couple left.

                                            [via colourofbone]

I wobbled out of the Center for Sex Positive Culture.  It was raining.
Logan drove me back to my car, and then we made out in the parking lot.


"Lemme know if you're ever in town again," she said.


"Oh I will," I said.

Logan kissed my cheek.
She got in her car and waited for me to get in mine.

                                           

I watched her tail lights vanish in the drizzle.

Public sex at a non-profit swinger's club with a stranger I've had a vague crush on for two years.

                                                               [via molly loveland]
Yahoo for Thursday.

Week of Debauchery Date # 3 - Don't Go Downstairs

Tramps!

It's a gorgeous, gorgeous day. 
I woke up at 7 a.m. to the screech and crunch of what sounded like major construction. 
Looking out my window, I saw something amazing:

They are ripping out our street and putting in new pavement.

Sweet baby jesus yes.

I never thought this day would come.
We live in the state where Rod Blagojevich used to be charge. 
The roads don't get fixed.

Our street is so bad that if the UN decided it was a country and convened about it, it definitely wouldn't make 'developing nation' status.

One of the potholes in front of our house is so big that I hit it on my scooter and fell the hell off the seat.

But this is not so bad. 
There are worse things.  We can live with a shitty road.  
Except....except for there's these 6-year-old twin girls who live a couple houses down from us. 

They're beautiful - they have curly brown hair, humongous brown eyes, and tiny little gold hoop earrings.  They live with their Grandpa, who doesn't speak English and dresses them identically. 

These girls are on summer break, and my afternoon naps are punctuated by the distant sound of their giggles on the breeze. 

They blow bubbles.  They chase their giant dog.  They run shrieking for the ice cream truck.

I love these girls.
And they got roller skates for Christmas.

And the saddest thing in the whole world is watching the twins get their skates out and try to roller skate on our street. 

Holding hands to steady themselves, they slowly navigate around the giant holes in the road and pick their way across the gravel.  They have never gotten more than a few feet on their skates without tripping and falling. 
You should see the Band-Aids on their knees.

It breaks my fucking cold-ass heart.

And now we are getting smooth, black, flat new pavement. 
The twins!  The twins will skate!!

I don't think I've been so happy since I found out that sorbet doesn't have dairy.

Anyway!  That's not why we're here.  We're here to talk about Date #3, aren't we?

So let's talk.

Wednesday, I have to tell you something:  I cheated.

When I set up all my dates on Sunday night, I wanted to safeguard my week.  I wanted to make sure there was at least one night where I knew I would have fun. 

So I set up something foolproof.
I arranged a date with Micah, who I'd already slept with once. 
Cleverness!

                                                                      [via 297]

A long time ago, I found Micah lurking on Craigslist, emailed her, and we slept together.

Details fade over time though, and I couldn't remember a lot about that night - only that Micah was extremely bossy and I'd enjoyed myself immensely.

I sent Micah a chat online. 
Actual text of our lil' transaction: 

Me:  hi there

        this is Krista

Micah:  hello you

Me:  why hello

Micah:  how are you?

Me:   i'm marvelous - i seem to be in town

Micah:  well welcome back
              how long will you be here?

Me:  i'll be here all week, folks!

        hehehe
        no, seriously, i'll be here until friday

        you free any night/want to hangout/fuckmybrainsout?

Micah:  Why yes, I do
               
               I have Wednesday or Thursday
               any good?

Me:   excellent.
          wednesday would work.

Done and done.
I took a bubble bath on Wednesday afternoon, shaved everything again, goddammit, and put on an extremely tight red dress. 

Micah asked me to meet her at bar called Lottie's, on the south side of Seattle.

I got there right on time.
Micah was sitting at a little table, waiting for me. 


Ohhhhhh yeahhhh....
Everything came rushing back.  Now I remembered alllll about Micah.  It was like seeing an old friend!

                                            [via arrachecoeur]



Micah has a dark-brown crew cut, thick black geeky-on-purpose glasses, and a smirk you would have to see to believe. 
She was wearing a motorcycle jacket, jeans, and, since I had last seen her, had had top surgery.
(*Translation for those who don't know what top surgery is:  Top surgery, briefly, is when you have your breasts removed.*)

Micah technically identifies as trans, but doesn't mind which gender you refer to her as.  For ease, I'll refer to Micah as 'she', mmkay?

Alright.  I sat down.  I grinned evilly.  Micah grinned evilly. 
She got right up and ordered me a drink. 
Manners! Fuck yeah!

We sat at our table, hashing over what we'd been doing since we last saw each other.
She drank straight scotch.  Three of them. 
I nursed my cider, watching the sky outside darken. 

I found myself a little nervous about what was in store for me that night.

You guys.  I was nervous for a reason.
 
Micah is really, really, heavy into SM. 
We're talking deep into it.

I am...not. 

But I want to like it. 

It's the cliches about SM that make me laugh.  All that 'master' and 'slave' stuff. 

However, I'm extremely inexperienced in this area. 

Now, I realize SM is not all about latex outfits, whips, and dominatrixes making you lick their boots. 
It can be like that, but I know it's really about power exchanges, and I'm into power stuff.

So - I'm interested.  I want to learn. 

So...Micah. 
Micah is a butch dom.  And a college professor.  And an author.

