Big Coyote Energy

I’ve touched hundreds of pairs of boots since starting my journey as a baby bootie four years ago. Each pair of boots, or piece of leather has left some kind of impression on me. I see blacking as an exchange of energy, and a way I can be casually intimate with strangers and friends and lovers alike in a way that is safe for me. Blacking takes on many different forms for me. At the stand I’m personable, and approachable. I service my community and their leather. I make them shine and then send them away for their fun and adventures. At home, with my partners, it’s a completely different story. Blacking is intimate, dirty, and sexual. Sometimes it’s an ordeal. “Do you need to do any laundry?” He yelled up from my basement. “Laundry… Yeah! My black hamper in my closet, it’s rectangle shaped.” “This stuff smells like a box, I need to wash it.” It smells like a box… Does the box smell like you? I wondered but didn’t ask. Now he would smell like me. My detergent. My house. My be...

* (Note: This post is old, about a year old, but relevant in my life.) * This is hard to write. I get jealous. I shame myself about what gets me off. My name is Ren and the above two sentences are honest statements. I haven't posted a Winter Fire write up (this would have been Winter Fire 2017). I know. I'm slow. But I think, part of that, is because I need to get this out first. I needed to wrangle my feelings. I've done a lot of consensually fucked up stuff with people. My carefully crafted tower of kink cards began the slow descent to chaos a few years ago when I had a series of break ups in quick succession. I  had  lovely, supportive partners who communicated with me, and were open, and understanding. ... I thought. But I didn't have that. I thought I did, for a long time. That my relationships were good, and they were fulfilling. And they brought me joy. And those things are true, I was always given  just  enough to keep me craving more. Even today...