I always thought kinks, fetishes, or new sexual interests were something concretely formed early in life. Exposed to fetish at an young age (on accident by my own discovery, being that I was curious child who read a lot), I sorted out on my own that the dominant/submissive roles were simply something that one had from sexual awakening. This thinking was, I thought, confirmed, when I hit puberty and realized my interest was much less in the boys my own age and much more in their fathers. After all, the fathers seemed very well in control, some of them were teachers who easily handled a classroom of adults without fear. These things (and the submissive side they brought out) appealed to me and, with my fascination for hands, I thought I had my kinks well sorted.
Then, one day, my boyfriend expressed his interest in me wearing a strap on.
Well, that sounded good. Hot, even. The more I thought about it, even the dangerous thrill I got from thinking about him sucking my ‘cock’, I quickly and easily tucked it away into my list of interests.
He brought up the idea of me dominating him, albeit perhaps more subtly than one would think. I was game, though a little nervous.
Then, we got into a discussion about me wearing his boxers and how sexy he found it. He laughed, asking if I’d feel the same way about him wearing some of my underwear. I started to laugh too, amused at the image, until I thought about it a little more. He has great legs, and how good would he look with my underwear pooled around his ankles while I suck him off? Well, that one got tucked away into the proverbial filing cabinet too.
Much to my surprise the kinks and interests have continued to pile up. We talk through them as best we can, working the delicate lines of trust and control, gender and play, exploring our fantasies and having a blast while doing so.
I wonder, sometimes, how we’re going to discuss kinks with our children (when the come, and when they’re old enough to have that level of a sexual talk). Until then, I think the best thing is to keep talking and keep having fun. Practice make perfect, and practice, I’ve found, makes more kinks.
My kids are taught that you can’t control who you love. Some boys love boys, some girls love girls. It’s just a fact of life.
When my son was eight he came to me and asked, “Mommy, am I gay?”
“I don’t know Zach,” I replied, “Do you want to kiss boys?”
“No,” he said, smiling.
“Do you want to kiss girls?” I asked.
He thought about it and said, “No.”
“It’s too soon to tell,” I told him.
Zach’s uncle is gay and being gay is no big deal in our house. I really think that’s the way it should be in everyone’s house.
The earlier you teach your children tolerance and acceptance the easier it will be for them to accept all people regardless of race, religion or sexual orientation. Best thing about it is that Zach knows, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that if he does end up being gay we will love him just as much as we always did. Think about that for a minute… think about how many teens commit suicide because they’re too scared to be gay alone or to come out and be rejected. Regardless of how you feel about homosexuals, be it for religious or other reasons, there is always a chance that your child could be one (or your niece/nephew/cousin/aunt/uncle/etc). Would you love your child less? Would it change who they are? I pray not.
Today is Harvey Milk’s birthday. Until the movie I had never heard of Harvey Milk. I’m proud of what he did. I’m proud to say that, regardless of who you love, my family will judge you on the content of your character… not your orientation.
–Submitted by Dawn Tulman, ToiBocks.com
“Dad are you wearing mom’s jeans?” the 10yr old son asks.
“No, they’re my jeans.” They are low rise stretchy denim with flared legs and I hike them up a bit to make sure my pink panties aren’t peeking out the top.
“I’ve seen him wear those before,” says the 17yr old. “They’re girl jeans. Don’t you think those are girl jeans?” He asks the new girlfriend. “First painted toe nails now girl jeans, mom is turning you into a woman.”
“And don’t forget he even had painted finger nails that matched his toes for a while last summer,” says the younger kid, pulling off a sock to show the new girlfriend that they’re not making it up. “If mom told you to wear a dress and a purple wig you would do it wouldn’t you?”
The new girlfriend is clearly rattled by the conversation and my pretty pink toenails. ♀ saves the day by announcing that dinner is ready.
I wonder if this is the best approach with the kids; letting them see a little bit at a time. It is possible that either of them could walk in on me and me see fully dressed en femme and that wouldn’t be so good. I could sit them down and tell them straight out that I’m a cross-dressing sissy and explain what that means. Though that could be difficult since ♀ are still exploring that ourselves.
Also, the younger kid is only with us part time. Would his mother haul my frilly ass back to court for deviant behavior?
