Fuck Jazz, Moving on to the Blues

Of one thing about myself, I am sure. If there is mental chemistry, there is bound to be physical chemisty. And without mental chemistry, there cannot be more than a fleeting physical chemistry.

Oh, I've met smart men. Witty men. Men with humor dryer than an Egyptian tomb. Men who self-deprecate their fetishes until my ribs ache from laughing.

But not many of them put me in my place. I don't mean to connote discipline, but headspace. There is a miniscule portion of the male population that has the right combination of all of those virtues (vices?) who actually instill in me a DESIRE to submit. Not just the simple urge that we submissives get, in general terms. But to...YOU. I will submit, can submit, in fact, cannot avoid submitting to you.

But what if this is not what they want? What if their plates are so full that they can not accept you?

Does the need for humiliation at the hands of another extend this far - to self-inflict rejection by submission with no hope of domination?

Is that the definition of devotion, or an exercise in futility?

These are not rhetorical questions, folks...I would appreciate some advice.

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.

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.

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?

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?

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.

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?

Even then

Take my dreams and take my mind
That were masterless as wind;
And "Master!" I shall say to you
Since you never asked me to.

From 'Because' by Sarah Teasdale

I've been feeling myself into a corner. I tried to turn it off, made myself weak-kneed with passion over the thought of hands and eyes. It wasn't enough, I couldn't disengage.

I can't continue to just feel, it's disarming. What am I without my walls?

They are back. In force. With their friends and extended family. It will take an army now.

Conflicted

While what I want most is to submit, I find myself struggling against it. They seem unworthy, these demi-Doms who require respect from someone they do not know. Yet I remember reading the first chapter of Gordon, and feeling that lassitude of spirit that comes on so easily in the presence of someone who conveys that quiet control. That rush of feeling...or perhaps better termed a lack of feeling...that I continue to crave and not find. To stop fighting it, to let go, is what I need. But all around me are misogyny, ego, and weakness. I watch them come and go, and the names change or the collars change hands, and it seems so ridiculously pointless. I'm not sure why I persist, and not sure that I will for much longer.

Far, Far Away

In all ways, I am completely turned inward. This introspection taints every part of my life. Here and there, a brief respite from the continual analysis, the wiggling of loose teeth, the prodding of a bruise, the peeling of a scab. I feel so removed from my life.

I had a short fling with a man who claimed domination, but reality proved feeble. Our first encounter was....satisfactory. He took his time, but his method was crude. Domination, apparently, is the sexual portrayal of misogyny. At least to him.

Our second encounter was disappointing. My capitulation to his previous crudeness sparked some vague romantic notion. There were strawberries and chocolates. He did not brush his teeth prior to my arrival. I removed myself further.

He demanded, I retreated. It was cat and mouse, physically. I left immediately after, his eyes were barren and hard as I said goodbye. We never spoke again.