Not A Real Doctor

he/him, 42, not straight. adults only. backup blog is @institute-archives.

Last update
2021-07-31 12:39:52

    A thing I love on tumblr these days--not new, really, but new to me since 2018--is the circles of bloggers, mostly but not entirely women, who are always reblogging each other's photo sets with compliments, gasps of delight, and affection in the tags. I know for many such people it's just good business sense to cross-promote each other's work. But that doesn't mean it's not genuine.

    Tumblr doesn't get the same traffic as other networks anymore. (Automattic doesn't help with that by constantly fucking deleting people.) If you're here for the sexual side of things, you're here because this place is important to you somehow: your community, your memories, or just the tools of the interface being well-suited to what you want to put into the world. All of those things matter! They matter to our lives and the relationships we build.

    I'm not trying to get too grandiose here, but there is a lot of pressure on people not to use this platform the way we want to, because it inconveniences those who have more power than they do empathy. When I see people choose to resist that, and use empathy and active care as their means of resistance, it reminds me that the world is not a fixed place, that our choices shape it, and that our connections to each other have value that an advertising algorithm can't extract.

    I’ve posted a few pretty #personal things here but this might be the most personal one yet. I believe I’ve mentioned this in the past: my biggest onramp to writing erotica came from trying to learn about sex by furtively skimming to the dirty parts of romance novels. That primed me not only for an interest in bodice-ripping struggle and dubious consent, but also for writing from the feminine perspective, which is something that I’ve done a bit here and more obviously on Literotica.

    Meanwhile, the more overtly villainous side of me always responded to the trope of defiant heroines getting tied up by sneering antagonists, which is ubiquitous in comics and cartoons. The fetish angle there is almost always coded or glossed over—they are purportedly all-ages media, after all.

    But then there was issue 2 of DC’s 1988 Flash Gordon revival comic series, which was the first place I’d ever seen a character use a speech bubble to say the word “rape.”

    Ready? Here it is.

    These two pages of that one comic guaranteed that I was going to read it and re-read it until the staples fell out.

    I never subscribed to comics by mail when I was a kid, and rarely managed to collect consecutive issues of any series. Trips to the comic store were random and intermittent, usually a treat offered for helping to run errands. I definitely didn’t come across this one in 1988. It showed up around 1990-91, in my early adolescence, by which time I’d already started trying to figure things out from Harlequin and company. For that reason, I never read any of the other issues of this series until a few years ago. None of them contain anything else like this. It was a pure fluke that it ended up on my shelf and embedded into my psyche.

    To be very clear, as you can tell from the cover, this is a racist story. Even without the long mustache of his earlier iterations, there is no way to make a character named Ming the Merciless anything but an Orientalist caricature, and all his slave-girl enforcers have darker skin than the heroine. (The fact that they’re wearing skimpy high-cut bikinis that somehow also have huge shoulder pads might be the most intensely 80s thing ever drawn.) A few pages later Flash befriends the loinclothed companion, also from the cover, who is such a noble savage that he’s actually half lion. So that’s all pretty gross.

    But I had the privilege to ignore the racial aspect and lock onto the sexual nature of this scene in a way that has never left me. Ming is arrogant, aloof, and detached, barely sparing attention as his minions set up a device that’s about to inflict some kind of mechanical violation. Dale, the heroine, isn’t naked here—in fact, she’s far more covered than the enforcers around her, one of whom covers about 15% of the page with a single butt shot. But her purple… catsuit (?)… is skin-tight, and indicates that she’s had her civilian clothes from a few pages before removed in some sort of degrading preparation.

    On top of that, she’s got wires and tubes and sensors connected to her: invasive monitoring as another form of nudity-by-proxy. Feminine body taut and spread-eagle, arched on tiptoe? Check. Complete loss of agency as a dangling threat? Check. Restraints so massive as to make it unclear how they even operate? Check. Cold, brutal, phallic object leveled at her, poised for a control panel to activate it? Check. And her attitude…

    For someone who was learning to view heterosexuality as necessarily intertwined with conflict, these panels were indelible. Her lifted chin and challenging stare. His attitude shifting from a cold remove to curious amusement. They’re not just arguing—they’re flirting with violence, and flirting, with violence. It’s no surprise I came away from this with a permanent interest in getting glared at by feisty brunettes.

