This is a surprise?

I took one of those silly little quizzes. Who Were You in Your Past Life? Turns out I was Pablo Picasso. The 10-second write-up goes something like this...

In your past life you were Pablo Picasso. In this life you continue to be revolutionary, stubborn, an active lover, enjoy breaking the rules and react poorly to heartbreak.

React poorly to heartbreak. As if I didn't fucking know that already, asshole.

Sigh.

Back to my cave.

Open up and say ahhhh

I spent the night in the bed of a man I didn't necessarily expect to see again, not so soon. A careful night, a put aside all my ploys and tricks night. Not that I intended that, not at all. I fully intended a launch of every weapon at my disposal. It all fell away as soon as I crossed the threshold. I just wanted to talk and touch and be wrapped in the intellectual kindness that is Him. With no expectation, with no plan, just to enjoy.

I'm finding deeper manifestations of my submission, every day. I am becoming so compliant. Not eager, yet not unwilling. Just at their disposal. There is a comfort in this state of mind that is extremely addictive. I can't even sleep eye-to-eye, my place is face-to-cock with your hand in my hair.

My sore throat, which must have felt so deliciously swollen from the inside, is no worse for wear. Perhaps the exercise did it some good.

On the other hand...

is another fist. ahem.

I have a new fetish. Cock-nursing. And don't make that ewww face at me. Picture it...

Me on my side, between your legs, with my head on your thigh and your soft cock in my mouth. Not sucking, but suckling. It is one of the most intimate acts I've ever experienced...innocent when typically that would be much less so. It was deeply satisfying as the giver, and just as satisfying for the recipient.

A Blues in Bronze

I have bruises from bite marks. My cunt is sore from stretching around a fist. I was blindfolded for hours. I passed a test, and failed another. I am sick of trying, sick of working at it, sick of looking, sick of disappointing or being disappointed.

I can't integrate this into all the other parts of my life, I'm sorry for that. My work, my family, they wouldn't understand, and I wouldn't expect it. I would be summarily passed over or treated like a mental patient. That's an unhappy truth, but it is what it is. I don't try to change the thoughts of others, it's not my responsibility to explain or justify.

And when did flaunting your personal identity, your sexual self, your fetishes...when did that become what it is that we do? I don't expect anyone to carry an outward sign of their sexuality in any circumstance, why is it so important here? A collar is symbolic, a gesture, not a weapon to use to frighten people with a commitment to your fetishes.

My apologies to anyone who wears their collar publicly. Great for you. I just needed a moment to rant.

Polyanais Dance

It's the last big hurdle. The one that makes my teeth clench and my belly boil. And I am trying so hard to understand my gut reaction and eroticize that feeling instead of let my insecurities undermine me. But there it is, the topic that never lets me get clear of my fears.

The evolution isn't so different from anyone. There is infidelity in every person's background. Both as do-er and do-ee. I'm no different. It's never pretty, it's just always a risk.

But walking into it knowing that it isn't a risk but a certainty...that takes courage. And I know, if it's truly polyamory, then it isn't infidelity. Theoretically I understand that. But when you are watching those bodies slap together, is it enough to understand? And how do you get to the point where you embrace it?

This is where I am starting to challenge myself. I need to find a way to push past whatever barrier it is in my head that gets so discombobulated by the thought of poly. I have a physical reaction. Just writing this, my feet are tapping, my brow is wrinkled, and I have this ball of icky in my stomach. However, my pussy is throbbing. This is the same reaction I have had with other concepts that I eventually accepted, mind you.

I've gathered or formed a few distinct opinions about poly over the past year which may or may not be true, or may not be true for long anyway.

For instance, poly works best if there is a hierarchy among the submissives. A top girl. When I put myself in a poly situation in my mind, I'm always the top girl. However, I can see myself not being the top girl, but if I am not, then my allegiance is to the actual top girl, not the Dominant. I'm not sure if that is how it would play out, or if that is the only way my mind can accept it at this stage.

Also, I think I still carry a stigma - that poly is just a way of letting a man have multiple sexual relationships without having to commit to any one person. And I know this is not the case, that the responsibility and consideration in a successful poly family does NOT equal a selfish man. But it IS hard to let go of that social conditioning, to not look at it and think of Warren Jeffs.

I've been going around and around about this for some time, trying to get my finger on the spot. I need to be enlightened, to not be so frightened of this. It's a loose tooth that I can't help but wiggle.

Uncomfortably Numb

On another site recently there was thread about how we develop and refine our taste for pain, and it got me thinking not just about pain, but about what I fetish-ize in general. The following (in italics) is the response that I wrote, and I feel like it needs a little more exploration.

I think what I struggle the most with is my internal perception that the numbness and subsequent growth is down a path of depravity I never intended. And before that is taken too far out of context, let me explain.

Shame and guilt have always been the primary driver for any fetish of mine. When I was younger, more innocent, the mere thought of being tied down and spanked was enough to send me into a paralysis of lustful guilt.

Now it is thoughts of being used publicly and humiliated.

And sometimes I don't know where that line is, the one that I won't ever cross, because I've crossed it again and again. Evidence as to why shame and guilt work so well with me, but also enough to worry me that my flexible line in the sand will take me to a place that I really don't want to go. How far is enough?

What I like to think, instead, is that the path isn't so much constantly forward as it is a cycle. I can travel it alone and rediscover submissiveness after pauses back in vanilla-land. Or I can find someone to travel with me, who pushes me into taking the party boats and excursions at each scheduled stop. And each successive trip around that cycle is different, sometimes better, sometimes less.

Pardon the cruise-ship jargon, but I thought maybe it worked better with an analogy.

In the end, what I have to believe is that I can have my limits pushed, my experiences widened, without giving in to those limits that would make me feel less human, that would cripple me with guilt. Just skirting on the edges is plenty, if you ask me.

I'm trying to understand this sudden shift in my psychology. Why I was NO NO NO to a sudden YES YES YES. And, granted, some of these things that I have fetish-ized are only compelling if they are forced on me, I won't do it voluntarily, without coercion.

But why am I not only saying yes in my mind, but saying yes more publicly? Part of what holds a edgy fetish as taboo for most people is that it is difficult to admit publicly. But if I am able to admit to something publicly, does that mean it is losing the taboo nature, or am I becoming desensitized?

Evasion

I can't think into the heat of what I've been feeling, so I'm giving you different words today. I've got two days to prepare myself and of course I'm a bit paralyzed.

The photo is of a bit of mixed media art I purchased from etsy, something inspired by one of my own favorite poems, The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock (Eliot).

I haven't hung it yet. I like to touch this painting, it is full of texture. It's not grand, and wasn't meant to be. Like Prufrock. Like me.

Girl with Curls

Not 10 minutes from where I live is the Dali museum. I've been there once. I admit that I'm not a huge fan of museums, simply because I like to ponder and digest, not cruise. Museums overwhelm me. It probably seems just the opposite, since I often will go from room to room at a rapid clip, unless something stops me in my tracks.

The painting from the photo is a Dali, one of his earlier works. All of those eye-tricking complexities that he painted didn't capture me nearly like this one. I liked the perspective, this simple girl a giant against the landscape, and the earthy seduction of the curves of her.

I bought a print of it, it hangs in my living room.

Spread Open and Pinned Against a Wall

It was explained to me this way, my moment of not doing as asked...

I deliberately chose that which would bring me to immediate submission, without the prettiness and niceties and how do you do's.

That is a startling revelation, and the truth of it gave me a release that the disobedience did not provide.

I have never felt so fileted, so skinless.

It's this - so many years of treating a brain anomaly with a mallet, when that troublesome spot needed instead the sharp and insistent focus of a laser.

Those earlier strides forward, so confident and self-assured, have changed into a cringing belly crawl. Still the right direction, but with deference and awareness.

I have no way of exiting, not now. I will be dealt with. There are no more buts, what ifs, my endless list of conditions and qualifications. I must accept that, I must keep myself from a wrong step while letting my fear catch up to acceptance.

Gray Matters

I did something I was asked not to do. I say asked, because it's not to the point of being told. But that line is very fine. I confessed, not in my former "aren't I a naughty girl" laughingly unaware way. Just a confession. I did this. With the full knowledge that it will somehow be dealt with. And that dealing with it will undoubtedly be quite unpleasant.

I'm not writing this down to bring attention to the disobedience, or to show how careless I am with your attention. I'm trying to dig into the meat of why I deliberately chose to disobey when I actually did not want to, what little wiggly bit in my brain is suddenly acting out of turn, and why?

Really, I Can't Resist...

I think it must be vanity, wanting to share little pieces of my flesh with you.

1. Do you like bleu cheese?
Does anyone not get that the BLEU part is MOLD?

2. Have you ever smoked heroin?
Nope, and not interested.

3. Do you own a gun?
Is THAT what's in your pocket, Mister?

4. What flavor do you add to your drink at Sonic?
I can't remember the last time I went to Sonic, so let's change that to Starbucks. And the answer is a shot of espresso and sometimes a bit of hazelnut.

5. Do you get nervous before doctor appointments?
Not in the least. I find doctors to be calming, reassuring, authoritative and...oh no. Another fetish.

6. What do you think of hot dogs?
Anything that is a byproduct shouldn't go in your body. (But I love 'em, dang it, specially the ones at baseball parks).

7. Favorite Christmas Song?
Baby, It's Cold Outside, but I'm not sure how much that is about Christmas.

8. What do you prefer to drink in the morning?
Coffee, and lots of it.

9. Can you do push ups?
Probably not.

10. What was the name of your first girlfriend/boyfriend?
It was 5th grade. I remember he gave me a ring from Avon. I don't remember his name now...

