Friday, November 10, 2006
NaNoWriMo and Simon Benson
We interrupt this Nano session (trying to make up for the extracurricular play session engendered by my selection of reading material last p.m.) for the announcement that I am surprised to find myself still dripping from the House of Gord bondage video we watched last night just before he bound me in multicolored rope, cupped various protruberant spots until they spurted or leaked, then vibrated me into a near faint while caning me. I take full responsibility as I called him as he was making his way home and told him I'd just finished a little short novel by Simon Benson (or maybe he's just the illustrator) called "Hanoi Hilton." I have NEVER had a rubber fetish, but I do now. God, there were some really nasty scenes in that book, and the illustrations were perfect. Ahh, now back to my novel....
Thursday, October 19, 2006
Breast Torture
Not my favorite day. Not a disaster. I worked well, but I had to get the mammogram done that wasn’t done, when I had it scheduled on Tuesday, due to over-scheduling myself for teaching the ACLS class, going over all the latest, greatest of same on my computer (which only downloads at 56K since I have dial-up in the back-end of GA and every one of the fourteen or so filmettes I’m required to review before I can certify that I am still certified in the art of trying to put humpty-dumpty back on the wall, required at least 30 min apiece) the cleanup behind and of the two new pooping puppies, the book club meeting at my house, etc. So, I thought, I’ll just pop over and get that Mammogram done on as an outpatient while I work – go over on lunchbreak. Of course not, it can’t be that easy. No, since the tissue in my breasts is very dense (as, I suspect, am I for allowing a PA to make me go through this) the mammograms have always been a little problematic. Unlike most people I don’t have very tender breasts, so the procedure itself is not difficult, just the fact that they can’t see anything. So, then they have to do an ultrasound, which doesn’t tell them what they need to know except that we (both the ultrasonographer and I) both feel several discrete lumps, none of them indurated or dimpled or…whatever. So then we need more views of the mammogram, Finally, Dr. H, himself, (the mammogram guru) comes over and manipulates my suspect right breast (which tries to look as innocent as possible and claim all the lumps are due to my Dom loving breast torture) and can’t seem to find anything definitive and tell me I really, should, go over to their new state-o-the-art digital mammography unit out in the ancillary hospital(where I was scheduled, originally, on Tuesday) to get a better mammogram. So, after having three people mash, manipulate, peruse, and handle my breasts (especially the poor right one) while I philosophically look elsewhere doing my best not to think too much on cancer, we all agree that I will schedule myself and do all this again next week, the sword of Damocles hanging over my head while I work all weekend and still can’t feel the definitive “lump.” I have lots of ‘em. Damn it.
Friday, September 22, 2006
September morning
Feels like a real September morning. Like when we met. I want to wander through the streets in love, seeing what there is to see and walking about hand-in-hand and poking into small shops while wearing our fetish clothes and making people smile or scowl. All a matter of fabric -- just how you sew a piece of leather together. In a shoe, it’s uptown, in a vest or harness, its kink. Still the same cow's hide.
I want to lay in our warm bed in the morning twilight and feel his heart beat through the walls of his chest. I want to lay beside him for hours, forever, knowing that his eager cock will be there time after time when I roll over; if I sleep It will nudge me awake, it will dive between my legs forcing them apart. It will seek my inner folds and find them wet, and he will laugh and call me his little slut for wanting him so much. Then he’ll confine me to the room, naked and go and fetch us food and coffee, laced with Bailey's, from the cold kitchen while I listen to his footsteps --wondering what he has planned for us next, what scandalous thing he force me to do next to please him. Walk down Broad Street naked except for a vinyl dress and heels, dance with a gay man in drag, bend over just far enough for the man eying me opposite to see my clit hood piercing? Will he make walk about with a collar on in public, will he direct me to the tattoo/piercing parlor to stare in horror at the pain awaiting me if he gets me further pierced? Then, smile at my face. This is what I want.
I want to lay in our warm bed in the morning twilight and feel his heart beat through the walls of his chest. I want to lay beside him for hours, forever, knowing that his eager cock will be there time after time when I roll over; if I sleep It will nudge me awake, it will dive between my legs forcing them apart. It will seek my inner folds and find them wet, and he will laugh and call me his little slut for wanting him so much. Then he’ll confine me to the room, naked and go and fetch us food and coffee, laced with Bailey's, from the cold kitchen while I listen to his footsteps --wondering what he has planned for us next, what scandalous thing he force me to do next to please him. Walk down Broad Street naked except for a vinyl dress and heels, dance with a gay man in drag, bend over just far enough for the man eying me opposite to see my clit hood piercing? Will he make walk about with a collar on in public, will he direct me to the tattoo/piercing parlor to stare in horror at the pain awaiting me if he gets me further pierced? Then, smile at my face. This is what I want.
Thursday, August 24, 2006
Something from Lady T
| You Are a Pegasus |
 |
What Mythological Creature Are You?