    Ming’s line here, at the conclusion of the scene, is very funny to me now.

    Wench? Really? Where did that come from?

    But Dale’s response is the line that guaranteed that I was never going to find my libido mirrored in the stern-jawed protagonist of any story, even a smirking jackass like this iteration of Flash Gordon. “Oh, Flash…” doesn’t seem like a lament for his apparent death. It’s just rueful disappointment. The clearest reading of this page is that no self-styled hero is going to be able to match the sexual charge that she and her nemesis have just exchanged.

    I don’t really like the men who created this comic and I haven’t followed up on their later work. All the same, almost everything on this blog and in my stories is written in pursuit of that idea. If I’m offering you a fantasy to read and inhabit, it is with the precept that you know it’s a snare, but you’re stepping in anyway, head high and body ready. If I’m fantasizing about you, it’s rooted in the desire to stoke your excitement like no one else has or can. It’s a desire of long standing. The largely unremarkable comic I’m talking about here dates back to… well, tumblr the website is fourteen years old, and websites in general are seventeen years older, and this issue came out two years before that.

    So if we connect over these flights of fancy, I want to do to you what these characters did to me: something singular and lasting, something that brings to light a part of you that was just waiting to be seen. I want to reorient you. I want to leave a mark that lasts for good.

    The Years of Magical Thinking

    CW, CW, CW.

    One of the biggest problems I used to have with this persona, back in the days when I was more active within it, was apophenia: the recognition of patterns in noise, and in this case, a pattern of cause and effect. I’d write something in a dark and sexualized vein—opening up, a little bit, the well-sequestered part of me that desires cruelty—and I’d offer it to people who are excited by the thought of the same or complementary things. Good moments have come out of that, for me and for my partners. Fun ones, hot ones, validating ones, growth. I feel glad to have written and shared my feelings and fantasies with other like-minded adults.

    But then, every fucking time and not long after, some fucking man would go and do some fucking awful shit. Hashtag Isla Vista, hashtag Roseburg, hashtag Ghomeshi, hashtag Deen, hashtag 2016, hashtag Toronto.

    Hashtag Atlanta.

    I know very well that practicing active consent and risk-aware kink are the opposite of misogynist violence. It is difficult to explain this to my own shame and fear. I indulged in the Bad Thing and then a Bad Thing Happened. The only clear course of action is to shrink away from this outlet until the nausea passes. It does not pass quickly.

    The water we swim in is not getting any less murky right now.  There are going to be more things my brain decides to connect to self-blame (because blaming oneself, I think many of you know, is a reflexive way to try putting limits on awful things that otherwise lack them). I am going to donate and amplify voices and take direct action. None of those things are ever going to serve as much of an antiemetic.

    But in case you come across this in a moment while I’m away, and you’re trying to determine how I feel about men who use the license of their privilege to kill women, I hope this offers a bit of clarity in a dark and cloudy stream.

    Because the answer is: responsible.


    | ̄ ̄ ̄ ̄ ̄ ̄ ̄ ̄ ̄|






    (\__/) ||

    (•ㅅ) ||



    | ̄ ̄ ̄ ̄ ̄ ̄ ̄ ̄ ̄|

                EAT HER PUSSY


                 SUPPORT HER

                MENTAL HEALTH


                 (\__/)  ||

                 (•ㅅ•) ||

                 /   づ


    | ̄ ̄ ̄ ̄ ̄ ̄ ̄ ̄ ̄ ̄ ̄|





    (\__/) ||

    (•ㅅ) ||


    A Little Light

    A remix of @secretbyanothername

    “What is this, your first attempt at a joint?”