11. What’s your favorite piece of jewelry?
My commit to me band, with the words 'to thine own self be true' engraved on the inside.

12. Favorite hobby?
Reading. Unless masturbation counts.

13. Do you work with people who idolize you?
I hope not.

14. Do you have A.D.D.?
I'm not sure I underst...hey, look at the birdy. (No, I don't. I'm actually very focused).

15. What’s one trait that you hate about yourself?
Procrastination.

16. Middle name?
Something very country.

17. Name 3 thoughts at this exact moment.
a)Who gets adult acne, really? this is so big I'm giving it a name. Esther. I hope it's gone by Wednesday.
b)I still haven't gone shopping.
c)Isn't there any chocoloate in the house?

18. Name 3 things you bought yesterday.
a) paper
c) lunch
d) coffee

19. Name 3 drinks you regularly drink.
a) coffee
b) water
c) sprite

20. Current worry right now?
Nothing. I'm on a two-week vacation.

21. Current hate right now?
Hate is such a strong word...oh yeah. Sarah Palin.

22. Favorite place to be?
A log cabin during winter, with a fireplace, in the mountains of East Tennessee.

23. How did you bring in the New Year?
Watching the ball drop. Alone. Sniff.

24. Where would you like to go?
Iceland. Ireland. Other places spelled like Iceland and Ireland.

25. Name three people who will complete this?
Luna already did. Hmm. Probably no one else, they don't share our love of being tagged.

26. Whose answer would you want to read the most?
Tomstumblinthru.

27. What color shirt are you wearing?
Smoky blue.

28. Do you like sleeping on satin sheets?
No, I prefer high thread count cotton. I almost typed tread, which would have made that a much different answer.

29. Can you whistle?
Only while sucking air in, isn't that weird?

30. Favorite color(s)?
Blue.

31. Would you be a pirate?
Absofuckinglutely!

32. What songs do you sing in the shower?
Anything to make my dogs laugh.

33. Favorite girl’s name?
Oddly enough, the same name that Luna picked, but with a different spelling. Madeleine.

34. Favorite boy’s name?
I've always been partial to Ian, though I'm not sure why.

35. What’s in your pocket right now?
$27 and some lint.

36. Last thing that made you laugh?
Making fun of one of my male friends for being attracted to an admittedly crazy chick (not crazy sexy, but crazy get the lithium).

37. Best bed sheets as a child?
Flannel!

38. Worst injury you’ve ever had?
I've never broken a bone, can you imagine? And yet, I fall down a lot.

39. Do you love where you live?
Right now I do.

40. How many TVs do you have in your house?
Two.

41. Who is your loudest friend?
I don't really gravitate toward loud people. Which means...it's probably me.

42. How many dogs do you have?
Two. Wanna see pictures?

43. Does someone have a crush on you?
I don't know, but I have a crush on YOU.

44. Who is your favorite president?
Abraham Lincoln.

45. What is your favorite book?
The Robber Bride. Or anything by Madeleine L'Engle.

46. What is your favorite candy?
Mmmm. Toblerone.

47. What is your favorite sports team?
I LOVE minor league baseball. (Remember the hot dogs?)

48. What song do you want played at your funeral?
Hmm. I'm going to have to do a new playlist just in case. I know Rusted Root's Send Me On My Way will be at the top of the list (chew-tube it).

49. What were you doing 12 AM last night?
On the couch after falling asleep while watching the Presidential Debate. Just saying that made me yawn.

50. What was the first thing you thought of when you woke up?
Shut UP, CNN.

Zen and the Art of Submissive Maintenance

Since the gas prices started climbing, I've been practicing more efficient driving. This includes making fewer trips (which certainly dovetails into my hermit nature quite nicely) and driving more smartly. No A/C if I don't absolutely need it, no driving over the speed limit (actually, I CAN drive 55, Mr. Hagar), coasting to stops, gradual acceleration. I've gotten accustomed to the right lane. And surprisingly, no one seems to care. A year ago, a slow driver on the U.S. interstate system would have been abused by others, but not these days.

And it's amazing what you notice when suddenly the focus isn't to beat your best time, or pass that car, or block that guy from changing lanes...I get to see dolphins, if I'm lucky. I get to watch the ospreys catching fish with those horrible claws.

But it's not just about what you get to see when you slow down, it's the slight zen transcendence you achieve when you do it. My drives to work (to anywhere) are relaxing, meditative.

There is a correlation here that I can't quite put my finger on. My submissiveness, too, has turned all zen-like. Neither fast nor slow, though...more like a lever has been flipped. Someone pressed my easy button.

"when are we going to get going?" Chris says.
"what's your hurry?" I ask.
"I just want to get going."
"There's nothing up ahead that's any better than it is right here."

-Robert Pirsig, Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance

Winter of Kukkutasana

For the past few days, the normal oppressive humidity of Florida has lifted. It seems if you pay attention, you can find fall here. But instead of making you think of football and sweatshirts and morning frost, there is the same hope and blush of spring that I remember from other climates. Winter, when it comes, is no worse than a pair of gloves and a lightweight coat. There is something curiously liberating about knowing the worst of the year is behind you instead of in front of you.

It suits my state of change.

A bothersome task before is an exciting challenge now. That is such a simple statement, but the effect produced in every action and thought is immense, and impossible to articulate well. It is pleasing me to please.

Like a yoga pose that is difficult. I've sweated and cursed and nearly given up, only to find that one day I contort into place naturally, with little effort. It's shocking and you want to show anyone with the patience to watch.

Note: Kukkutasana is a tough one for girls with big asses, and its translation is Cock Pose. And yes, it makes me giggle.

Secrets

Even here, we dance around the truth. A fetish checklist veiled by what is socially appropriate within a narrowly defined slice of a subsociety. (Ha. Subsociety.)

Should I tell all my secrets?

The truth is, I'm pliable enough to bend to the easy or hard of whomever chooses me/I choose.

Those things that I hold tight in my dirty taboo-driven fantasies, if they never see the light of day, does it matter?

If I'm never forcibly held into someone's cunt and made to pleasure her, I'll live. If I'm never made to watch you fuck her and not look away, everything will be fine. If you don't ever feel the need to brand your name onto my hip, it doesn't make me any less yours. If you don't want to give my pussy or ass or mouth to your friends as a lesson in subjugation, well, I guess I will learn it another way. If the thought of making me dependent on your approval for any pleasure doesn't make you happy, I suppose I can keep buying AA batteries.

And yes, that's the truth. The pretty truth. But the ugly truth is that I want all of that, and much much more. Only it's not about what I want, is it?

Heroes and Nightgowns

You were in my dream. There was a farm, and the stable was overcrowded and filthy. I was walking down a narrow aisle between the rows of stalls, and there you were. In tight jeans and a tucked in shirt, leading a horse to safety. Your lopsided grin when you saw me was full of something wonderful. The rest of the dream...the squalid conditions, the awful smell, the sadness for the animals I felt, it went up in a puff when I saw that smile.

In last night's dream, I was in class. In a nightgown. Not a sexy nightgown, by the way, but this long country cotton shift with ruffles and little delicate buttons. 

I understand the first dream. My subconscious still considers you my hero, and I'd been watching animal cops houston before going to bed. 

But I really have no idea on the second one.

Tactile

Long ago I retrained myself to write gracefully. Not the words, but the act of putting pen to paper. I practiced for weeks. A A A A a a a a. B B B B b b b b. It worked. I have excellent penmanship.

But I rarely use it. My longhand notes at work are purely for my own use, not for the enjoyment of others. But I do keep a little journal, sometimes pre-blogging there, or jotting stream-of-consciousness phrases that long to be made into poems. 

Yesterday I found some lovely note cards. Beautiful paper, very textured, with gilt envelopes. Now I am leafing through my address book, wondering where to send them...

I don't want to be here now, the product of an experience I can't quite remove from my head. This silence is a step back, a deep breath. 

Namaste.

Propositions

There was a smut store near my high school, and I was one of the few daring enough to go in. The Purple Onion, it was called. I suppose I expected one of those hybrid head shops/kink stores, but it was full-on dirty movies, mags, and...video booths.

I remember seeing a mag full of hermaphrodites, which may explain why I have such a fetish for big clit/tranny porn. In case that is something you were interested in knowing about me. But then, I have a fetish for just about any kind of porn.

I convinced friends of mine to go in with me, once. A couple, and they were far more sexually active than I was, so it seemed fitting - Stacy and Danny, in the land of -y, -ie, or -i names. Stacy struck up a conversation with Roy the clerk, who told her a story about a woman who came in and asked if she could have the largest dildo free if she could fit it inside her (it was 20 inches, and yes it fit, and yes she got it for free). I'm sure the story was false, just this old man's way of chatting up an 18 year old. 

In the meantime, Danny and I ventured into the booth area. I remember using my foot to turn the channels, like you sometimes do to flush a toilet in a public restroom. Danny and I were entranced, watching all of this SEX. Neither of us noticed the man who came into the booth with us until he spoke. I don't recall his exact words, but it was definitely a proposition. Something about he and his wife and such an attractive young couple as ourselves.

We both froze and politely said no, but thanks. I wonder, though, what Danny's reason was...because mine was simply that I was not part of that couple. Otherwise, I believe I would have jumped right in.

