Hands are the architects of a life – the way we reach out to comfort, or grab onto to steady ourselves.  They write and type and draw and caress, bridging the distance between two people.  They are strong and fierce sometimes, and other times, gentle and delicate.

So it should come as no surprise that I spend a lot of time photographing the way people touch.  My favorite is pictures of hands clasped together – in strength, in solidarity, in love.

Here are a few of the pictures I caught while we were marching through San Francisco last month.  I owe enormous thanks to the women marching behind me who were so patient when I would suddenly slow to capture a shot…over and over throughout the march.  (I imagine it got a bit annoying, but generously, no one said a word.)   And big adoring thank yous to the women who walked, danced, strutted and marched together with such fierce love and joy.

What a beautiful night.  Looking at these again gives me shivers in the most wonderful ways.

For more pictures of the Dyke March, head on over to the official site.

(Ok, yeah, it’s a bit thrilling that they linked to my set.  Whoo hoo!)

Yeah, sometimes I’m just that lucky.  Whoo hoo!

Enjoy the pictures…and just for a challenge, see if you can guess my favorite.  If you know me at all, it’s really not that difficult (though it might be hard…)

(It’s unbelievably easy to take good pictures in Yosemite – these are all straight off the camera, no fancy photoshopping at all.)

These last two aren’t technically of Yosemite, but from the drive home:

After Kyle had been thoroughly abused at the cross, it was time to move over to the leather swing.  I praised him repeatedly as I unclipped his cuffs and then asked him to clean off the cross for me as I walked across the room to inspect the swing.  With his pants around his ankles, he sprayed and wiped the lacquered wood with careful attention, as I watched intently.  Kyle is gorgeous, to be sure, and even more so when his attention is caught up in his work.  I inspected the job he had done and then turned to walk back to the swing when he asked if he could pull his pants back up.  I looked at him and smiled a wickedly amused smile that made him bow his head and blush – I love reminding him that I see him as an object of beauty, a plaything to enjoy.   At my command, he picked up my bag and slung the strap over his shoulder, and, with his head bowed slightly, he shuffled towards the swing, managing to radiate pride with every step, despite the weight of the toy bag and the pants that had puddled about his ankles.

He placed the bag on the ground and stood at attention, his poor abused nipples bright red and hard as steel – what I wouldn’t have given for an ice cube at that moment.  I touched and twisted those gorgeously pained nipples, looking into his face to watch the struggle within him.  His eyes narrowed and his lips curled up into a very slight snarl, but he refused to cry out, no matter how hard I tugged.  The truth is, of course, that I don’t enjoy his suffering as much as I enjoy his struggle – the internal fight to maintain composure under the most demanding of situations.  We stood there, face to face, as I smiled and he growled, the only movement between us the slow twist of my wrist, and the only sound a slight growl that pushed up from inside him.

I praised him and helped him lay back into the swing, cuffing his arms up, and then asked him, with a leer, to spread his thighs so I could work him over with the flogger.  The leather strips hit his thighs, his belly, his inner arms and his chest, but he kept his composure, so I decided to focus on the gorgeous cock that was straining against the fabric of his briefs.  I alternated slow and fast blows, hard and soft, keeping him off-guard but still giving him time to anticipate the pain that he knew would come.

As I continued to work him over, he became less and less able to control himself, with low growls building to a loud crescendo, especially when I pulled out the leather paddles.  No part of him escaped the torment, as I paddled his defenseless arms and sides, belly, thighs and calves, leaving red marks scattered across his beautifully pale skin.  He grunted, he cried out, he pulled against his cuffs, but still met me with a fiery steel gaze whenever I stopped to ask how he was.  The struggle to maintain as I slowly broke him down was gorgeous to watch, but I knew it would be time for a break soon, so I uncuffed him and offered him some water, praising his strength and his beauty, and asked him to clean up as I prepared the final setting.