Sunday, August 20, 2006
To my baby sister
I think I finally get why liberal white people are sometimes the bane of POC activists. I was reading the last few chapters of March by Geraldine Brooks where she has constructed a fictional interposition of what happened to the chaplain father of Louisa May Alcott’s “Little Women,” The Reverend March, when he went off to serve in the Union Army.
He had, many years before, made the acquaintance of a young woman slave who he greatly admired for her intelligence and grace; had been driven towards her when, as a Yankee peddler he had stopped for a few days at the plantation in Virginia. Many years later they met at the same plantation which was serving as a field hospital at the site of a battle, and she as a nurse. Again, they nearly gave into lust, but circumstances wrested them apart. When he next met her it was a convalescing soldier after a stint in the South as a teacher and preacher to ‘contraband.'
His family had been involved for many years in The Underground Railroad, and had been supporters of most the major abolitionist activities over the years, but he had immense sense of responsibility (or, perhaps, ego) and a sense of failure over his many shortcomings, or failures to act, and his guilt all but dripped from him. She, despite her many painful turns in life, knew that “of things in this world, some are within our power and many are not.” (Epictetus)
She tries to point out to him that their time together is past and that he must stop beating himself up for the many human weaknesses he has displayed – cowardice, lust, lying – and go forward with his good works, perhaps with his image of himself tarnished, but with his good will to do useful and generous things intact. He proposes to go out among the newly organizing colored troops to work and teach.
But she cuts him off, a little angrily, “ We have had enough of white people ordering our existence! There are men of my own race more versed in how to fetch and carry than you will ever be. And there are Negro preachers aplenty who know the true language of our souls. A free people must learn to manage its own destiny….Go home, Mr. March,…If you sincerely want to help us, go back to Concord and work with your own people. Write sermons that will prepare your neighbors to accept a world where black and white will one day stand as equals.” Sometimes you read a whole book for a paragraph or two like that.
This is what my baby sister was saying one day to me when she explained that she could not proselytize among white people about race, that I, and others like me, must do the talking. That she had her own fields to plow.
I also saw, to me, glaringly, and shudder to think I may have voiced similar things, that a white liberal who must remind you of his or her liberalism with long recountings of their sufferings for Your cause (as if the cause against hatred and ignorance is not for every one of us born to this planet, this species) is not unlike the stereotyped Jewish mother. “Oy, the terrible pangs I endured just to bring you into this world, the nine months of suffering to support you, the years of educating you and doing without things for you and worrying about you and working my fingers to the bone to keep you clothed clean and fed, and this is the thanks I get?!”
(As Alexander is purported to have said of his own mother, “She charges a high price for nine months rent.”)
While appreciative of the efforts and fumbling attempts at understanding, People of color, the GLBT community, the impoverished, and all other such communities outside the mostly white, mostly straight, mostly male power structure, wish whites who had a choice on how to live their lives would take ownership of their own choices, including the choice to suffer whatever it was, and allow them to do the same (and stop telling them about it.) And allow them the ‘adulthood’ to determine their own agendas for the future.
Ahh, baby sister, I think I finally get it.
He had, many years before, made the acquaintance of a young woman slave who he greatly admired for her intelligence and grace; had been driven towards her when, as a Yankee peddler he had stopped for a few days at the plantation in Virginia. Many years later they met at the same plantation which was serving as a field hospital at the site of a battle, and she as a nurse. Again, they nearly gave into lust, but circumstances wrested them apart. When he next met her it was a convalescing soldier after a stint in the South as a teacher and preacher to ‘contraband.'
His family had been involved for many years in The Underground Railroad, and had been supporters of most the major abolitionist activities over the years, but he had immense sense of responsibility (or, perhaps, ego) and a sense of failure over his many shortcomings, or failures to act, and his guilt all but dripped from him. She, despite her many painful turns in life, knew that “of things in this world, some are within our power and many are not.” (Epictetus)
She tries to point out to him that their time together is past and that he must stop beating himself up for the many human weaknesses he has displayed – cowardice, lust, lying – and go forward with his good works, perhaps with his image of himself tarnished, but with his good will to do useful and generous things intact. He proposes to go out among the newly organizing colored troops to work and teach.
But she cuts him off, a little angrily, “ We have had enough of white people ordering our existence! There are men of my own race more versed in how to fetch and carry than you will ever be. And there are Negro preachers aplenty who know the true language of our souls. A free people must learn to manage its own destiny….Go home, Mr. March,…If you sincerely want to help us, go back to Concord and work with your own people. Write sermons that will prepare your neighbors to accept a world where black and white will one day stand as equals.” Sometimes you read a whole book for a paragraph or two like that.
This is what my baby sister was saying one day to me when she explained that she could not proselytize among white people about race, that I, and others like me, must do the talking. That she had her own fields to plow.
I also saw, to me, glaringly, and shudder to think I may have voiced similar things, that a white liberal who must remind you of his or her liberalism with long recountings of their sufferings for Your cause (as if the cause against hatred and ignorance is not for every one of us born to this planet, this species) is not unlike the stereotyped Jewish mother. “Oy, the terrible pangs I endured just to bring you into this world, the nine months of suffering to support you, the years of educating you and doing without things for you and worrying about you and working my fingers to the bone to keep you clothed clean and fed, and this is the thanks I get?!”