    “Shut up,” light tone, a gentle push on his shoulder. “I never claimed to be an

    “I made you a drink.” She sipped it, thanking him.

    “Want to light up?”

    “In a minute.” He gave her a reassuring smile. “Hey, I know this is kind of wild. But we both quarantined and took all the precautions we could, and--“

    Her body visibly relaxed, and she met his eyes with a sm▒▓e before she sipped it, thanking hi▒▓▓▓▒▓

    --sipped it, thanking him.

    “Want to light up?”

    “In a minute.” He gave ▒░▒▒░░ her body visibly relaxed, and she met his eyes with a smile, thanking him.

    “Want to light up?” She laughed. Felt something warm at her peripherals. She felt rea̶l̴l̴y̸

    “How are you feeling?” He asked, putting a hand on her knee.

    She gathered her thoughts again. Cloudy. “Uh, yeah. I—I think so. Could, could I ▒▒▓▓▓▓▓▓▓

    ▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓ ▓▓ ▓▓▓▓▓▓▓

    ▓▓▓ ▓▓▓▓▓▓ ▓▓▓ ▓▓▓▓▓ thanking him.

    He gave her a reassuring smile.

    “W̸a̷n̶t̷ ̴t̶o̵ ̴l̶i̴g̵h̶t̷ ̶u̵p̴?̷”

    “How are you feeling?” He asked, putting a hand on her knee. She looked up at him.

    “I’m feeling really good,” she said.

    Head tilted, brows furrowed. “Have you had much to eat today?”

    “Uh, yeah. I—I think so. Could, could I have. Some.” She put both her feet on the ground and leaned her t▓▒ple against the wall, trying to press c▓▓▒ ▓▓to her hot ski̶n̵.

    His hand on her knee again—no, not her knee, her leg, it was his hand on her leg. It was her hand. Her hand was on her body. His hand was on her body.

    Someone’s hand was on her leg?

    “Want to light up?”

    She tried to sit up but her ▓▒▓▓ voice ▓▓ ▓▓▓ ▓▓▓ ▓▒▒ sounded far away. “I don’t feel so good.”

    A low chuckle as his fingertips danced higher. “What’s the matter, babe? I thought you wanted to get ▓̸̳̺͒̎͜ ̸̥̈́̍͝▓̷̟̥̒▒̷̩́▓̸̟̜̀

    “Want to light up?”

    She cleared her throat. A pit had opened in her stomach. She felt nauseous—flushed—overly sensitive. She felt  her peripherals.

    Her peripherals.

    She met his eyes with a smile before taking another sip of her drink.

    “This is really good, I have to admit,” she said.

    “Well, I wanted you to be comfortable.”

    She was relaxed. She was... she ▓▓▓▒▓ ▓▒▒▒ her peripherals. Felt something warm at her peripherals. She felt really relaxed. She felt something warm at her peripherals.

    She gathered her thoughts again. Cloudy. Looked down, and she was—

    She was

    lighting up.

    “Hey,” her voice sounded far away.

    “Easy, easy.” Hot breath in her ear, sharp bite—a low chuckle. “Hey. Are you there?”

    She had—something rippling, inside, from underneath her. Lights. Her body weightless and at the same time heavy, skin underlit with a soft glow, shapes that floated upward from her core to her chest, her shoulders, fingertips up to her arms.

    No, not shapes. Words. Words in someone else’s handwriting, traced out in violet light...

    Cloudy. Looked at herself. Cloudy. Looked down, and she was. She tried. Tried to focus, tried to read them, inverted.



    “I thought so. Go ahead, come on in. She’s wide open.”

    She was frozen—the third and most useless of the sympathetic responses. She couldn’t speak. But—even if the words were upside down from her perspective—she thought she might—


    so wa̷rm

    “I know.” His voice was assured, amused, steady. “I can feel that.” His fingers had traced up her thigh to the crease of her hip, and they were idly stroking there, running over and over again past the spot at the lower edge of her belly. “You like her too, don’t you.”