Oh, and the purpose for the visit that day...my boyfriend/future husband needed a little ego adjustment and a bit of payback for a few sins committed, so I was buying him a copy of the book, 'Boot Camp Cocksuckers.' That and a pair of silk boxers were delivered to him the following week at USMC boot camp.

Bliss

In that moment of still expectation with eyes full of each other and the heat of flesh close enough to touch. There isn't a detail that I miss. The pattern that shapes your face, the swell of your bottom lip, the aquiline grace of your nose. My balance is lost, I am falling into you. 

All thoughts of explosions and wonderstruck romance long gone, only the texture of you against me. The movement, the head shift, the hand on my waist. It's all peripheral and nothing, not in this moment. It is soft and learning and tender. For a time.

Then there is pressure, and my teeth are aching to gnaw, and soon I'm fighting my way to your skin, that fragrance so heady. My bruised lips sliding across your body like the outstretched fingers of the blind.

A delicious tumult of clothing and grasping and then you're inside me, urgent. A pause, a lingering, an accommodation, and your eyes and lips are mine again while my body becomes your punctuation.

Parchments

When I lived in Ohio, I found a treasure trove of used books. It was an old church, renovated as a bookstore. It was creaky and drafty and I got a particular thrill of finding 'U.S. Military History' in the pulpit. The pickings were slim, but the hunt was a joy. The smell of old books is better than the smell of old money. I just want to writhe around on the floor, surrounded by old books.

I'm lucky to have three near me now. Today was Wilson's Books, in what seems to have formerly been an auto repair shop, or gas station. I found a 1949 printing of James' The American, a beautifully bound and well-maintained 1979 copy of Madame Bovary (with illustrations!), a restored edition of Plath's Ariel, and a collection of poems by Adrienne Rich.

The James has a sticker from the original bookseller. B.H. Blackwell LTD, in Oxford. I wonder what strange route it took to arrive in a sweaty little Florida town.

An excerpt from Rich...

But art requires a distance; let me be
Always the connoisseur of your perfection.
Stay where the spaces of the gallery
Flow calm between your pose and my inspection,
Lest one imperfect gesture make demands
As troubling as the touch of human hands.

from Love in the Museum

Update: My favorite thing to find is a book full of marginalia (as it sounds, notes scribbled in the margins). Ariel is FULL of scribbles from the previous owner. My favorite so far - beside the lines "It can sew, it can cook, it can talk talk talk", she has written the word OBJECTIFY.

How utterly appropriate.

Meeting at Night

It wasn't poetry, not that way, no matter how long I cooked it in this overheated mess of neurons.

It was just this - two people with a connection and no patience for the whims of chance.

And oh christ how I loved the anticipation and your preparation. All that taunting before the hour, and my nerves were on edge. I was 16 on my first date, I was 17 losing my virginity, I was 37 and finally seeing a man the way he is meant to be. I was all that wrapped up in a satin shirt and peep-toe pumps and I was yours for the taking.

That moment of indecision, of seeing it also on your face. The wine flowed and the conversation eased and you had me follow your directions just enough to humiliate myself. That egg, and that wireless remote, and not believing you'd given it to some random stranger until that random stranger returned it to our table.

Your laughter at my shocked face.

I remember all of this and more. The shirt, ripped. The tangle of our legs, how quick it was over, awkward laughter and more laughter, and more that was not so quick.

You snored. I didn't mind. It was comfortable. I allowed myself to live that moment. And it was a fine, fine moment.

One More Day

Speaking of schoolgirls...

I begin the next step of my long-neglected secondary education next week. Yesterday, I went to campus for mundane things...parking permit, student ID, meandering trip through the bookstore. It's move-in week for the little quaking freshmen. Once I got over the smell of too much freesia-scented bath & body works products on top of mild b.o. and acne cream (my nose is very sensitive), I was amused to find I was being deferred to as if I were a professor.

I wonder how I can use that to my advantage.

I have just this day left at work and then a long stretch of glorious vacation. Good wine, good books, and lots of good napping.

Surprised Schoolgirl

I grew up solidly lower middle class. Which is to say...I didn't have everything I wanted, but I certainly had everything I needed. Both parents worked, my sister and I had our own bedrooms, we did a significant vacation once a year. It was a comfortable and safe place.

But somewhere along the way, a family tradition was born. In order to excite us about the things we needed, my parents would treat them as special, unannounced gifts. The new winter coat, a sturdy pair of shoes, an outfit to wear for class picture day, even hand-me-downs from my older glamorous cousin.

We would come bursting in from school and hear those magic words...'there's a surprise on your bed!' Lickety-split we would be there digging into whatever was laid out.

My favorite was a true schoolgirl outfit. A plaid skirt to the knee, with a matching navy plaid-trimmed jacket that had two pencil pockets. WITH plaid-printed pencils. I think I still have the pencils.

Now that I'm grown, the surprise on my bed has a different connotation. No less exciting, mind you.

Don't we all deserve a surprise on our beds?

Fool Me Once

My conversations with a quite forceful man (see the post Dichotocatocutomies) have continued, and I've made plans to see him again.

There is some understanding...I don't willingly submit, though I need it so badly. He is intrigued by this war in my head.

I'm not so certain. But I'm eager to see what comes next.

At the very least, maybe I'll be knocked down a rung or two. I'm self-aware enough to know that it's often needed.

Truth or Dare

It was early, even for me. I'm the type that went to school when the doors were still locked. Not a pet, just...eager for a change of scenery. But even given my predilection for arriving early, this was very early. I had three hours to kill before my flight. Oh yes, I had a book, but what good is a book in people-watching central?

I stopped for enough beer to keep me occupied, but not so much to send me to an airplane bathroom more than once. Shiner Bock, fresh off the tap. Yes, please, 22 ounces.

I tried not to notice the oh so loud women on the other side of the bar. I tried not to notice the man sitting at the end of the bar also trying not to notice the oh so loud women.

It didn't work. Eye contact, a moment of wry humor shared. Who spoke first? Does it matter? Soon entangled in a resume exchange and business travel woes conversation. He was small and wiry and sharp, like a hungry fox. Something about his eyes made me prey.

We were on the same flight, of course. He to Baltimore, me to Tampa. A wishbone of luck. Delays, delays, the bar closed. We sat whispering and giggling, the innuendos coming hard and fast.

Another delay announced, another chance granted. I lick my lips, his fox eyes track my tongue's movement. A quick walk to a deserted corridor, there is time, yes, there is time. On my knees, quick, in this corner, a fly unzipped, a soft cock exposed. My mouth was so greedy and wet.

It was over in an instant, in my mouth and down my throat while he twitched like the fox in a trap.

Later, sly glances from his row to mine. From the connecting airport, taunting text messages. My further delay, his eventual return to Baltimore. Nothing more happened, but I would have worn his skin like a stole for the night.

Impracticalities

I got lost in thought standing in line at CVS on my way home from work. It was my round of errands. I'd already stopped at the wine store and bought a gift card for my boss (never mind the fact that I'd rather stuff all her blowholes with marshmellows and watch her slowly suffocate) for her 40th birthday, now I was just looking for a card (one of those musical ones...it plays SuperFreak, which is a far cry from Witchy Woman - her programmed ring tone on my cell phone).

Anyhow.

I was lost in thought while I was behind a youngish man who'd turned to look at me as I walked up. I'm fairly perceptive, I know an 'is someone behind me' glance from a more studied look. And this was definitely a studied look. I was mildly confused, given that there should have been no chemistry at all, reciprocal or not, and I certainly wouldn't have looked twice at him. I mean, really, that's why you get a studied look, right?

Apparently not. I think he was trying to confirm if I was the fuzz (did that just date me horrendously?). I must have passed (failed?) since he proceeded to attempt to pay for his purchases (wine, newports, bag of ice) with a credit card that was CUT IN HALF. And his swipes weren't the garden variety 'debit or credit, miss?' swipes, they were like skiball swipes. I thought he was going to rip the machine off the counter. Obviously, it didn't work, so he paid with cash (and almost walked out without his change). When I left, I saw him two stores over climbing on his bicycle, swigging from the bottle.

Where was I?

Oh yeah.

I have this thought, that I was born in the wrong era. I can sit and watch Pride and Prejudice or Out of Africa again and again, I'm so taken with the timeframe (late 18th century to early 20th) and nationality (English - domestic or colonized). I don't know if that speaks to some inner prudishness cum eroticism in me, or just that I really really like empire waistlines.

But, you know, if it weren't for the lack of indoor plumbing, deodorant, and dental hygiene, I would SO be building a time machine...

Anais aka Benny Hill

The return trip from Dallas should have been over Wednesday night. But due to weather, the flight was delayed, a connection was missed, and bang presto...I'm 12 hours late in getting home.

After two days in the same clothes and with only a whore shower to tide me over, I was WELL ready to be home. But the comic relief that is my daily life had other plans...

I arrive home, dogs in tow, and settle in to my routine. Gather the mail, take it out on the back patio while the pups sniff and piss contentedly. Of course I close the door behind me, no sense in letting all that air conditioned coolness out.

Only...I forgot to make sure the bottom lock was disengaged. After a brief moment of panic, I decide to try the front door. No luck.

I spend a few minutes going from front door to back door (surely this next time I turn the knob it won't be locked!). Finally I think...time to try the neighbors.

Sidenote...it's absolutely criminal how dependent we are on cell phones these days. I was lost without it.

Back to me traipsing up and down the street, knocking on doors. No one is home! It's the middle of the day! What to do, what to do, what to do???