(As Alexander is purported to have said of his own mother, “She charges a high price for nine months rent.”)
While appreciative of the efforts and fumbling attempts at understanding, People of color, the GLBT community, the impoverished, and all other such communities outside the mostly white, mostly straight, mostly male power structure, wish whites who had a choice on how to live their lives would take ownership of their own choices, including the choice to suffer whatever it was, and allow them to do the same (and stop telling them about it.) And allow them the ‘adulthood’ to determine their own agendas for the future.
Ahh, baby sister, I think I finally get it.
Sunday, August 13, 2006
Single-tail
Between the party and helping organize it, and the afterparty, and helping hostess it, and the loss of my puppy in July, two sets of houseguests since then, and the arrival of my mother, it had been too long for something unplanned.
So, we sashayed down to 1763 (www.1763.net) in ATL last p.m. and played with some of the TCE group and introduced a newby to the club, and I got myself another single-tail whipping to add to my list. While I was a little afraid to play with someone who was a) a new partner, and b) I had never even seen play and c) was already a little whipped (full pun intended), I knew the gentleman's reputation. His nickname is 'Fluffy' if that gives you any idea. When he wandered onto the establishment's patio with his single-tail, looking all forlorn because the rest of his contingent knew his skills and declined to be the subject of his interests, I was intrigued. We had met three years before and I had found him interesting, but other things in my life intervened. Now I looked toward Mister, certain he wouldn't approve, however, he was feeling mellow from our session (and the one he had done afterward on our guest) and told me to go ahead.
Now I was stuck. A little shaky from the previous events, and with more than a little trepidation -- any man who calls himself "Fluffy" is noone I trust with a light hand -- But you'll never know if you can fly until you jump from the cliff. So off we went. I let him know I liked to fight my bonds and that clips and cuffs were a necessary part of my head game. Sir would be monitoring and all I had to do was use my safe word. But, and this is a big but, we both knew it as a challenge. And I don't like to call uncle over a little blood. He had at me in skilled, but strong hand, for what felt like twenty minutes and left many marks that were admired by sundry, counting wasn't even part of it. He was finally kind enough to call for a break when he saw me shaking all over. I don't know if I would have called 'yellow' or not, or just fainted trying to keep up my self-image. But, with two play sessions in less than 2 hours I was happy to relinquish my fantasies developed from gay leather novels of weekend-long whippings and bondage, and retire peacefully to the nearby hotel to admire my marks and bask in the afterglow.
So, we sashayed down to 1763 (www.1763.net) in ATL last p.m. and played with some of the TCE group and introduced a newby to the club, and I got myself another single-tail whipping to add to my list. While I was a little afraid to play with someone who was a) a new partner, and b) I had never even seen play and c) was already a little whipped (full pun intended), I knew the gentleman's reputation. His nickname is 'Fluffy' if that gives you any idea. When he wandered onto the establishment's patio with his single-tail, looking all forlorn because the rest of his contingent knew his skills and declined to be the subject of his interests, I was intrigued. We had met three years before and I had found him interesting, but other things in my life intervened. Now I looked toward Mister, certain he wouldn't approve, however, he was feeling mellow from our session (and the one he had done afterward on our guest) and told me to go ahead.
Now I was stuck. A little shaky from the previous events, and with more than a little trepidation -- any man who calls himself "Fluffy" is noone I trust with a light hand -- But you'll never know if you can fly until you jump from the cliff. So off we went. I let him know I liked to fight my bonds and that clips and cuffs were a necessary part of my head game. Sir would be monitoring and all I had to do was use my safe word. But, and this is a big but, we both knew it as a challenge. And I don't like to call uncle over a little blood. He had at me in skilled, but strong hand, for what felt like twenty minutes and left many marks that were admired by sundry, counting wasn't even part of it. He was finally kind enough to call for a break when he saw me shaking all over. I don't know if I would have called 'yellow' or not, or just fainted trying to keep up my self-image. But, with two play sessions in less than 2 hours I was happy to relinquish my fantasies developed from gay leather novels of weekend-long whippings and bondage, and retire peacefully to the nearby hotel to admire my marks and bask in the afterglow.
Wednesday, August 02, 2006
Loca Luna and Buck Wild's Party 30 July 2006
What a kicking party! Absolutely what we hoped for and got. LOts of people out in their gear, lots of people that we know and like, no major drama, some killer acts -- The take-off on "Springtime for Hitler" that was dedicated to Cam's BD, Insatiabel Amazon's violet wand (static electricity) play, Mistress T's flogging an whipping of Rose, a red-haired beauty, the Loca Luna Posse sashaying about in full costume, The belly-dancers, The White Lighning Burlesque, the Drag Queens. The list goes on and that was just the performers, the guest were often just asintersting. This was a good party!
Thursday, July 13, 2006
I lied
Right now, I do want more between me than just latex. I want to be swathed in something fragile and light and weightless and surrounded only by the happy sounds of locusts humming in the July heat and a small dog crunching something smelly in the grass nearby....
