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.