Week of Debauchery Date #5 - Looking For The Matched Set

Hi muffdivers!

It's time for the last Week of Debauchery date.

Date #5!

Let us start with an analogy.

Have you ever been to a wedding-cake tasting?

A wedding-cake tasting is when you go to a bakery that makes wedding cakes and they try to persuade you to choose them for all your wedding cake needs. 


They bring out all kinds of cake and give you binders full of pictures to look at. 

The saleslady says things like "marzipan" and "fondant" and talks about how different frostings will hold up in the heat of an outdoor June wedding. 


You get to sample flavors of cake.  For free!

It is very exciting.


Vanilla.  German chocolate.  Limonciello.  Pistachio, red velvet, raspberry, dutch cocoa, orange liqueur.  Coconut cake!  Strawberry n' cream cake!  All for you! 


Why yes, I am the bride-to-be.

Anyway!  After a few flavors of cake, you start to lose track.  You think "Mmm, that was good"  every time you try a new piece.

You go "Huh.  Well, this piece is delicious, too.  You know what?  I love cake." 

You take bigger bites than necessary.

Eventually, it hits you like a thunderbolt:

The bakery badly wants to make the sale. 

They will keep letting you try cake as long as you want. 

They will continue to give you cake. 

There is no limit to the amount of cake you can have.

                                             [via sweetopia]

And that's how you find yourself locked in the bakery bathroom an hour later, horking your buttercream guts out.

When you get back to the tasting, everyone (with self-control) is still going strong.

They don't know you just barfed.  
You play it cool.  Act like you were just peeing. 

But there's one thing you're now certain of:  You never want to see a piece of cake again.

Not ever.  No more.  You hate cake.  You'll never touch it again.

And then...the bakery brings out the piece de resistance. 

A kind of cake you've never had before - a caramel-brandy extravaganza, with edible flowers made of butterscotch candy floss.

And even though, five seconds ago, you were sure you didn't want to eat cake ever again...
well, you've never had caramel-brandy cake. 

AND WHAT IF IT'S AWESOME? 

What if it's your favorite kind of cake ever, and you never know, because you missed tasting it because you pussed out when it really counted?

That's what Date #5 was for me.

By Friday, I was cured of women.
Never wanted to fuck again.

                                           [via conversations about]


I was sore and tired and as limp as a noodle. 
I had weird bruises.  There was carpet burn.

I had had my cake.  I never wanted to see cake again. 

And the only reason I didn't just say "fuckit" and cancel my date for Friday night was because it was the piece de resistance...

I was meeting a couple.

                                             [via dirtyprettything]

This is the email they sent me:

So you want to have lots and lots of sex huh?
I got what you're looking for. Me and my lady will fuck you into next week.
We are an open dyke couple; she is more "femme" while I am more "butch". We are both drug and disease-free, non-smokers and up for anything. 
She is a tall beautiful blonde; I am tall, dark-haired and pixie-like. She is 35, in-shape, and SMOKIN' (if I say so myself).
I am 32, HWP, and pretty darn cute.
Would send a pic, but don't have a good one of both of us.

A couple!  A dyke couple!

                                                                      [via nevver]

Fags, I was thrilled.  I've never had a threesome with two women.  
I guess you could call it a "life goal".


However, I didn't let myself get too excited. 


They didn't send a picture.  Plus, "a tall, beautiful blonde"?

                                                                      [via hipcumon]

Who says that?  Nobody says that.


They were probably men.  Only men pretending to be women describe themselves like that. 


Bah. 
A tall, beautiful blonde.  A dark-haired, pixie-like butch. 


I would believe it when I effing saw it. 


Certain I would never hear from them again, I actually sent them this:  
Thanks for your interest, but I think you're a dude.  

Ha ha HA.  Fuck off, Craigslist predators!

Ten minutes later, I got an email back.  All the email said was, "Ha. We're women. If you'd like to voice-verify, we'd be happy to speak with you."   

There were two pictures attached. 
And...they looked good!  The femme was tall and pretty!  The butch really was pixie-like! 

                                          [via lizzyhatfreak]


There was also a phone number.
These dykes were not new to the Craigslist game.

So...I called them.  What the heck. 
I talked to both of them - their names were Cerise and Ryan. 

Cerise was the femme and she had a deep voice.  Very throaty.  Ryan was the butch and she cleared her throat a lot. 

We had kind of an awkward conversation. 



Me:  Hello?  Hello?