Tuesday, July 04, 2006
Emma, just a dog
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“Intersection”
It is as if you summon them both,
Calling them
both.
The car
Comes around the corner
or
plummets down the hill
or
appears from nowhere
just as she crosses the road
highway
street
boulevard
route
avenue
and
they
Intersect…
And
It is gone.
She is gone.
The Emma I had is not here.
She will never be
My wild and stubborn
Child.
She is broken like a an overripe melon, bruised on the highway.
Dropped.
I scoop her up,
But she will never be,
Again,
Emma.
And it doesn’t seem to matter that
She weighs in at
42 pounds.
The weight is as heavy as if she were my dead sister.
“Intersection”
It is as if you summon them both,
Calling them
both.
The car
Comes around the corner
or
plummets down the hill
or
appears from nowhere
just as she crosses the road
highway
street
boulevard
route
avenue
and
they
Intersect…
And
It is gone.
She is gone.
The Emma I had is not here.
She will never be
My wild and stubborn
Child.
She is broken like a an overripe melon, bruised on the highway.
Dropped.
I scoop her up,
But she will never be,
Again,
Emma.
And it doesn’t seem to matter that
She weighs in at
42 pounds.
The weight is as heavy as if she were my dead sister.
Wednesday, May 17, 2006
Gender is mutable
“In my own little corner, in my own little chair, I can be whatever I want to be. I can be a fairy princess or a proud Egyptian pharaoh; I can be what ever I want to be.” Rodger’s and Hammerstein’s “Cinderella” (The quote may not be completely accurate, this is how I sing it in my head).
I am not required to know everything. (Just a little mantra for today)
Gender, during my yoga, suddenly seemed to clarify itself as I explained it to an imaginary man. It is mutable. If you doubt this or think of it only as a surgical modification, think of men who develop breasts as they get fatter. It’s not just fat, it’s the estrogen in the fat that is stimulating the growth of breasts.
Or perimenopausal women who become more aggressive and develop mustaches or demanding libidos. As their hormone levels drop, the relative amount of testosterone in their systems rise and they respond to that.
We talk of gender as though it was permanent, but what we mean is the equipment. The identity itself changes many times.
This is what Kate Bornstein was trying to tell me in “My Gender Workbook” , which book I had vainly tried to understand for the last two weeks, and, suddenly, it became clear.
I am not required to know everything. (Just a little mantra for today)
Gender, during my yoga, suddenly seemed to clarify itself as I explained it to an imaginary man. It is mutable. If you doubt this or think of it only as a surgical modification, think of men who develop breasts as they get fatter. It’s not just fat, it’s the estrogen in the fat that is stimulating the growth of breasts.
Or perimenopausal women who become more aggressive and develop mustaches or demanding libidos. As their hormone levels drop, the relative amount of testosterone in their systems rise and they respond to that.
We talk of gender as though it was permanent, but what we mean is the equipment. The identity itself changes many times.
This is what Kate Bornstein was trying to tell me in “My Gender Workbook” , which book I had vainly tried to understand for the last two weeks, and, suddenly, it became clear.
Saturday, April 29, 2006
Southeast Leatherfest and Chattanooga Fetish
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Thursday, April 27, 2006
Just another type of normal
The book “My Gender Workbook” is not making me uncomfortable, just not sure I share all her/his assumptions about what gender means since, in his/her mind, it seems to encompass all forms of power. People of color might argue that skin more than gender is the determining factor in their life. I think both, but they aren’t same in my book. And class, is that purely a function of the other two? It certainly plays into power. And, the newer studies that emphasize the differences in brain chemistry or whatever between the sexes feels like the old argument recycled. I think that the basic differences between us are those between human beings, not necessarily due to our genitalia, that between our ears or between our legs. That the difference across the spectrum of all XX females overlaps mightily with all XY males. That to come up with some ideal male to compare any other male against presupposes that there is an average to which all XY males should strive. How about we just all be human beings and acknowledge that some of us are shorter and less strong and that the bigger ones don’t need to take advantage of their size to get their way all the time, just as the smaller ones need to make an effort before helplessly dropping a task. Or figure out a smarter way to do it.
My body image horizons didn’t seem set beyond the fact that I wore my hair long at the requirement of my father and that we had to wear dresses to school and church, but somehow this didn’t feel like anything against me, more like the custom. As soon as I got home I was straight into play clothes and those were pretty much pants and old shirts. I climbed trees, road bikes, made up stories for my sibs to enact. Built forts and lean-tos. Harvested berries and made them into weird juice concoctions. Felt I could keep my family fed on what I had scavenged. Felt that I was strong and wiley enough as a pioneer to survive. Could cook pies and can, and studied pre-vet medicine in 4-H, aspired to be Tarzan, not Jane, and wanted to b an astronaut, wanted to be president and wanted to swim in the Olympics. Wanted to build a tree house and live in the country with my animals and one little girl with a visiting lover who would be and actor or a writer or a sailor. I wanted to fly, and did all those things. I wanted to travel, too, and do that likewise.