I return to the front door and have a thought...maybe I can jig loose the crank-out window and get enough of my arm in there to turn the crank the rest of the way and then pop the screen and then reach the lock and yes, this is going to work!

It won't budge. Nosireebob. Nothing is going to happen according to that plan.

However, the right edge of the window frame isn't settling back into place, let me just press here on the window....

Yes. You guessed it. Window...shattered. And worse yet, blood EVERYWHERE. My wrist is bleeding copiously. No spurting, thankfully.

I look at the blood and the window and think... Fuck. I'm going to bleed out on my own goddamn front porch.

But then I realize, now I can actually GET in the house! So I break a bit more glass out, bend up the screen on the inside, pull a chair over to fall into, and then squeeze my ass through the 17 inches of space left by the broken window.

In a dress.

With no underwear.

And the postman comes to the door.

Two hours later and the glass is cleaned up and the repair man has paid a visit and all is right with the world. The cuts on my wrist were just flesh wounds...I dripped on some superglue and they closed right up. I told you I am a masochist!


Postscript: The postman had absolutely no reaction. None whatsoever. Freakish.

Dusty Water-Colored Memories

A brief nostalgic glance back into my submissive past...

Too bad I couldn't make a slideshow of this. Insert the theme music of your choice, I will be walking down memory lane accompanied by Dream a Little Dream sung/played by Louis Armstrong.

The Fighter - I wrote about him once. He asked for my panties. He was missing a bit of ear from a brawl. In retrospect, he was quite lovely.

The Misogynist - I've written of him as well. Shiver.

The Teacher - Ancient but wise. He fucked me with a dildo shaped like...well, you don't want to know. I've never orgasmed quite so deeply.

The Mentor - Kind man, came with a bristly mustache.

The Youth I - His red hair and shyness captured me. His cane caught me. His youth spoiled it.

The Youth II - Too much confusion.

The Weaklings - They came armed with gifts and a repressed desire to be submissive. None of us able to lead. (There were a few of these).

The Historian - I was trounced by his past. It still aches.

The Executive - I had to let go, I could never book an appointment.

The Healer - I've yet to pin him down, but it's a lasting friendship, if nothing else.

And, of course...

The Liars - Far too many. Not single, not straight, not many things but primarily not honest.

They are all like little porcelain figurines on a shelf. I don't forget. I won't forget.

What was I saying?

What is the fucking difference?

One.
Tentative, careful, soft. His eyes looking up at me as his mouth devours my cunt. Watching for the signs of orgasm. His fingers inside me, searching for that spot. Teasing my nipples. Kissing my neck. Relaxing into me as I take him in my mouth. Allowing me to lead him into other positions. Pulling me to him afterward, the nestling into his shoulder. Soft words.

Two.
Waking in the morning, hearing him still sleeping beside me. Paralyzed, not from fear, but because I'm still tied to something. Something that won't budge. His waking, gradual. He brings his cock to me, flaccid. He doesn't reach out, am I there? He simply brings himself to me, with the knowledge that I'll be where he left me. He grows in my mouth, pumping. No need for skill now, just warmth. He grunts when it's enough, and pulls me into position. Enters me with no formalities. Nothing, then everything. He sets into his morning release, my pleasure a peripheral. He moves my body to fit what he wants. His eyes on my mouth or my tits or his cock moving in me. He rests on me, the sweat clammy and making our skin stick, his breath loud in my ear. Then a quick kiss and a hair tousle as he unclips the binds and says 'Coffee, and grab the paper.'

There. The fucking difference.

Inflection

I read this in a magazine today:

You're allowed to do nothing.

Of course I read it with the emphasis on the word nothing.

You are allowed to do nothing.

They meant it as a release. You're allowed to do nothing, to relax.

I had to read it several times before I understood it correctly.

It's Raining

And I want to put the top down and drive while I look up at the sky and feel the drops on my face and tongue and sing out loud with the radio and take my hands off the wheel and scream like I am 17 and stop somewhere and and get out to spin circles on the sand in the dark and laugh until my sides ache and fall down without caring and jump in the ocean with all my clothes on and then run and never ever ever stop.

Balls and Chains

I got married by a judge. In the courthouse. It was a Monday. April 3rd. I was 18. I had on my favorite color at the time. Peach.

Now I know it looks terrible on my pink-tinted skin. But then, peach was my color.

Peach shirt. And khakis. I really went all out for my wedding.

The man I married made faces at me as I recited my vows. I giggled a few times.

I remember the judge's name was Alexander.

Two months later I dropped out of school and moved away to start my married life.

We were so young. So untested. It was over within a year, both of us too stubborn to give up for another two.

I drove from California to Tennessee while I put an end to it. Physical distance to match emotional distance. It wasn't difficult. I remember passing from faded sandy tans to rich greens, the closer I got to home, the closer I got to the next stage.

Only once since then have I considered marriage again. Briefly. Very, very briefly.

I don't have that same romantic notion. Marriage is difficult. It takes more than I am sometimes willing to give.

In comparison, submission is easy. The expectation is set. The rules are in place, pre-negotiated. Consequences are understood. There is logic and pattern and ease. This is simplification, I know.

But even submission chafes at me. As you well know.

So. I am married again. I commit to me. I placed a ring on my own finger, a ring engraved with Shakespeare.

'To thine own self be true.'

I can do that.

Brief Glimmer of Understanding

In the course of work, I'll sometimes enlarge a digital image until I can see each pixel, to perfect the gradation between colors. I'll hone in on a spot that is barely bigger than a fingernail and tweak and tweak until I feel that it's just exactly right.

Then I'll zoom out to see the image at its normal perspective and realize...all that painstaking subtlety didn't really change a thing.

That's what I'm doing right now...zooming out to my normal perspective.

Spontaneous Combustion

I get so tired of being responsible. Of participating in the drab ordinariness of life. Go to work. Pay the bills. Go to the grocery. Get an oil change. Exchange limb for gas. It's just so fucking monotonous.

Then I come here and read the same pathetic cries for attention and melodrama and oh christ just shut the fuck up already.

And that's just MY blog.

Don't you sometimes wish for a chance to be completely and utterly irresponsible? To run away from the kids and the commute and the cubicle and the coffee and the cockshots and the cleaning and the computer and the c...c....c....(gimme another c word please)...

Where would you run?

Me? I just want a pile of freshly fallen leaves somewhere in a place with no buildings, and I want to bury myself under them and breathe crispycold air and that dry crunchy smell of fall and fall asleep with an old sweatshirt and soft jeans and boots with mud in the tread and wake up with dirt in my hair and a gleam in my eye.

Why

I was reminded recently of the inspiration for my name here.

“I, with a deeper instinct, choose a man who compels my strength, who makes enormous demands on me, who does not doubt my courage or my toughness, who does not believe me naive or innocent, who has the courage to treat me like a woman.”

I am in my 38th year, and still feel like a child. What I do know, I hold as my own gospel. I cling to it. I'm not certain if that is ethic or error, and I turn inside out when I examine it too closely.

What I don't know is endless.

What I don't know is growing daily.

“And the day came when the risk to remain tight in a bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom.”

Indifferent Submission

His booming jolly voice on the phone, puffed up like a balloon, needing puncturing.

Young lady, he says, rate your value of a Dominant who
...controls you.
...makes you orgasm.
...makes you poly.
...objectifies you.
...requires your service.

He is palpably baffled when I answer with indifference to most of the descriptions.

I can't say, it's not my place, that all of those things make it about me, and that anyone who doesn't sense what does not leave me indifferent will never be able to leave me anything more than that.

I am a submissive. I am not a submissive.
You are dominant. You are not dominant.
You are not dominant. You are a daddy.
You are dominant. You are a teacher.

There is logic in that.

Delayed Gratification

There is an inescapable feeling when flying - that shift when you stop ascending and your stomach drops and you can't help but perceive the change from climbing means that you're falling. It reminds me of other things.

I spend my time in airports watching.

The older man in (I swear) a zoot suit and baseball cap, carrying a shaving kit.

The woman holding a book on biblical studies, wandering and looking lost.

A leggy redhead with vicious bruises peeking from under a miniskirt.

The balding man in first class taking out his contacts then smacking himself on the overhead compartment.

The man across the aisle too timid to tell his neighbor that he (the neighbor) is using the female receptor of his (the timid man) seat belt.

The woman next to me reading a relationship self-help book and twisting her engagement ring.

And all along I sit, trying to wrap my head around Schrodinger's explanation of quantum superpositions and finding it allegorical to life.

And cursing the short life of my iPod battery.

Then reading an article about a mathematician who posits that there are parallel existences, all based on the fact that everything is an equation, and I think - where on this axis is the membrane the thinnest that I can touch hands to the mirror-me?

What happens in Vegas...

I have a business trip scheduled next week. Manhattan. I've been once before, a day trip...in and out. This time, I'll stay several nights.

Something about hotel rooms. They need besmirching.

I scanned my list of regular watchers before posting this. As much as besmirching appeals, the thought of meeting a fellow blogger is very intimidating.

Granted, I've met quite a few people from online, in various capacities. Most are friends. Some are very good friends.

But bloggers and besmirching and hotel rooms...that's a combination that makes me gulp.

I'll leave the spare key at the front desk. Come and get me.

Heart Murmurs

I've been OFF for a few weeks. Been full of doubts. Is there an overdue bill? Do the dogs need a trip to the vet? Have I forgotten a birthday? A watched movie to be sent back to Netflix? Did I miss an appointment?

