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.”