I moved a big, overstuffed comfy chair into position in front of a low metal cage in another room.  It was 2-3 feet tall, and very long – room enough for someone to sit hunched over.  I love metal, and cages are a big fetish for me – cold hard confinement…they’re every kidnap/jail/force fantasy I’ve ever had come to life.  I locked Kyle’s handcuffs together and then sat down in the chair facing the cage and told him to get in.  It wasn’t easy, with his pants down around his ankles and the cuffs on his wrists, but he managed to get in and close the door.  I could see that Kyle was very eager to see what I had planned, although a bit wary of what piece of him I wanted to torture next.  I placed my sexy dom boots up on the top of the cage with my legs spread wide in front of him and told him he could have whatever he could reach.  His face lit up and then fell as he realized the torment I had devised, and a hungry growl roared up out of his belly.  The bars were spread wide enough apart for him to reach an arm out, but, cuffed to the other arm, he was restricted to just a few inches of movement.  I pulled myself closer and challenged him to touch me, and I have to admit that he struggled admirably.  He pressed his face hard against the bars, and maneuvered his hands in such a way that he could just almost reach me, so I spread my legs further and pulled in a little closer, so he could just barely stroke my thigh with the tips of his fingers.  He grunted and begged so beautifully, his mind and body set on one desperate goal, and it was delicious to be the focus of that intensity.

Soon, though, it was time for his break to be over, and I ordered him onto a nearby spanking bench.  I used a chain leash to securely attach his cuffs to one end, and then pulled down his briefs to give me full access to that gorgeous ass.  With his arms stretched out and his ass raised up in the air like that, his body was utterly and completely mine.  I began to pound his back with the flogger and his ass with a paddle, alternating to keep him off balance, but never losing momentum.  After awhile we started to attract the attentions of other denizens of the dungeon, including a very cute female couple and a far-less cute creepy guy.  Creepy guy was having trouble staying back, but I didn’t want to break the scene with Kyle so worked up, so I decided to pause the beating and move around to Kyle’s head.  I stroked him and praised him, and asked him math questions in a low whisper (partly to check how high he was flying, and partly because I just enjoy being a cruel math teacher.)  As soon as creepy guy had walked away, I went back to the beating, whacking away mercilessly and enjoying the way his back arched and flexed as I left painful red welts in his skin.

Before long Kyle had dropped his stoic facade and was putty in my hands, crying out loudly at each blow without shame.  I asked him a few more math questions, and, when he couldn’t remember how to add 7 to 35, (he looked at me blankly for a few moments, shaking his head as if trying to jar his thoughts into order and then asked, with a giggle, “um…52?”) I knew it was time to move onto the final act.  I pulled out the hitachi wand and plugged it in, placing it mercilessly against his now-dripping pussy.  He bucked violently and cried out as I admonished him not to come.

And then came the begging.

I adore the way Kyle raises begging to an art form.  He pleads and bargains, whimpers and keens, but always with an underlying growl – a reminder of the parts of him who are far less eager to give up control.  But in moments like this, the rest of him begs with abandon, joyfully giving in and reveling in submission.  It was so amazing to see him like this, thinking back to his worries that he’d never be able to perform in public, yet here he was, naked and begging to come in front of a small audience of new admirers. I held off for a few moments more, and then told him to come for me as I pressed the wand to his cunt, feeling him grind into it as he screamed out more than a few orgasms, writhing as the waves passed through him, like earthquakes across his body.

As soon as he was finished, I quickly put down the wand and unhooked his cuffs, slowly bringing him up to his feet and gently sitting him down in the chair, wrapped in a blanket.  As he started to come down, I petted and praised him, and quickly gathered my tools and cleaned up the space.  Because I know that being abandoned is a long-held fear of his, I didn’t want to leave him for long, so I kissed him and told him I’d be right back as I carried our things to an adjacent room with a large, soft bed.  The look of bliss on his face was wonderful, and I hurried back to his side.  I guided him to the bed and laid him down next to me, stroking his arms and his head, down to his side and hip.  Then I gently pressed my fingers between his slippery lips to seek out his last few remaining orgasms.  He bucked and writhed under my touch and then curled up against me.  We lay together for awhile as he came out of his blissful fog and then I helped him into his clothes as sub drop started to hit, and we walked out together into the lobby to find some food and let him rest.