Bless my mother for giving me adventure books like “Bomba the Jungle Boy” (even I recognized it as racist before aged 12) and Marvel Comic Books and letting me stay up late to watch Star Trek and telling me when I asked why there were no female Tarzans, “Well, who’s stopping you?”
Actually I’m not conflicted about being a female. Rather it’s that I don’t feel feminine. I know that I am a woman, but I don’t feel womanly. I just feel like me. I don’t feel like a freak, I just feel I’m on the odd end of the spectrum, but still ‘normal.’ I’m not a man, but I feel echoes of manly things. I don’t think of other people as being more womanly, just of ‘acting’ more feminine, of liking, or (and this is what I sometimes believe) pretending to like, things that have been designated ‘girlish.’ I don’t value makeup, so I don’t put a lot of effort into learning to use it well. It’s not something in which I want to invest much of myself. On the other hand, I like clothing and sexy shoes. I feel I am a normal woman, just another type of normal.
My body image horizons didn’t seem set beyond the fact that I wore my hair long at the requirement of my father and that we had to wear dresses to school and church, but somehow this didn’t feel like anything against me, more like the custom. As soon as I got home I was straight into play clothes and those were pretty much pants and old shirts. I climbed trees, road bikes, made up stories for my sibs to enact. Built forts and lean-tos. Harvested berries and made them into weird juice concoctions. Felt I could keep my family fed on what I had scavenged. Felt that I was strong and wiley enough as a pioneer to survive. Could cook pies and can, and studied pre-vet medicine in 4-H, aspired to be Tarzan, not Jane, and wanted to b an astronaut, wanted to be president and wanted to swim in the Olympics. Wanted to build a tree house and live in the country with my animals and one little girl with a visiting lover who would be and actor or a writer or a sailor. I wanted to fly, and did all those things. I wanted to travel, too, and do that likewise.
Bless my mother for giving me adventure books like “Bomba the Jungle Boy” (even I recognized it as racist before aged 12) and Marvel Comic Books and letting me stay up late to watch Star Trek and telling me when I asked why there were no female Tarzans, “Well, who’s stopping you?”
Actually I’m not conflicted about being a female. Rather it’s that I don’t feel feminine. I know that I am a woman, but I don’t feel womanly. I just feel like me. I don’t feel like a freak, I just feel I’m on the odd end of the spectrum, but still ‘normal.’ I’m not a man, but I feel echoes of manly things. I don’t think of other people as being more womanly, just of ‘acting’ more feminine, of liking, or (and this is what I sometimes believe) pretending to like, things that have been designated ‘girlish.’ I don’t value makeup, so I don’t put a lot of effort into learning to use it well. It’s not something in which I want to invest much of myself. On the other hand, I like clothing and sexy shoes. I feel I am a normal woman, just another type of normal.
Monday, April 24, 2006
FrolicCon 2006
Yay! What a great weekend. I have bruises and cuts and memories to savor.
Got to play to three Doms at the same time on Saturday and we wore each other out. I think we all got what we wanted (only I got more!) It was delicious taking it all and wanting more, but knowing I was nearing the end when my muscles got to shaking uncontrollably. YUM.
Lady T and Mistress V and Sir tag-teamed me (after the first two had already had some time with me on Friday night) and between his knotted flogger and Miss V's single-tail on my back and Lady T's matching floggers on my breasts, I didn't really have any way to turn to avoid anything. Didn't want to, wanted all that energy. Like it best on my feet, not bound down. That way I can thrust myself back and tighten my grip on the chains to really throw myself into their rhythm. God, it was the first time in a long time when I felt I was giving something back, giving back some of the energy they were investing in me. Giving back to them who gave to me. I did it silently, my preference. Crying and groaning aren't my way, an occasional hiss, but I prefer to absorb it in silence -- the stoic side of me. I feel I go through an ordeal, challenge myself, and come out stronger. It was memorable and owe them all thanks.
More:
Friday night started us off. After getting off work, I sat in the front seat, passenger side, protected from his NASCAR-like driving only by my hybrid’s aluminum frame, crash-tested at, I’m sure, less than the 78-90 mph he was driving, the seatbelt, and the airbags. He likes to sit on people’s asses, which I interpret at anything less than 10 feet/10mph. This should have, by my calculations given us, at least at double wide MANUFACTURED home length of 70-80 feet. We were, by OHIO calculations, far enough back to only read the largest of the three bumper stickers of whomever he chose to follow. Let us say merely that both of us exceeded our limits, both hard and soft.
But, after we had each ground our teeth down further, we arrived at the Crowne Plaza for a weekend of .. frolicking? This didn’t actually sound like something that tow +40’s BDSMers would pay for. We had frolicked as infants and pre-teens, but at our age, we wanted something a little more hard-core than jumping about like bunnies and deer, never mind the other more orthodox reason for the weekend. But, frolic we would.