Everything has checked out. And I've checked. Repeatedly.

Still there has been this little voice in the back of my mind....you forgot you forgot you forgot.

I forgot what? What have I left behind?

Then suddenly, it lifted. I've no idea of the trigger. It just...disappeared.

And I'm back again, to the old contentment. No longer unhappy. Not for any particular reason, just because I let go of what was making me unhappy.

Proving, yet again, it's me who controls my destiny.

Sweaty Serendipity

I've taken the Jeep in for some gearhead repair or another (crank position sensor*, if you're interested). After dropping it off and getting a time estimate of approximately two hours, I take myself and my book to a coffee shop. Then I wander a little farther down the road for a quick hair trim. At this point, the shop calls to tell me that it will be a longer than planned, and I make the decision (oh, why didn't I wear walking shoes) to walk another 40 blocks home.

In midday Florida heat.

Instead of walking on the main roads, I walk along the residential areas. And, it being Saturday, happen across a garage sale. And at this garage sale, I find a hammered metal owl.

A quick bit of backstory...the movie Clash of the Titans came out when I was eleven. I'm not sure why, but it captured my fascination, and since then I've been very fond of that little mechanical owl (named Bubo).

I finish the last few blocks with a silly little $9 hammered metal owl in tow.

He makes me happy.

However, I'm not happy about the 40 block walk back to the auto shop. At 3:00 in the afternoon. When the sun is strong and temperature is hovering around 90. I hope it rains on the way.

*This really needs to also be a name of some diagnostic tool for someone's naughty toy box.

At the theater

We giggled like schoolchildren, fogging up the windows. I was overcome by lust. He was too young, too soft. I knew better, but couldn't resist.

His mustache tickled.

We stopped. Too much, too soon. Another time, another place. Thought and planning.

I warned him. I'm so sensitive there. My breasts. Don't tease them.

Later, he couldn't stop. Stroke stroke stroke. So lightly. I wanted to kick and bite and urinate on him. I said, 'Pain. Just pain. None of this."

He could not stop. He wanted to coax them into eager peaks. I begged him to alternate with pinches or twists. Anything, just not so much softness.

Is that impertinent?

I grew to hate him. In moments. I made him leave, long before the planned departure. He called again, once. Said nothing, just...why didn't you say what you wanted?

I rolled my eyes and waited, silent, for him to hang up.

Not sure what this means.

I'm at a point in my life where...

I don't try to wear glitter. Or miniskirts.
I prefer comfortable shoes.
Friday nights are for Doctor Who, not for Mr. Right (Now).
I use face cream.
I floss regularly.
I cover the gray.
I worry about new freckles.
Experimentation with drugs means taking aspirin past its expiration date.

Today I was at a munch, and at this munch was a woman. A very silly woman. Enjoyed announcing herself as the oldest there. Enjoyed announcing everything, actually. Enjoyed being the center of attention. Enjoyed drama. Enjoyed the drama of others.

I thought...I don't want to be that woman. Not in 25 years. Not ever.

Then there was a man. I, I, I, I, I, I. Awful. I watched his mouth, didn't bother hearing his words. Just the useless flapping of his lips with the I I I of himself.

The bartender gave me his phone number. A sweet simple man with expressive eyebrows. No I I I there.

I confessed melodrama and superiority complex to another blogger. Jokeyjokester. But not joking.

There's a song lyric...we lean another ladder against the wrong wall and climb high to the highest rung to shake fists at the sky.

There is no sign of you.

DOMesticated

Tonight I did housework. With cups suctioned to my nipples.

Just because I can.

Rosary Beads

If I write it small enough, in tiny little letters, too small even for me to read without knowing the words, does it make it less?

I'm unhappy.

It's said, and done. Out. Right there. See it? I own those words. I own them every day. They don't really belong to me. I was given them. I don't like to look at them, or say them, or even think them. They make me think less of myself.

I keep going in circles over them. Chasing my tail.

I dreamt this morning, and woke hoping it was prophecy. I'm aware (enough) of my false hopes, false false false.

But what else is there to go on?

Wodan's Child

There is a bit of magic in all of us. No matter how ordinary we seem, no matter how deep one has to dig, there is that child inside with eyes squinted to see fairies instead of fireflies, to hear voices on the wind, to smell lightening before it strikes.

My magic plays out in words. They fall out of my fingertips, I barely even look at the screen.

Often I cry as I write.

That's my magic. Hidden in a stack of letters and rounded silent lip movements. It's not passion patterned out in a spray of touches.

I've held my hand to a chest, and felt the crinklycrackly hair and sighed my contentment. Sometimes it is enough. Sometimes it isn't. And sometimes that child inside squints and sees Odin.

I haven't stopped squinting.

There are days and ways of normalcy. Amongst this I must find the magic.

With a Pretty Pink Bow

I was contacted recently by a man who typed..."I believe submission is a gift, born out of strength, fed by trust and kept by regards and respect."

After I stopped laughing at the sum of his message, I chose to respond to that idea alone.

Submissiveness is a state of being. A default stance. What we find to center or ground us.

Submission is an inevitability.

Of course, it does not (can not!) occur with every person we meet, there is chemistry in it as in any other aspect.

For some of us, the desire for submission is so strong that we are able to ignore a lack of chemistry. It's no different from a person ignoring a lack of emotional or mental connection. This is also called grasping at straws.

For others of us, the desire is stronger for other qualities to be present before being able to relax into submission.

Submission is not a gift. It can't be given away and placed on a shelf, or worn on a birthday. You can't say, "Remember that submission I gave you last year? It was the best submission ever."

There are Dominants who can beat you, who can make you lust for them, who can mentor you. But there is a short list in Fate's hands of the ones to whom you can truly submit.

Dichotocatocutomies

Once, I met a man.

Doesn't that sound like the beginning of some pornographic fairy tale?

Anyhow. Once, I met a man. A traveler. He had me meet him at a hotel. He was waiting in the lobby. He said he would know me when I entered. I stifled, but will I know you? Of course, I didn't. I looked around...lost, nervous. There, him. Studying me. It must be.

I was all smiles and gangly knees and elbows. How can I be soft and warm and plump and still gangly? It is possible, trust me.

He had me kneel. In the lobby. It felt so...uncomfortable. He was leaned back in his chair. I imagine he pictured me with his cock in his mouth.

That came later.

I had to purchase condoms at the front desk. Effortless casual chat, I'm good at it. I don't enjoy it. But I put it on, lest the clerk think I'm a whore. Inwardly enjoying that the clerk may, in fact, be wondering if I am. I was given money to buy the condoms. It felt hot in my hand, the money. The condoms felt hotter. I went to where he was waiting around the corner. I gave the change to him, and he took it even as he walked two paces ahead.

Near his room, he told me, finish the rest of the way on your knees. I smiled, uncomprehending. The blood in my head making it difficult to hear him well. On your knees. I smiled again, laughed. Really? On my knees? What is all this about? Remembering this is what I'm here for, on my knees, but laughing.

My purse, too long, dragging on the floor beside me. Laughing still.

His face, immobile. I choked it back, but the moment was lost.

Later, he slapped me. That knocked the smile off.

I wasn't ready. Am I now?

Casting lines

I think I'll just do it. Go out and find a pretty pink prick, with veins that I can trace with my tongue.

Who cares what the man attached has to say, or think. What does it matter if he has no concept of who I am or can be.

Just drive that thing inside me and push out all the rest of it.

He'll need stamina, to fuck me within an inch of losing consciousness. What the hell, go past that. Do it until I run dry and don't want anymore. Do it until I'm pushing away, then do it some more. Do it until I say stop, but don't. Do it like a machine, so that I can be.

Yes, that's what I ought to do. Dispense with all this mind-fuckiness and light bondage, just a good old fashioned hard fuck.

I wonder if it will be the same. Without the hair pulling, without the hand on my neck, with asking before taking.

Artifice in Honesty

Consider this...

This is just to say
I have eaten
the plums
that were in
the icebox

and which
you were probably
saving
for breakfast.

Forgive me
they were delicious
so sweet
and so cold.
-William Carlos Williams

When did we reach the point of forgiveness based on honesty? When the little boy said 'I cannot tell a lie' and confessed to chopping down the cherry tree, that trite story from our grade school history classes (George Washington, for my non-U.S. readers) - what sorry mistake did that place in our value system?

Are we to place more value on honesty than we do morality? Isn't honesty just a sheepish way of saying, 'I got what I wanted, too bad you were in the way at the time.' There is no implied apology. It is just a veiled way of doing as you like with no guilt involved.

All along I've said that I value honesty and truth above all else. In fact, what I value is deep moral standing. If you (You) can look temptation in the face and say...no...my word is more than this. My self-respect is more than this.

Surely there is more than meek honesty and weakness there. Here. Wherever. If I can stand and say this is what I am not, will never be, and I will carry those words for as long as I'm able, it can't be that hard for others?

"I value friendship above all else," just before you sleep with someone who isn't yours. "I like to give things a fair shake with no distraction," and yet still a nonrejection-rejection after picking up with your past. Be with me, be with me, be with me....leave me alone.

I hold myself to a very high standard. But it's a standard I know that I can maintain. And you? Why do you let yourself be less than what you should be? Why do you let your words mean nothing?

For Fuck's Sake

I would like to be a paid whore. I would like for that blankness you see on my face when you approach me to no longer be contrived. I would like to relax into indifference, not have the spawning of a thought or an expectation after that first fumbling fuck.