When we picked him up from school on Halloween, ♀ told him she wanted me to go to the school dressed as a woman (for a costume), but that we’d ran out of time. She asked if he would have been embarrassed. He laughed and said no, he thought it would have been hilarious.
I don’t think either kid would be very surprised. ♀ & I have been painting each others toenails for years, they’ve seen some unusual clothing choices, they know I brush and braid mom’s hair every night. And neither of them expect me to be a ‘normal’ dad, what ever the hell that means.
If it was my dad and I was their age…hmmm…. I think I would probably accept it, but I think I would prefer not to know about it. The thought of my dad in a dress with fake boobies and a wig is not an image I want to dwell on.
–Submitted by Sweat Shop Sissy
A few nights ago, the princess and I finished reading “The Marvelous Land of Oz” by L. Frank Baum. Written in 1904, it details what happens to the boy Tip, who runs away from the witch Mombi. In the end (spoiler following!), the sorceress Glinda forces Mombi to admit that the boy Tip is actually enchanted, and that Tip is really the Princess Ozma, who disappeared from the Emerald City when the Wizard arrived and deposed King Pastoria.
My daughter found the scene in which Mombi un-enchants boy-Tip to girl-Ozma to be hysterical, clearly trying to work out how one would change a boy into a girl. “Mama! The witch had to CUT OFF HIS PENIS! And then he was a girl!” Then she shook her head. “But, but boys can’t become girls!”
“Well, actually, they can,” I imparted. “But it takes a long long time. Certainly longer than it took Mombi to change Tip.”
She considered this. “REALLY?” She seemed quite fascinated for a moment and then asked, “Does it hurt?”
“Yes, I would imagine so. There are doctors and surgeries and medicenes.”
She wrinkled her nose. “Ugh! What if I was a boy? That would be yucky. Then I couldn’t marry my [male kindergarten friend].”
“Why couldn’t you?” I asked.
“He wouldn’t like me so much if I was a boy,” she said firmly. “And ’cause then we couldn’t HAVE A BABY,” she informed me.
Of course, I wanted to follow up on this announcement by pointing out that male-male relationships can in fact have children through a surrogate, and then there is the entire transgender discussion to have. But it was 8:30 on a school night and I was tired, even if she wasn’t. So I comforted myself by pointing out that I’d already disclosed that boys could become girls and reminded her that boys could marry boys.
“Sweetheart,” I said, putting the book away and switching off the light. “The marrying part comes BEFORE the baby part.” (Hey, I will discourage teen pregnancy. Will, will, will. Will put her on birth conrol, if necessary.)
She sighed dramatically. “I know, and I have to go to school FIRST to learn to be an animal doctor. Before we can have the baby.”
“Exactly,” I said. Thank goodness for college funds.
–Submitted by sparkle from Life In Motion
Picture this: he and I, sitting with Gander in the hammock. The weather is lovely, serene. He’s cuddly, something rare in an bouncy 8 year old. “Mom” he says, “I learned a new word today.”
“Really?” say I.
“Yes. Hooters!!!”
“Oh, goodness, what on earth does that mean?” I offer while glancing in an amused fashion at Gander.
“They’re BOOBS! And there is a whole restaurant about them! Alex said so in class!!!!”
While pondering the wisdom of continuing the conversation, and also wondering just how on earth Alex knows of this dining mecca, I say, “You mean breasts, honey.”
Always use the proper lingo.
“Do you think that sounds like a good place to go? I mean? Is it ok for a restaurant to just be about breasts?” I ask? Surely a teachable moment, this is.
“Yeah!” he says (naturally).
“Well, what if there was a restaurant that only had men waiters and they wore tight tight pants and it was called….Butt-ers? Would that be ok?
He breaks into gales of laughter. I don’t think it was the genius juxtaposition of my male to female sexism that got him going, nor was it an age old sense of male privilege at the very idea of men in hot pants.
I had said “Butt”.
“I’m gonna tell everyone we are opening a restaurant called “Butt-ers” he giggled and ran off.
My future with the Parents Association is tenuous at best.
The children are our future, and I think they want to go to Hooters.
–Submitted by Goose from Living In Outlaw Territory
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