Voices: (overlapping voices) Hello?  Hi!  Hey.  Krista?


Me:  Uh...am I on speakerphone?


You know how sometimes you can't get the rhythm of a phone conversation going?  You keep interrupting each other without meaning to?  That was what was going on. 

                                                [via lesfemmes]

However - they were both nice and cute-sounding and not men.

Ryan teasingly commended me on my level of caution. 
Cerise kept laughing with that whiskey voice.

Suddenly I wasn't so sore anymore.

We agreed to meet at The Stumbling Monk at 8 pm to "see if we all hit it off." 

Ahehehehe.

                                           [via cutegirlsmakemenervous]


So.
I got there early, actually got a parking space within the same block as the bar (did I rescue a baby in another life?) and managed to secure a table. 


I was wearing my best red "seduction" dress and, in honor of the occasion  (Baby's 1st All-Female Threesome!) was wearing high-heeled boots. 
Wildly uncomfortable. 
Obviously worth it.


I could not. wait.


But...20 minutes later, I was still waiting.


Dum de dum de dum...


Ryan and Cerise were late. 

I started to get really nervous.  Wouldn't it be a terrible way to end the Week of Debauchery if I got stood up?

                                                 (by canovix)

I suddenly wasn't so sure about any of this.

I fidgeted.  I peeled the fresh red polish off my fingernails.  I examined my hair for split ends and went to the bathroom twice, just to make sure I looked ok. 
I played with my phone in that desperate way you do when you're trying to look busy.


By 8:35, I was ready to leave. 

Who did these bitches think they were?  Why was I sitting in a yet another dark bar when I don't even drink in my cutest red dress waiting for two slow assholes who might be serial killers after all and couldn't even bother to show up on time for no-strings-attached fucking? 

Why did I want to sleep with two strangers, anyway?  What was I thinking?  Was I a just huge slut, but not in a positive way like I'd always thought? 


Was this all just so I could check off "threesome with two women" on my list of experiences? 
What was I doing there?

                                              [via fringeandglasses]

Once I start in with the deep questions I sometimes can't stop.
 
I had worked myself into a good lather.  I grabbed my bag and paid my tab. 

Fuck them.

And then I got a text.

"Hey, we're late"  it said. "U cool? Be ther 1/2 hr" .

No apology.  Not "Hey, I'm really sorry, but we're running late, totally understand if you're pissed, sorry sorry sorry"  but "Be ther 1/2 hr".

And you know what?

No.

I didn't want my first all-layday threesome to happen like this.


In my head, my perfect threesome involved me meeting two elfin boi-dykes who were British and first made out with each other for hours while I watched and then ravaged me in a very cool London apartment that smelled like cloves. 

They worshipped my body, were best friends, and couldn't believe their luck.

As I pictured this, I realized something:  I was willing to negotiate on the cloves and the locale (other acceptable locations were Tokyo, Taipei, Paris, Sao Paulo, Milan, or Buenos Aires)...but not much else.

I've heard that sexual fantasies are often disappointing in real life.

                                                [via hellogirls]
 
Well, here was my big chance to have a threesome with two other lesbians. 
They would "be ther 1/2 hr".

Hmph.  Nothin' doin'. 
I decided to hold out for my dream.

Outside The Stumbling Monk, I took deep, head-clearing breaths.

It was still fucking raining.

I got in my car and drove home. 
Kelly was waiting for me. 
So was a re-run of America's Next Top Model. 

We had a great night.

Now, don't worry.  The perfect first all-woman threesome still lives on in my mind, lezzies.  I'll get there someday. 

Someday I'll walk into a club in London where M.I.A. is playing and there they'll be:  Adorable best-friend bois with British accents and tattoos.  They'll make out for hours on the dance floor, call their cigarettes "fags", and then they'll take me home, where we will fuck all night and I'll make jokes about sandwiches.

I just don't think I can settle.

                                               [via hipsterdykes]

As my Week of Debauchery drew to a close, I reflected on the many lessons I had learned.


Listen to your intuition.

Don't let curiosity lead you down a path filled with lizards.

Only fuck people who ask about and respect your limits.

A little danger can be exciting. Try the whip.   

There really are sex clubs in America.  You can easily go to them, but you have to know someone and be on your best behavior, like when you meet the Queen.

                                           and finally

If something is important to you...you have to be willing to wait for it.

                                                                       Day 72 (by John .)                 

Hoo!  We made it!  Week of Debauchery!


We'll hafta do this again sometime, eh?

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.