I would like to have money tossed on my breasts when you are done with me. Not because of the money. But to keep being done, done.

I would like to wear garish lipstick and leave traces of it on you and then forget that it was left there.

I would like to spread my legs and close my eyes and let you all take me one by one. I would like to feel that dirty and that simple.

I would like to turn my face away from your kisses. To not be held in an embrace. I would like to feel that tingling irritation of lips touching the side of my mouth, ticklish.

I would like to think of you as a number. Or an amount.

I cost you this much.

I would like that to be true. Once.

Today and Still

A squirrel came as near as he could, balancing on a limb, one eye on me, one eye on everything else.

A cardinal skittered skittered along the edge of the roof. I only saw his bright red tail feathers.

Two mockingbirds dueling on the fence, claiming their territory.

Knockknockknockknockknock of a woodpecker on a light pole.

Turn my head, there is a flicker of flame and smoke from the citronella candle.

I watch a mosquito sink its vicious little proboscis into my arm. Anyway.

Cars drive by. Dogs bark. I sink into another book. A woman on the verge of discovery.

I drift to sleep, gently. Awake again. Not much of a barrier between them.

I turn off my thoughts with the help of chemicals. Sleep is easy and deep. Limbs heavy. All of my energy just to push the air out, pull the air in. The wind moving the tiptops of the trees around.

I don't want to move for a bit. Just stay right here. Tell me it's okay. Tell me it's fine. Take this pinchiness out of me for a little while.

The Bird in the Hand

I'm not a choice.

I don't want to be weighed and measured against. I don't want to be held up in comparison to something else. I don't want to ever think...it's me until something better is there.

There should never be a moment when I am scrutinized and a decision contemplated. I should be that which is placed high, that which is most wanted, that which is not a choice, but a necessity.

I don't want to be patient and understanding. I want to kick and yell and be a child.

I want to say...there will never ever ever be another of me in that bush.

But most of all, I'm sick to death of seeing that train rolling down the track, and waiting for Dudley Do-right to come cut the rope. There is no Dudley Do-right. There is only Me Do-right. It's me to get out of the ropes, it's me who carries me home, it's me who salves the wounds. It's me who fixes me. And this is why I can't let myself be dependent.

I think there is a turning point in every woman's life. Am I self-sufficient, or am I going to need Dudley? I don't think it's conscious choice, it just happens. And once it's done, you can't undo it. Those Dudleys smell it on you...the ability to walk away from them because you aren't going to need them, and it offends their egos.

I am completely, utterly, irrevocably disillusioned. But I am still not going to be needy. Not for you. Not for any Dudley.

Blackbirds

I spent this past weekend reading.

Alice Hoffman.

She wraps me up in her magicky dream so completely that it takes some time to shake off that fuzzy slowness and scent of honeysuckle.

Since I was very small, books were my primary escape method. Don't get me wrong, I had a perfectly happy childhood. Loving parents, lots of freedom with set and fair boundaries, a sibling playmate and a healthy rivalry. But everyone needs an escape from their reality.

Mine was reading.

Becoming so deeply involved in a book that I would nearly act as the character. Ignoring the world around me. Literally. I wouldn't hear phones ring, people talking to me, television. I would read all night and have to be forced to school, with dark circles under my eyes and my mind still replaying the last few chapters.

Good books I would read several times. I still have some of them, still read some of them. My dog-eared copy of A Wrinkle in Time. A tear-stained hardback copy of Danny, the Champion of the World.

Sometimes I wonder how much I learned from life, and how much I learned from tree pulp and printing ink.

Playing Dress-up

I have a confession.

I capitalized on the last two posts. You. He. When no capitalization was called for grammatically.

It offends my perfectionist nature, honestly.

But I watch and learn, and I see those who follow the protocol rigidly. Sir. Y/you. Always deferential, respectful.

It's not that I am not a polite person. I use titles every day. Yes, sir. Yes, ma'am. Thank you, sir. But it never means quite the same thing without the digital (as in fingers) acrobatics of capitalization, nor is it apparent anywhere but in type, here.

Frankly, I'm always a little giggly when I do use a title here. Or in person. When it means something. Yes, Sir, may I have another. It just doesn't seem quite right. A little ridiculous, in fact. Like I've put on my mother's clothing and am clomping around in her shoes.

What, then, do I say? Just yes? Since there are NO no's. Yes. May I taste you? Yes. Please may I have more.

Do I add the Sir? Do I show the proper respect and hope the formality grows on me, becomes second nature? Will you (You?) eventually require it, expect it, penalize me without it?

Everything is so damned hazy.

Multiple Neurosis

I've got friends who love polyamory. Live polyamorously. It's turned into somewhat of a joke between us, that I get so turned inside-out over the normalities of their poly lives.

I don't understand it. The very thought of it turns my stomach into a seething knot of worry. For them, for me, for the future. Many times I've had to turn my face away so that I don't see it, read it, hear it, know it.

My secret is this...

Even poly, which fills me with terror, is something I fantasize about. Not the living in Utah on a commune type of poly, but the poly that requires me to be forced to submit to it. Forced bisexuality. Forced viewing of His pleasure with another.

My stomach a knot as I write that.

Not all of my limits kink up my nerves in quite the same way. Limits that I fully realize are flexible. Limits that I wouldn't pursue until asked to do so.

Poly is a limit for me. But is it really? Is it a limit based on ego, on insecurity? Or is it a limit based on the typical foundation of normal relationships? It IS a limit based on trust, that much I know for certain.

But it's still there, and it still makes me squirm and shake when I see it on a blog, and it still makes me squirm and shake when I masturbate to it.

It makes me shake and squirm to offer this voluntarily without having You coax it out of me.

Hands in Neutral

I have that kind of skin. Pale. Not in that peaches and cream delicate china way, but nearing translucence in parts. I've never been careful of it. Mosquito bites scratched to scars. Sun damage masquerading as freckles.

Bruised easily.

Once, I would spot a new bruise in the shower, poke it a bit, and wonder how it was obtained. Of course, that was before the significance of bruising.

Now I see one on my arm and think...that was grabbing. Or pulling. If there is one on my thigh, I picture fingers grasping, forcing me outspread. Tiny ones on my wrist are bindings. On my throat, squeezing out my breath.

Temporary maps of my submission.

They fade so quickly. If only there was a way to make them permanent, for each to flare hotly when He touches me. Strike by numbers.

Sunday Morning Coffee

This is causing me to re-learn how to be. I find myself falling into old patterns, and I walk away from them. I counsel patience. I am squelching the want want wantingness of me. It's difficult. I wake some mornings, sweaty and twisted, after dreaming of things that undermine me.

Ironic that letting myself become dependent is the first time I've felt truly adult.

There is no nonchalance here. Just an emotional chastity belt. It's enough for now, on my trip to a leash.

Teeth

I was reading something tonight about how women are consumed. That men have an obsession with placing things inside women. Cocks, fingers, tongues, candles, food. I've had a walking stick's end inside me.

I think I understand it, though. There have been women I've met, whose softness and sweetness leave me with a desire to bite and scratch them. Not out of spite, but to mar, or to claim.

Once in a while I feel that way with men. It's rare. Usually it's the sensitive type, the ones that make your blood boil to listen to, that make you think of sharp and hot and edges.

I'm not violent. I know I'm not. I'm too indifferent to humanity to be so. But there are times when my teeth go jagged and I feel that strange desire to do more than just sniff and lick.

Nor am I bisexual. I've tried that route, and it felt sour and wasted. I had to cleanse myself with too many men afterwards.

Maybe I am just angry today. Impotent. I keep feeling my hands turn into fists. I want consuming.

The Kink Gene

Eighteen-inch heavy-duty cable ties from the local home improvement store. Hot.

Forgetting myself and smacking my father (as in biological, not dom-daddy) on the ass with the package on the way out of the store. Not.

Gold Cords

Yesterday I finished something that has taken three years to complete. Or twenty, depending on how you look at it. But I was oddly unmoved by it. I'm already looking to the next goal, letting this one blow by with just the briefest of nods at my own accomplishment.

I've always been that way. I don't know if it's a byproduct of procrastination (would I be prouder had I not put it off so long?) or if it is just that I need to always be reaching for some THING.

I wonder how much this infects the rest of my life. I'm content with my work, my status, my choice in not having children. And I've never settled (for long, anyway) for the wrong man. Maybe it's that much of this is inconsequential to my self-regard, which, of course, is tied almost exclusively to what I can learn, what I should know.

But, no matter what is next, yesterday was still a good day. I will take the moment to point and say 'yes, that is done, and I am proud, and I will not lessen it.'

*******
Completely unrelated note: please don't watch or support horse-racing. Yesterday marked two years in a row in which a vibrant, beautiful, sleek, healthy, and likely abused animal suffered in the name of a silly tradition. Hours spent drinking and wearing big hats can be had without a race that is over in two minutes. End rant.

Chains

He asked me about my safe word. I made it up on the spot, then laughed. Such a ridiculous word. I couldn't hear a smile in his voice, and oh how I was listening for it. He shortened it for me, and I inner-smirked thinking that I'd never use it anyway. I don't remember the sequence, as if the blindfold made it all nonsensical. I let it all go. Forgot to think what it looks like, is this attractive, am I sexy, what is he looking at right this moment. It all disappeared in a second, and I just...was.

