Bryce Lloyd

It is difficult to explain how they got here. Long ago, it felt like long ago but really it was not, she had asked him whether he had a collar that she could wear during what had become very their very kinky sex and romance. It seemed of a piece with the cuffs and straps and leather implements, creating a mood and providing one more means of restraint. "Collars are not toys", he had said, "at least not to me. There are some who treat them that way, as a plaything or as fashion. But I am among the people who give them significance." At the time, she had remembered hearing about collaring as something that people did, and that it symbolized submission or slavery, or, well, she wasn't certain. What she knew for certain was that this was a topic that she had, a moment ago, had less than no interest in, and he had said a few words and she was suddenly eager to hear more. That kind of thing seemed to keep happening with him. So she had asked what ...

The skin of your back. The muscles in your shoulders. The ridge of your spine. The curve of your waist. The soles of your feet. The arch of your torso. The rhythm of your breath. The glistening of your sweat. The grace of your neck. The color of your hair. The shiver in your movements. The sighs from your chest. The force of your heart. The relaxation of your body. The ecstasy of your surrender.

My wife and I once watched a television show. We watched many, actually, but this show was of specific importance. We had embraced polyamory, and here on television was a reality show  (however generously so described) about the topic of polyamory. We were each also blogging on these matters, so we (well, I didn't think of this) decided to live blog each episode. And so, we watched the show. One of the narrative lines followed three people who were together in a relationship and their decision to marry. Each week it built up to the marriage, as I remember it, and made plain their internal and external conflicts. And then they were going to select their wedding rings. What the decided was not to have rings at all, but to tattoo rings onto their ring fingers. At this moment, I need to back up. When I married, as I have described before , I was drawn to permanence and it's symbols. And, beyond that, or because of that, I was also in a mindset of love and relationships...

Before the great Bryce Lloyd fire of '15 (not an actual fire), on the ancient version of this blog, I wrote an essay. I wrote many actually, and many were lost in the (not literal) fire. Two of these were such that keenly feel their loss, and I remember them with fondness, and also sadness. What follows is an effort to recapture one of these again here, because I feel as if it had an enduring value, at least to me. We shall see about that. When I was first married, I was drawn to symbols of permanence: gold rings, diamonds (which are not really forever) and things, in general, that seemed an unchanging touchstone that could represent the eternal. These symbols, perhaps, were manifestations of my insecurity, but they also embodied an ideal: they were physical representations of a lasting love that could, and would, survive the years. I think that it is an image and an idea that society presents and we consume, unthinkingly, but it also did resonate with my own image and unde...

One of the places I did not imagine that I would go when I began my journey was becoming a quite avid fan of vibrators. I know that there are men who enjoy using them or having them used on those men's own bodies, but that is not what I am talking about. For whatever reasons of physiology or psychology I don't enjoy that feeling. I am a fan of using vibrators to make women happy, whatever happy might be, and to tease and frustrate before that to bring the greater happiness later. There is so much to love. They are tireless instruments, and their abilities exceed the limitations of the flesh, but continue on with their work with unvarnished monomania (though I have dealt with the unfortunate matter of batteries giving out at an inopportune time). They can also be precise instruments, causing just the right amount of pleasure, walking up to the edge and then retreating, then walking again and back. They can find just the right spot and do it at just the right moment. An...

It is more than what it is. It seems a very simple thing, a physical transaction. The arm moves and the falls strike the skin. The leather or suede or whatever material they are made from patters in a tiny storm and draw themselves along the body, leaving their evidence as they travel. Slide off and the arm pulls them back. Then through the air to strike again. It seems almost as nothing. Simplicity itself. It can be, of course. But it can be more. It can be transcendent. It can be meditative. Which sounds like nonsense, until you experience it. When I began, it was all I could do to, with minimal competence, to land the falls on the beautiful expanse of skin before me. All I could do to accomplish what is so simple. And so, the raw, physical act was all there could be. But somewhere it became more, much more. One day it was different. It is something in the rhythm, perhaps. Or maybe more. Because, for me, and those I have shared it with, it creates a place in isolati...