Smart/ Frightening/ Charming.

She's trained in heavy stuff, like cutting and piercing.  She's deep into the SM scene in Seattle. 
She has loads of girls who happily get her to hurt them on a regular basis.

She scares the shit out of me.

I'm delighted by her. 
While she scares me, she also makes me feel extremely safe.  You feel like you're in really good hands when you're with Micah.  You feel instinctively (and she also tells you up front) that you will never do anything that makes you feel unsafe with her. 

We left the bar and drove back to her house.  She has an amazing place - it overlooks the entire city. 

She also has an iron four-poster bed that's bolted to the fucking floor.

Nothing like an overactive sex life to send you running to Home Depot for a new drill.

I forgot how much I like Micah's house.  It's like going down the rabbit hole in a bondage version of Alice in Wonderland.
There are white pillar candles everywhere. There are red silk drapes.

Lots of the furniture looks normal, but actually does double-duty. Like, you think it's a poufy ottoman, but if you flip it over...there are bondage ropes criss-crossing the ottoman's underside.
You grab the ropes and use them to secure someone on top of the (oh my god, it's water-resistant) cushion.


What fun. I went all around the house, demanding to know which furniture was for what.


Me: (pointing to the couch) What's that?


Micah: (flipping up the cushions) It turns into a piercing table.


Me:  Wowww.  What does that do? (pointing)


Micah:  That's where I keep my knives.


Me:  Woowwwww. What does that one do?


Micah:  That is a piano bench.


Now, I knew Micah had an extremely scary trunk of violence and bondage gear, and she was very good to me.
She brought the trunk out and allowed me to pick through it, letting me pull things out and patiently explaining what everything was for. 
Lots of creepy stuff in there.

Was I ever having a great time!  I was a sexual anthropologist!  I was learning!


Then she told me to pick something.


Oops.  Game over.  Micah was turning the show back into sexytimes.


I chose what looked like the safest object in the trunk - a long leather whip with lots of soft suede tassels.

There was another reason I chose the whip - Micah had asked me if there was anything about SM that turned me on, even a little bit.


I told her that when I was 16, I had read The Story of O (don't ask me where I got it - try to picture a Mormon teenage virgin with her eyes falling out of her head) and thought the whipping scenes were kind of hot.
Sort of.

So that's what we were going to do.  I was going to get strapped to the ottoman and flogged. 


Just another Wednesday night.

Micah lit all the candles. She put on Portishead.  She took all my clothes off, slowly.  She asked me to stand, naked, in the middle of her living room. 
Then she sat back and looked at me, silently, for a very long time.


I'm naked a lot, but I have never felt so completely...undressed before. Very much without clothes.

Ooh I kinda liked it.


We put me on the ottoman. 
Micah told me there was a pain scale for SM - it goes from 1 to 10.   A '1' is pretty much like a happy little tickle.  A '10' is the most pain you've ever felt in your life - unbearable pain.
You should never, ever, get to a '10'.


I asked what level I should get to, and Micah, trying hard to keep a straight face, said, "I don't think we should take you past a hard 7."

                                               [via Rick Legal]

Hmph.  I can take it.


She said, "Let's go through the levels so you can see what they're like."


Micah hit my thigh with the flogger.


Bah.


"That's a 2," I sneered.


She hit me again.


"That's a...3?"


She hit me again. Hard.


"Ah...that's a 6!!"


Micah grinned.


"That should actually be right around a 3 for you," she smiled.


I didn't believe her. She was calling me a sissy! She thought I couldn't take pain!

"Hit me with a 7," I commanded.  "What you think my 7 is."


Micah raised her eyebrows.


"Don't be a hero."


"C'mon. Do it! I can take it!"


"Say please."


I said please.  Micah hit me hard.

Suddenly getting flogged wasn't so funny anymore.


"WAUGH!....Owwww it stings..."


"I know. But you're still fine. I think that's probably right around your 7. I'm going to hit you with what you thought was your 6 before, so you feel the difference."


She hit me again, and I did feel a difference.
God I'm a wuss.


Micah was fantastic. She was helping me understand and define what I could take, pain-wise. 
We figured out my levels, and...then she flogged me within an inch of my life.


I'd be lying if I said I didn't enjoy myself.

                                                                         [via fashionandfeminism]

She even (because I begged and pleaded like a 5-year-old at Chuckie Cheese)  gave me Flogging 1001 and let me practice on her.


You guys, a professional butch dom let me hit her. 


Let me tell you how carefully I aimed.

I learned the parts of the body you should never hit.
I learned how to hold the whip, how to control where it lands, and how to sight your target.


I also learned I would rather be the flogger than the floggee.

When we were finished with what was, probably, the lightest SM scene Micah had set up since middle school, we went back to the bedroom and had good ol' fashioned lesbian sex. 
The really toppy kind.  At my request.


Micah was seriously dominant and super-aggressive.  I loved every bullying second of it.


We fucked, and when we had spent ourselves, we argued about dadaism and which of Jonathan Safran Foer's books was best. 

It was like being in college again, but a special college where everybody already knows how to have sex.

                                              [via trhsn]

Ahahahaha.  An English Lit professor!
A butch dom!


What a fucking treat.

                                             [via dinobearthemighty]

Thank god for Wednesday - I was seriously getting worried!