I was so proud of my boy right then – of how beautifully he served me and how deliciously he came, his strength and his intelligence and the way he loves to play and push me, and get pushed in return.  I wanted to strut through the crowd and make sure that everyone knew this was MY boy, but I was also keenly aware that I needed to get him some food and a place to sit.  We sat down with a plate of chocolate and popcorn (it was late and the earlier bounty on the table had been thoroughly picked through) and made a little small talk, admiring a case of floggers in front of us, and then we got up to leave.

My boy was hungry now, so we stopped at a Jack in the Box for a very late dinner while the cashier gave us bashful looks when he saw the leash still attached to Kyle’s collar.  I drove him back to the hotel and we ate and then pounced on one another in bed…not to sleep, but to relive the amazing moments we had shared and create a few new ones together.

Because I don’t have releases to print pictures of Jiz, here are a couple pictures of the studio to give you an idea of the shoot:

If you’d like to see all the pictures I took, plus pictures that were taken by the other photographers, head over here, to Jiz’s web page.  Yes, the photographs are on a pay site, but the proceeds go to support the Center for Sex and Culture, which is a wonderful community resource, and it only costs $7.99 to get 30 days of access to the amazing photos (and I truly do mean amazing.  The money shots have been known to induce spontaneous orgasmic pleasure.  Just sayin’)

So earn yourself a little pervy karma while you enjoy yourself with this incredible performer.  (Did I mention that Jiz was a dancer?  You NEED to see the muscles, the grace, the way an Njoy Eleven is held without using hands or feet…)

Trust me, luvvies, you’ll thank me in the morning.

Isn’t he gorgeous?

This is a picture of us after our night at the dungeon.

We had an amazing time – playing and loving for hours – and he was handsome and strong.  I was a very, very proud Sir.

I loved showing him off and I loved taking him back to the hotel to celebrate in private.  It’s amazing to me how two people can fit so well together – in our daily lives, in the dungeon, in bed.

He’s a gorgeous, sexy man and My beautiful champion and I feel so lucky, every day, to be his lover, his partner, his Sir.

I am round and warm and soft in a world that isn’t.  I can inspire war, and peace, with a shimmy or a glance.  I can read the news and make it sound like sex.  I am magical in the classroom and unstoppable in bed.  My fingers are like divining rods for orgasms; my lips have been celebrated for centuries in prose and verse.  I can run like a cheetah and meditate like a yogi.  I can walk in 6-inch heels and march in sneakers.

When I cook, the flavors sing out like prayers to the kitchen gods and when I mourn, even the saints bow their heads.  I make youth look like a drug and age look like a blessing. My smile could power a small city, and my laughter inspires such euphoria that lesser drugs are put to shame.  I kiss wounds and they heal.  I can mend a broken heart, inspire a life and banish fears, all with the mere presence of my being.  My soul is immortal, but my desires burn with the fiery passion of earth and sky –  I live and love in muddy fields and satin sheets.  I am strong enough to bring a man to his knees, and when I make love to a woman, her moans are sweeter still than even the finest symphony.  The world itself ceases to move in the moment I conquer ecstasy.

I am strong and smart and willing to do whatever it takes to make the world right, even when I am undervalued and underestimated at every turn.  I am beautiful, I am resolute, and I am capable of more love than you could ever imagine.  I am your sister, your daughter, your wife and your best friend.  I am ancient and I am naïve.  I am your grandmother and your Baba Yaga;  I am the bones of your civilization and the memory of all that’s come before.  I am stories by the fireside and promises of the future.  I am your brightest hope for a better tomorrow.

I was born innocent.  I live, and love, with a ferocity that puts lions to shame.  I cry, I fear, I hurt and I die with more conviction in my little finger than you’ve ever known, and when my bones are returned to Mother Earth, my soul will soar across the heavens to inspire generations to come.

I am proud of my sisters, lifting them on my back to reach the sweetest fruit, even as they are lifting me.  We stand together for the world, not against it.  I am a strong shoulder, a trustworthy friend and a sympathetic ear.  I am a tomboy, a princess, a warrior and a queen, and I refuse to let anyone tell me who I am.  I am courageous on my own, and a revelation standing in solidarity with my tribe.