The evening started out with my frenetic unpacking – I don’t feel I’m inhabiting a room until I spread out my things in the appropriate place – i.e. where I can find them without rooting about in all my luggage, like some people I could name but won’t ‘cause they possess all the firepower in a BDSM sense. Then I registered. Being the dutiful convention-goer, I had already pre-paid which made this exceedingly painless. Then, to make everyone else at the convention more happy, I showered. All while my other sought out refreshments not normally listed on room service. He, also, came back legitimately badged and relaxed and we ordered in the usual overpriced, but sustaining, room service, too lazy to drive anywhere, before beginning the , for me, arduous process of ‘dressing for the evening.”
This is exacerbated by the fact that I am really a boy. Okay, not biologically, nor do I wish a sex-change, but I was raised by a mannish mother to who makeup was dishonesty and I dislike the feel of makeup, consequently I have never learned to properly apply it and I am a newby every time I open my moderately supplied (and old) makeup kit. Many of my cosmetics date from the mid-90’s, but are still functional. Having said that, that tells you how often I use them – for big dates and fetish events.
Now, hair is the next obstacle. I have very fine, though, thankfully, naturally blonde hair. Having naturally blonde hair has engendered even more laziness on my part since all I’ve ever had to do was grow it long, trim the ends, and wow most people with the blondeness of my blonde hair. And big breasts don’t hurt. So, there you are, the only things I like about dressing up is the clothes. I was a seamstress in theatre, college and semi-pro, for years and adore costumes. I started sewing at 6 years of age, so clothes are the thing that I can do, and he had bought me some really fine things in Amsterdam and for Xmas. That night we decided to wear his Xmas gift -- a turquoise brocade print of butterflies (chosen by me for my deceased sister whose animal was the butterfly.) I wear butterflies for good luck, and they brought me luck that night!
Shortly after application of all these things, after my analysis of myself in the mirror, after deploring, once more, my lack of makeup skills (and the fact that I had left any wigs or attachments back home by mistake) we sallied out to find friends (some from b.com, others from Chattanooga and Atlanta.) Not fifty feet from the crowded elevator (after a brief visit to the 2nd, party floor) we found C, Mistress V and Lady T of Atlanta, the first two friends dating back to Fantasm 2004, and Mistress V being the person who had given me my first single-tail whipping in Nov. 2004 at DomCon. (Something I had fantasized about all my conscious life.) After about five minutes he turned to them and left me in their ‘care.’ They all looked at him and asked, “Any limits?” He looked at me and smiled his evilest grin and then muttered some gibberish at them that amounted to , “Whatever you desire.” Or something so close to that it didn’t matter. Ye gods.
But, it took hours before we decided to check on those limits. We sashayed to the pool, C flirting with a handsome bisexual man that seemed to have the hots for anyone and anything. She was happy he sought her out, but then he seemed to wander off. Fickle.
We ended up in V’s room, After having shamelessly exposed myself at the some Tattoo Parlor’s room party, to get some wine for refreshment. After much catching up on gossip we went to T’s room where, while changing to more comfortable shoes, she lamented the fact that there didn’t seem to be anyone to ‘play’ with. Every one of the men she had flirted with or contacted seemed only to want to fuck. She was even considering calling in someone she hadn’t seen in a while just to have a target for her new dual floggers. She appeared to be so woe-is-me that I, valiantly I thought, offered myself as a substitute if she had no gender preference. We hadn’t seen my Dom in hours and they wondered if he had meant what he said. I assured him he wouldn’t have made the offer if he wasn’t sincere, but we decided to make the traverse to our room to make sure he wasn’t up there worrying.
He was there, and being it was nearly one a.m., was tired and offered me as a gift, so long as they didn’t break me. The two Dommes (C. had wandered off to sleep, having to man a booth in the a.m.) smiled Cheshire cat smiles and promised to bring me back ‘more or less’ intact. I shivered, but was very wet with the idea of two playing with me. We stripped me down in the room and clad me in a velvet cloak. I trusted them both. And my trust was more than repaid. They were fabulously kind. I had asked them to start me off slow, but put no real limits on them except penetration, That, so far, belongs to him. They chained me to a St. Andrew’s cross, the first thing we saw available when we walked into the mini playroom, and the object with the most space about it for Miss V’s whip. They allowed me my pony gag (my favorite), had no blindfold, but closed eyes work well, and I didn’t want to stare into the eyes of the handsome long-haired man opposite me. The fun began.
First with a gentle spanking that soon all three of us doing the ‘bump’ in time to the music as they stood astraddle my spread legs on either side and ground their mounds on my thighs while increasing the tempo and power of their hands. After properly warming me up T began teasing me with her floggers, gently, lightly, then increasingly with sting, working my back from shoulder to thighs as I thrust my ass back, begging for more. The tempo in my head combined with the rhythm of her strokes and the cries around us to make it all wildly deliciously, I began to glow.