    The words came faster this time. you promise. ▒ you ▒ nice ▒  t̶o̴ be nice with her?

    “Whatever you want me to be to her.” His free hand lifted the back of her hair, and his lips grazed her neck as he spoke. “Go on. Test her out. She is feeling quite nice herself, isn’t she?”

    Not words, then, but—bubbles, almost, little circles of light like the bokeh in the back of an artsy photo shoot. They hissed up from her toes to her knees, her thighs, her lips and navel, tingling and teasing and making her gasp. It was the first time she’d been aware of her breathing in what seemed like forever. She felt effervescent, in a breathless physical way, like a body shaped and polished to serve as a champagne flute.


    she’s really ░ rea̴l̶l̷y sweet

    “You’ve got a crush, I knew it.” His tone was fond but taunting, and his fingers ran from her hair down her back, tracing icy tingles from her spine that mirrored the prickling heat on the front of her torso. His hand on her hip tapped once, twice, three times, each one triggering a little burst of new feeling and a word floating up her chest:




    “Okay, okay. Let me get the video started and you can go ahead and get her undressed for me.” With one more squeeze on her waist, he stood, his hardness very evident underneath his slacks as he set his phone on a bookshelf and tapped a few times.

    Deep down, somewhere underneath the light and warmth and floaty distance, she was a frenzy and a mess. She was panicked. This was unreal. This was unnatural. This was unreal. But her body was rolling forward, a languid arch as her fingers found the hem of her top and peeled it up, arms uncrossing to lift it off like a magic trick. Every movement felt deliciously tired, as if it were the first thing she’d done after sleeping for an unbroken year. Lazy fingers found the zipper at the side of her skirt. Her skin looked like a silver screen with scribbles in lavender light all over it, fading in and out as they rose: lovely ░ god ░ she tas̴t̴e̷s good̸ ░ warm ░ can you feel ░ touch me ░ ache ░ hun̵g̷r̷y ░ stretch ░ her mouth is ░ floating ░ wet ░ m̴o̵r̶e̷ ░ w̸a̴nt her ░ wants you ░ take

    He turned back to face her. “You feel good, babe?”

    Her head nodding made the whole room shimmer.

    “You want to keep going?”

    Nodding, and a breath, a little moan.

    “You want this. You promise.”

    Her fingers slipped around the edges of her underwear to slide them free and step out with two careful movements.. She still had her shoes on. Whoever was riding inside her—she thought, somewhere far away—was more graceful in heels than she was.

    She tried not to nod, at the promise. She really tried, put everything she had left in her into keeping her head still and steady, locking the room in place in her frame of reference, no one else’s. But it backfired.

    She didn’t nod at all. Instead, the words that started at the center of her belly and traced out like blurry fireworks in every direction were hot on her skin, fervent and electric, out and up and endless, all the same: yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes.


    He gave her a reassuring smile.

    “Want to light up?” said her lips, an eager whisper, and when he stepped in to wrap his fingers in her hair and kiss the smoke into her throat until she melted, she no longer knew if the voice belonged to someone else or not.


    She only touched herself when he was out. Which was…frustrating, considering the current state of his schedule. They both worked from home now, taking turns with the third bedroom-turned-office to use for meetings (he’d even graciously loaned her a spare laptop until her company could get hers shipped out to her) and a change of environment from their bedrooms or the common areas. 

    It was therefore a blessing when he announced that he was going hiking with a friend and would be out that Saturday. She gave a thumbs-up from the couch, legs crossed and on the cushions, as nonchalantly as she could. 

    On Saturday, she woke up to an empty apartment. She roamed slowly through anyway: stepping lightly, peering around corners, just making sure, before making her way back to bed and slipping under the covers.

    Not very good at foreplay when alone, her hand slipped almost immediately between her legs. Phone in one hand, the index finger of the other slid past her clit and down to her pussy. She was wet – but not terribly – so she spent a few moments rubbing her index finger around herself, deep in her reading and watching material. 

    Keep reading