I am love.  I am sex.  I am patience and I am anger.  I am dark and light and I bring color to your world.  I am grace and strength, intelligence and faith.  I might be a lady, but I’m never your pushover.   I will cry out for justice and command your respect.  I am as strong as a thousand mountains when I stride in the footsteps of my ancestors and

I will not stand down.

So, it of course follows, thanks to the parental corollary of Murphy’s Law, that my children would grow to adore Bon Jovi.  So much so that they each have a copy of the greatest hits album (which I must have bought in a fit of maternal brain fog) which they play EVERY NIGHT.  So much so that I promised, without considering it could happen, that if they ever toured, yes, of course I would take them to go see the concert.

Which is why I spent last night at a Bon Jovi concert for 4 hours.

In the days leading up to the concert, I grumped and complained, whining on about how terrible it was going to be to have to go see a Bon Jovi concert with those women there, the ones with hairspray and lip gloss and pants so tight you can read the licenses in their wallets.  This, of course, had nothing to do with long-festering wounds from high school when I didn’t get invited to parties or football games or even one lousy pep fucking rally, dammit – it was purely motivated by principal.  My musical tastes were far superior to the pedestrian tastes of these lowly groundlings, you see, and it was an outrage that I should have to share my precious oxygen with them, even for a few hours.

Well, I went.  And I survived.  The songs were ok – really not my taste at all (except for a gorgeous blues-inspired version of Homebound Train by Richie Sambora which reminded us all what an amazing musician he can be, and, of course, Wanted Dead or Alive, cuz I can’t help myself.)  For the most part I sat with my kids and tried to convince them to stop kicking each other and pulling their earplugs out…which left a lot of time for people watching.  On the surface, I saw a lot of women in their 30s and 40s acting like their younger selves, complete with lip gloss and hairspray and very tight jeans.  These were women who had devoted their lives to raising children (I didn’t have to guess – most of them had cell phones with pictures proudly displayed on the front,) and had long-since given up wearing clothing sized in the single digits.  They looked tired and harried and a little ridiculous at first…but then, as the music throbbed out from the stage, the wrinkled brows smoothed out into smiles and hips and heads started swaying, and I found myself feeling terribly ashamed for my prejudice.  When I let go of my foolish snobbery, I started to see beautiful, vibrant women all around me.  Suddenly the flashy tops and tight jeans seemed a lot less like a sad attempt to reclaim lost youth and a lot more like a celebration.  These women weren’t trying to be 15 – they were trying to be 35 and 40 and 45 and 50 exactly the way they wanted to – in flashy tops and tight jeans.  And I realized that, once I let go of what I thought a mom should look like, they looked really gorgeous doing just that.

In our culture, a lot of effort goes into telling women that 17 is perfect and 22 is washed up.  The current bashing of so-called “Twilight Moms” is a prime example of this, as if 40-year-olds are expected to give up their fantasies and passions and go home and knit where they won’t offend anyone with their curves and their wrinkles.  I’m embarrassed to say I bought into it, too – with my snide comments and awful assumptions – I, a woman about to cross over into the invisible 40s in a few short months…I became the enemy.

Of course, I still have my issues.  I believe make-up does much more harm than good in the world, and using hairspray outside of a theater production should be declared a mortal sin.  I question how it is that, if women are just trying to express themselves as individuals, they would coincidentally end up looking so very much alike, even as I battle an internalized size-ism that I inherited from years of watching my mom define her self-worth in pounds and not accomplishments.

But I gave myself a day off last night and just sat there watching the beautiful, passionate women around me, and the men who held their hands and sat through a Bon Jovi concert out of love and devotion (yes, there were a few men there who were singing along, but they were a distinct minority, and, no, I didn’t see any queer couples there.)  I can remember being 15 and trying to imagine how someone in her 30s could be considered beautiful, so perhaps it’s aging itself that’s opened my eyes.  Regardless, the crowd was gorgeous, singing and dancing like no one (or everyone) could see them, and it was beautiful.

Simply beautiful.