Not unexpectedly, but suddenly there was a brief silence as V unwound one of her working whips, then the crack near my ear as she warned me of her intent. Then she began to tickle me with light, stinging lashes, like fire ant stings without the aftermath. Quick tongues of flame that burned so briefly, then left a pleasant aftermath, not like the canes which I also love and dread. Canes hurt too long after the strike, so that you have a brief moment of “oh, no, then is going to hurt.” I don’t remember how long it went on, increasing in severity, though I know she wasn’t really trying to make me flinch, just teasing me and it was delightful. I felt like I was floating, watching all this from aloft. And though a few were more intense, it was never something I wanted to stop. I wanted more, and adored the crowd that had gathered when I opened my eyes. Exhibitionist.
Got to play to three Doms at the same time on Saturday and we wore each other out. I think we all got what we wanted (only I got more!) It was delicious taking it all and wanting more, but knowing I was nearing the end when my muscles got to shaking uncontrollably. YUM.
Lady T and Mistress V and Sir tag-teamed me (after the first two had already had some time with me on Friday night) and between his knotted flogger and Miss V's single-tail on my back and Lady T's matching floggers on my breasts, I didn't really have any way to turn to avoid anything. Didn't want to, wanted all that energy. Like it best on my feet, not bound down. That way I can thrust myself back and tighten my grip on the chains to really throw myself into their rhythm. God, it was the first time in a long time when I felt I was giving something back, giving back some of the energy they were investing in me. Giving back to them who gave to me. I did it silently, my preference. Crying and groaning aren't my way, an occasional hiss, but I prefer to absorb it in silence -- the stoic side of me. I feel I go through an ordeal, challenge myself, and come out stronger. It was memorable and owe them all thanks.
More:
Friday night started us off. After getting off work, I sat in the front seat, passenger side, protected from his NASCAR-like driving only by my hybrid’s aluminum frame, crash-tested at, I’m sure, less than the 78-90 mph he was driving, the seatbelt, and the airbags. He likes to sit on people’s asses, which I interpret at anything less than 10 feet/10mph. This should have, by my calculations given us, at least at double wide MANUFACTURED home length of 70-80 feet. We were, by OHIO calculations, far enough back to only read the largest of the three bumper stickers of whomever he chose to follow. Let us say merely that both of us exceeded our limits, both hard and soft.
But, after we had each ground our teeth down further, we arrived at the Crowne Plaza for a weekend of .. frolicking? This didn’t actually sound like something that tow +40’s BDSMers would pay for. We had frolicked as infants and pre-teens, but at our age, we wanted something a little more hard-core than jumping about like bunnies and deer, never mind the other more orthodox reason for the weekend. But, frolic we would.
The evening started out with my frenetic unpacking – I don’t feel I’m inhabiting a room until I spread out my things in the appropriate place – i.e. where I can find them without rooting about in all my luggage, like some people I could name but won’t ‘cause they possess all the firepower in a BDSM sense. Then I registered. Being the dutiful convention-goer, I had already pre-paid which made this exceedingly painless. Then, to make everyone else at the convention more happy, I showered. All while my other sought out refreshments not normally listed on room service. He, also, came back legitimately badged and relaxed and we ordered in the usual overpriced, but sustaining, room service, too lazy to drive anywhere, before beginning the , for me, arduous process of ‘dressing for the evening.”
This is exacerbated by the fact that I am really a boy. Okay, not biologically, nor do I wish a sex-change, but I was raised by a mannish mother to who makeup was dishonesty and I dislike the feel of makeup, consequently I have never learned to properly apply it and I am a newby every time I open my moderately supplied (and old) makeup kit. Many of my cosmetics date from the mid-90’s, but are still functional. Having said that, that tells you how often I use them – for big dates and fetish events.
Now, hair is the next obstacle. I have very fine, though, thankfully, naturally blonde hair. Having naturally blonde hair has engendered even more laziness on my part since all I’ve ever had to do was grow it long, trim the ends, and wow most people with the blondeness of my blonde hair. And big breasts don’t hurt. So, there you are, the only things I like about dressing up is the clothes. I was a seamstress in theatre, college and semi-pro, for years and adore costumes. I started sewing at 6 years of age, so clothes are the thing that I can do, and he had bought me some really fine things in Amsterdam and for Xmas. That night we decided to wear his Xmas gift -- a turquoise brocade print of butterflies (chosen by me for my deceased sister whose animal was the butterfly.) I wear butterflies for good luck, and they brought me luck that night!
Shortly after application of all these things, after my analysis of myself in the mirror, after deploring, once more, my lack of makeup skills (and the fact that I had left any wigs or attachments back home by mistake) we sallied out to find friends (some from b.com, others from Chattanooga and Atlanta.) Not fifty feet from the crowded elevator (after a brief visit to the 2nd, party floor) we found C, Mistress V and Lady T of Atlanta, the first two friends dating back to Fantasm 2004, and Mistress V being the person who had given me my first single-tail whipping in Nov. 2004 at DomCon. (Something I had fantasized about all my conscious life.) After about five minutes he turned to them and left me in their ‘care.’ They all looked at him and asked, “Any limits?” He looked at me and smiled his evilest grin and then muttered some gibberish at them that amounted to , “Whatever you desire.” Or something so close to that it didn’t matter. Ye gods.