Then that felt hard, and soft, and good, and oh those clamps and yes, I love this, my mouth is so empty...please. Clamps again and christ that burns hot all the way through but still no safe word. Soft again, and sweet and care and don't you dare back away from me now, and then that pump and the pressure and his hand and telling me how swollen it looks, still I don't know the sequence. Inside me and all around me and twisting and how long did that last and his voice again, you may NOT. I'm so good, I'm so good, I didn't but I wanted and still I can't see, just feel.

Now it's light and there is his face and I watch while he pumps his cock in my mouth but I can't watch long because I won't be good.

This Space

...where I become so moldable. I'll never lack for an opinion, never fall short of my principles, but there is an eagerness to capitulate, to belong, to please.

I'm not perfect, nor ever claimed to be. I'm lazy, I procrastinate, don't exercise often enough, am judgmental and sometimes overly rigid.

But I am capable of learning. Of growing in the right directions. Or growing less in others, given the right motivation.

After a good bit of disenchantment, and struggling with myself for quite some time, I know where I feel at my best. My best means striving to be better. And striving to be better requires that there is someone to measure my progress.

Is this D/s? I don't think so. Is it M/s? Probably not. Is it TiH (Taken in Hand)? TPE? Does it even matter? It is none of those things, and it is all of those things. It can't be all of them, and it can't be none. It is a living, breathing, evolving place that I am content with AT THAT MOMENT. I won't be labeled or categorized for anything that I choose to do based on the circumstance or the heat of the moment. Don't read that as willfulness. It isn't. It is simply an acknowledgment that as a fairly intelligent, passionate, emotional person - my needs will never be the same from day to day. If I'm to be relegated to a role that only fits me part of the time, then know that the other times will not make either of us happy.

I am willing to bend to the will of another, when the goal is to teach and nurture, not to break or subjugate. But I'm not a project, or a game. None of this is held lightly in my mind. I will be unwavering, honest, and loyal.

As I should be.

The butt-ends of my days and ways

No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;
Am an attendant lord, one that will do
To swell a progress, start a scene or two,
Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,
Deferential, glad to be of use,
Politic, cautious and meticulous;
Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;
At times, indeed, almost ridiculous -
Almost, at times, the Fool.
-TS Eliot, Prufrock

I saw a play recently, Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead (Stoppard). I'd seen it before, read it even, but it had been many years ago. I found myself amused, still, but also disturbed by the inevitability of their fate. Unintentional fools, led this way and that by unseen hands. I wondered suddenly at the metaphor to all of us. I am always struck by the change in my perception of things as I grow older (my trousers that evening were, in fact, rolled).

My resulting desire to live a little stronger was made easier by my companion for the evening, a man who is adding an unexpected kerthump to my normal pulse. I'm glad of it, though wary. Do I dare, do I dare?

Would I spend forever here and not be satisfied

During my adult life, I've experienced a sleeping orgasm twice. Both instances occurred while in bed with the object of the dream that inspired the arousal.

This is somewhat rare for women, I know. I suppose I'm lucky in that regard. It's never been difficult for me to orgasm. Quickly, repeatedly, strongly. But the sleeping variety...wow.

This most recent one was accompanied by an unusual dream. In it, my lover was no longer a physical presence, but spiritual - with the ability to possess any living creature. I told him of this dream after I recovered, but forgot to mention that the orgasm came when his spirit possessed my body. Which, I suppose, means something far more intriguing than being able to orgasm in my sleep.

Silences

People tend to fill a void. With action, or words. I'm not that way. I don't mind a comfortable, companionable silence. I don't feel the need to fill that space with endless chatter about trivialities. Most of the time. I do have my chatty cathy moments, generally due to overstimulation via caffiene.

Sometimes, though, I observe myself and my silence and wonder if it seems like disassociation or reclusiveness. I suppose that is true to an extent, I can be quite the hermit. I've always understood that my tendency towards solitude is more about enjoying myself rather than not enjoying others. Is that vanity? Or acceptance? Or enlightenment? I'm not sure, but I have been told that I seem cold and distant. I don't intend it, it is just a natural consequence of my quietude (in all definitions of the word).

I am at peace. With who I am, who I have been, who I am becoming. With my weaknesses and faults, with my strengths.

This is a nice place to be.

Speechless

I keep coming here, with the intention of writing something. Anything. I end up staring blankly at the screen for a few moments, then running off to shop online for hammocks.

Of moderate interest...I found two 'stories' from when I was in high school. One was run of the mill Penthouse forum-variety. The other was of a more D/s nature. All along I thought I hadn't discovered this until my mid-to-late twenties, only to find it was in me much earlier.

In me. Snicker.

Physical Labor

I envy those on the show Ax-Men...all chewing tobacco, coarse language, and springing nimbly from log to log while hoisting chainsaws well over their heads. (My Sunday evening lull-to-sleep telly).

I've never been that type. I don't mind being physical, but I certainly don't seek it out. Call me lazy, if you think it fits. But when it's necessary, I can strap on my Nikes and become the formidable Amazon. (Note to self, get a crossbow. Or spear.)

Yesterday was one of those moments.

Today, however, will be the complete opposite. My muscles and bones will be taking a nice comforting break, courtesy of three Netflix movies and an 11 am massage appointment.

Will it make all the difference?

I've always detested Robert Frost. Standing at a fork in the road, poetically rambling about his indecisiveness.

Decide already. Left. Right. It doesn't matter, just do it.

But I'm standing at a fork in the road. And I'm poetically rambling, even if only in my own head, about my indecisiveness. And there is this pale rope around me, and it's pulling me in one direction. And that rope feels wonderful. And rough. And comforting. And frightening.

Dialogue with Understanding

You say I am repeating
Something I have said before. I shall say it again.
Shall I say it again? In order to arrive there,
To arrive where you are, to get from where you are not,
You must go by a way wherein there is no ecstasy.
In order to arrive at what you do not know
You must go by a way which is the way of ignorance.
In order to possess what you do not possess
You must go by the way of dispossession.
In order to arrive at what you are not
You must go through the way in which you are not.
And what you do not know is the only thing you know
And what you own is what you do not own
And where you are is where you are not.

From T.S. Eliot, East Coker.

Self

I'm wearing a body that isn't my own.
I'm thinking thoughts I finished before.
I'm in this place again.

I'm done here, for now.
I'm too open, soft.
I'm pierced with no regard.

I'm losing ground.
I'm deep in sleep.
I'm unable to resist.

I'm endless, intolerable, choking need.
I'm loathsome.

Foreshadowing

I told him that I like hydrangeas
Big bloomy bushes of blue or pink
I like them because they aren't common
No hustler roses, no vague lilies
They were my grandmother's flowers, hydrangeas
What I neglected to say is that they smell of loss and death and things left unsaid.

Wear it like bones, like skin

A man sent this poem to me once. Long ago. He said it captured me exactly. I'll let you decide.

I want a red dress.
I want it flimsy and cheap,
I want it too tight, I want to wear it
until someone tears it off me.
I want it sleeveless and backless,
this dress, so no one has to guess
what's underneath. I want to walk down
the street past Thrifty's and the hardware store
with all those keys glittering in the window,
past Mr. and Mrs. Wong selling day-old
donuts in their café, past the Guerra brothers
slinging pigs from the truck and onto the dolly,
hoisting the slick snouts over their shoulders.
I want to walk like I'm the only
woman on earth and I can have my pick.
I want that red dress bad.
I want it to confirm
your worst fears about me,
to show you how little I care about you
or anything except what
I want. When I find it, I'll pull that garment
from its hanger like I'm choosing a body
to carry me into this world, through
the birth-cries and the love-cries too,
and I'll wear it like bones, like skin,
it'll be the goddamned
dress they bury me in.

by Kim Addonizio

On the Offensive

I've often read that many submissive women are actually in positions of authority and power during their normal lives...work, personal but non-sexual relationships, financial, family hierarchy. It makes sense to me, that being in control creates a desire...no, a need...to throw off those metaphorical shackles in favor of physical shackles.

The slippery slope logic follows, then, that men or women who gravitate towards dominance have the opposite situation. They are weak or powerless in their normal lives, yes?

I don't like to think of it this way, yet so often those I meet (virtually, really, I don't give them much of a shake in terms of meeting in person) are ones with a grudge against the opposite sex, ones who were controlled by their mother or father, ones who don't work, can't provide, have no concept of social responsibility or obligation.

Again, I am saying slippery slope logic, so as not to offend (much). I know there are those who do not fit this description, who are strong simply because they are, not in reaction to being made weak during a formative stage in their lives.

But they are few and far between. I'm not complaining, mind you, I'm just making a statement. I don't mind the wait.

But to any of you who read my blog and who match that description...man up. Sort yourself. Don't take submission as your due simply because you added Sir or Master to an online profile.

Pierced

My heart is in my hand,
and my hand is pierced,
and my hand is in the bag,
and the bag is shut,
and my heart is caught.

-Jean Genet

Beating Banality

I was speaking with friends of mine about the fact that I have not successfully achieved subspace. Granted, it's not that I actively try...that seems counterproductive. I'm not sure that I believe in subspace, actually, since I only really have faith in something I can feel or have experienced personally.

My friend even said that she has seen me receive quite a severe beating and was surprised that I didn't reach it. The reaction of others was that they could get me there fairly easily, if given the chance.

I don't know about that, frankly. I stay very aware while in a session, and I'm not sure I could break out of that. I suspect that it will take an inordinate amount of pain to chip through my reality.

Generally, my thoughts range across a myriad of subjects and emotions, and go something like this...

'Gah, why didn't I wear the sexy undies instead of the everyday variety?? I knew this was a possibility!'

'Hmmm. My deodorant smells nice.'

