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?