'I wonder what this looks like from behind.'

'Oh, what's the name of this song???'

'Ouch, that stung.'

'Maybe you should pull my hair now.'

'Fuck. I need to get laid, this all-whipping thing is making me frenzied.'

'I wonder if he is hard...'

'This towel feels nice and rough on my nipples.'

'Oh, this is good, much more severe now.'

'I won't be able to reschedule that massage until the bruises fade.'

'Damn it, those people are too loud.'

'Sigh. Over already????'

Now you see the problem?

It was only a kiss

It was just that I needed it, so profoundly. I can't be here, read your words, and not. I didn't plan it, but I can't say it wasn't in the back of my mind.

I was patient, I tried to calm myself, tried not to jump there and be first. I watched, as I do. It wasn't enough.

There were hands and voices and yes, there was pain, some...and I shut my eyes and rode it and wanted more and harder and there were watchers and the music and those hands again and must not cum and please fuck me and don't and do and just make all of this in my head go away.

How can I feel better and worse at the same time?

Web Spinner

I do my utmost to be honest at all times. To myself, and to others. I warn people of my propensities to be a certain way, to act out in damaging ways. But I'm always honest about who I am and what I want from them or for them.

As such, when I am misled, I become incensed. Am I not worthy of truth? Am I so judgmental that I would not understand your truth? Or are you just so ashamed that you hide parts of yourself from me? How is there to be open and honest communication if you don't share all?

Through a Glass, Darkly

The note on the bed was clear. "Remove your clothing. Place the blindfold over your eyes and tie it tightly. Stand in the middle of the room." She let her fingers trail over the silk of the blindfold and felt a frisson of fear.

With a delicious anxiety, she follows the instructions. Clothes are removed. Blindfold is tied, tightly. She waits in the middle of the room, nervously shifting from foot to foot. It seems like hours, but likely only moments, before she hears the soft rub of the door over the carpet, and the click as he shuts and locks the door behind him.

Silence, deafening silence. She imagines him nearly touching her, his breath on her skin. Then he speaks, from farther away that she expected. She jumps, startled...she was concentrating so intently to hear that she missed his words. Her mouth opens to ask and her voice falters, scratchy in the blind space around her. She swallows and tries again, "What did you say?"

A quick footstep and SMACK that she hears before she feels. "What did you say Sir," he says. Breathlessly she hastens to say, "What did you say, Sir, I'm sorry Sir."

"I said, you look lovely."

She blushes at the compliment, and is shamed at having to ask for it to be repeated. Her head lowers slightly as she murmurs "I'm glad I please you."

"Stand with your arms slightly in front of you, with your palms forward and the backs of your hands resting against your thighs." he orders. She complies immediately, wondering at the specific placement of her hands.

"I'm going to wrap you now. Be very still."

He begins at her chest, tucking the end of what feels to be plastic wrap beneath her arm, then walks slowly around her, holding the wrap taut. The wrap feels smooth against her, and the tightness of the application seems like a cocoon. Around and around he wraps, carefully positioning her breasts with each wrap so that only the nipples are exposed between the layers. He continues down her body, leaving her hands exposed and then tapping her ankles to indicate that she should spread her legs. He wraps each leg individually, down to the ankle. Thinking he is done, and has left her pussy exposed, she hopes that he means to take her this way, but her hopes are dashed when he begins to wrap again.

"Close your legs." he says, and wraps her from waist to knee, very tightly. The plastic is so warm, she can feel her body heating up underneath it.

"Now, carefully, walk to the bed and turn your back to it."

Walking blindly, she positions herself so that the backs of her knees are pressed against the edge of the bed, and he slowly lowers her until she is reclined. She feels completely helpless. He reaches down and lifts her feet and turns her on the bed so that she is strategically placed in the center.

All is quiet again, her senses are on high alert, trying to feel or hear where he is. Unbeknownst to her, he is sitting on a nearby chair, just watching her, testing how long she can remain quiet. The moments stretch out, longer and longer, and she feels restless in her helplessness. She whispers, "Where are you?"

A sudden pressure on the bed from his rapid approach, and another smack."What did you just say to me?"

"Sir, I'm sorry, Sir, I'm just frightened." she explains, mentally cursing herself for her own forgetfulness.

Feeling the bed shift beneath her as he straddles her body, resting on her wrapped thighs. Her hands feel the fabric of his pants, and the hardness of his legs.

"I think it's time to begin." he says, and places a gentle fingertip on one of her exposed nipples. She moans in response, and feels a pulse in her pussy.

Ever so lightly, he strokes her nipples, teasing them to hardness. He alternates between using his open palm to rub the erect nipples, and using his forefinger and thumb to roll them. She is shameless in her reactions, trying to twist her body to have his hands come in more contact with her breasts. He chuckles and spanks her breast, telling her "No more of that, be still or I'll stop altogether."

He raises himself from the bed, and she hears the telltale noise of him disrobing. The bed is jostled again, as he lays beside her, on his side.

"Now, I think I'll have a bit of fun." He bends down and takes her nipple into her mouth, and sucks strongly. Her body arches, as much as it is able, and she groans in pleasure. Being wrapped, she is incapable of touching him in any way, and the frustration is immense. She feels him thrusting against her, rubbing his hardness against the plastic wrapping her body. She is lost in desire, his mouth on her is steady and relentless. Her body is on fire, the plastic encasing her is holding in her body heat and making an inferno of lust and sweat. Her pussy is dripping, she feels the wetness against her ass, held there by the plastic as well.

It goes on and on, this wonderful torture. She orgasms again and again, begging him to release her, to take her, to do anything but to leave her nipples alone, now, please please please. His response? Suckling more strongly.

After a particularly strong orgasm, when she has dissolved in tears and begged him again to stop, he reaches to the nightstand to collect the large pair of scissors that he placed there before she arrived. She is sobbing, so grateful that it's stopped, and barely notices the slight tug as he pulls up the bit of plastic wrap just at her crotch. She hears the snip of the scissors, and feels the cool air on her heated skin. Then she feels the cold steel of the scissors, rubbing so carefully against the swollen folds of her pussy. The tip catches slightly, and she feels the potential pain, sucking in her breath and hoping that he will take them away.

Knowing that he is smirking at her fear, she relaxes, believing in the trust she has placed in him.

Another test passed, he smiles down at her unseeing face, and places the scissors back on the stand. Then he slips a finger between her legs, and lightly runs it along her pussy. The contact makes her gasp and push toward him, and he lowers his head to attack her nipples once again.

Her legs are still bound by the plastic, only that small slit gives him access to her. She wants so badly to spread for him, to give him more, to feel more of him on her and in her, but she is constrained to just that little bit of barely-there rubbing that makes her desperate for more.

She begins to cry in earnest now, and feels an anger well up at being so incapacitated. Her body heaves as she tries to extract herself from the wrap, or twist away from his greedy mouth. He knew this was coming, and rides it out, his mouth never leaving her sore nipples, his finger continuing to brush against the wet exterior of her cunt. She fights and struggles for several long moments, and then stops, exhausted. He grins around her nipple as she finally submits fully, and reaches his free hand up to stroke her hair. "Very good, my dear, I'm proud of you." he says, and even in her defeat she is happy.

Once again taking up the scissors, he cuts away the makeshift plastic skirt, until her individually wrapped legs are not so tightly bound. She remains still, breathing heavily, waiting for the next torment. He pushes her legs apart and looks at her pussy. It is swollen, and so wet, and red from the heat. His desire has taken over now, and he mounts her quickly. Her upturned palms feel his thighs against her, and her aching cunt finally feels his cock pushing its way in.

He buries herself in her, holds himself there for a long moment, then lies full body against her. As he thrusts into her, steady and relentless just as his mouth was, he whispers in her ear, again and again..."Mine. Mine. Mine. Mine.

Mulligan

I'm not sure if there is a way to convey how well I know that I am sometimes unable to get past the ME-ness of me. Suffice it to say that I'm nearly paralyzed with the need to reach out and make contact.

It's the way it always goes. I find out too late, or nearly so, and try like mad to turn it around. That sabotage so neatly completed and so difficult to take back. But I didn't mean it, I just needed the absence and distance to put me back in a state of unrest.

I find myself thinking it all through again and again, dismayed at how often I turned the conversation. I wonder if you recognized it, if you found me tiresome, if I'm just another failed experiment for you. I'm self-aware, painfully so, and this knowledge that I've been so thick and obvious is humbling.

It isn't that you didn't appeal, it's that I found you too appealing. I had to poke you around in my head and see how you fit there, and now I know...maybe too late...that it's not just a willingness to submit, it's an eagerness.

And I can't save myself.

It reminded me...

I once read a story written by a lesbian about her lover's hands, and how those hands were so intimate to her since they were used to bring her to such tumultuous joy. She describes seeing her lover shake hands with others, and her jealousy over such a casual touch to an appendage that she holds in such high esteem.

I remember the first time I encountered that feeling, watching a friend hold my precious and bend his spine back until it cracked. I had to look away, it was such an offense to both him and myself. I cradled him after, pressing his spine back in place, regretting ever having allowed her to touch him.

And again today, I offered a small taste of another precious to a man who looked at him longingly. I sat stone-faced and disapproving as the man dragged him closer and flipped him over so carelessly. I cuddled him to my chest later, as I walked swiftly away from that man's dirty fingers.

Don't look so shocked...books are my only lovers these days. But every page turned, every whiff of ink and fresh paper is to me a caress from a gentle hand.