But, it took hours before we decided to check on those limits. We sashayed to the pool, C flirting with a handsome bisexual man that seemed to have the hots for anyone and anything. She was happy he sought her out, but then he seemed to wander off. Fickle.
We ended up in V’s room, After having shamelessly exposed myself at the some Tattoo Parlor’s room party, to get some wine for refreshment. After much catching up on gossip we went to T’s room where, while changing to more comfortable shoes, she lamented the fact that there didn’t seem to be anyone to ‘play’ with. Every one of the men she had flirted with or contacted seemed only to want to fuck. She was even considering calling in someone she hadn’t seen in a while just to have a target for her new dual floggers. She appeared to be so woe-is-me that I, valiantly I thought, offered myself as a substitute if she had no gender preference. We hadn’t seen my Dom in hours and they wondered if he had meant what he said. I assured him he wouldn’t have made the offer if he wasn’t sincere, but we decided to make the traverse to our room to make sure he wasn’t up there worrying.
He was there, and being it was nearly one a.m., was tired and offered me as a gift, so long as they didn’t break me. The two Dommes (C. had wandered off to sleep, having to man a booth in the a.m.) smiled Cheshire cat smiles and promised to bring me back ‘more or less’ intact. I shivered, but was very wet with the idea of two playing with me. We stripped me down in the room and clad me in a velvet cloak. I trusted them both. And my trust was more than repaid. They were fabulously kind. I had asked them to start me off slow, but put no real limits on them except penetration, That, so far, belongs to him. They chained me to a St. Andrew’s cross, the first thing we saw available when we walked into the mini playroom, and the object with the most space about it for Miss V’s whip. They allowed me my pony gag (my favorite), had no blindfold, but closed eyes work well, and I didn’t want to stare into the eyes of the handsome long-haired man opposite me. The fun began.
First with a gentle spanking that soon all three of us doing the ‘bump’ in time to the music as they stood astraddle my spread legs on either side and ground their mounds on my thighs while increasing the tempo and power of their hands. After properly warming me up T began teasing me with her floggers, gently, lightly, then increasingly with sting, working my back from shoulder to thighs as I thrust my ass back, begging for more. The tempo in my head combined with the rhythm of her strokes and the cries around us to make it all wildly deliciously, I began to glow.
Not unexpectedly, but suddenly there was a brief silence as V unwound one of her working whips, then the crack near my ear as she warned me of her intent. Then she began to tickle me with light, stinging lashes, like fire ant stings without the aftermath. Quick tongues of flame that burned so briefly, then left a pleasant aftermath, not like the canes which I also love and dread. Canes hurt too long after the strike, so that you have a brief moment of “oh, no, then is going to hurt.” I don’t remember how long it went on, increasing in severity, though I know she wasn’t really trying to make me flinch, just teasing me and it was delightful. I felt like I was floating, watching all this from aloft. And though a few were more intense, it was never something I wanted to stop. I wanted more, and adored the crowd that had gathered when I opened my eyes. Exhibitionist.
Sunday, April 02, 2006
The Wake
D's wake was held yesterday at Lookout Mountain Flight Park, over 150 people were there to celebrate his life and the gift he gave us of an example of how to live a life.
This is an email I sent out thenight I heard of his death:
A., my next door neighbor and good friend, called me on the way home from work tonight to tell me that D. had died. He was with his daughters and at home, sleeping, when it happened. He had been expecting it and did his own way, not our the medical) way. Evaded hopsice and even ever admiting that the pancreatic cancer had recurred. Lasted 21 stubborn months, bless him.
I turned on the radio (satellite) in the car and the first station was CNN with some big report on the gangs of LA, and it was wrong so I punched in the button for the 1940’s station, one of my favorite when I’m feeling stressed as the music soothes me. Ray Noble was singing, “Good night, Sweetheart, sleep will ease your sorrow, good night sweetheart, until we meet tomorrow…” It was the right song, for he was just that, everyone’s sweetheart.
I awoke this morning, wondering what I could tell his daughters about their father. They knew him as a Dad, I knew him as a part of our family in the hanggliding community, where, despite his age, he could be eccentric, wild, youthful, himself, not old. I think that was part of the allure. He was always young, and didn’t want to hang with old people. Their life did not interest him. He was independent, adventurous, a traveler. He wanted to be different and so he was.
He evaded death any number of times, had had an open heart bypass before any of us had ever met him, then took up hanggliding at 65 when the FAA wouldn’t give him a pilot’s license due to his heart history. He was determined to stay in the air. He tried to kill himself hanggliding at least once, when he pounded into the ground trying to emulate one of our top pilot's low level landings, and bent his heartbolt in the process. A week later my ex and I had to threaten to cut his flying wires to keep him from launching again despite the small sheer hemorrhage he had sustained. Years later, while learning to ski in Montana at 72 he went over a cliff only to land in the crotch of a tree just eight feet below instead of the fifty he could have fallen. Still later he had resigned himself to death and turned into a recluse, so we dragged him out and to the doctors where it was discovered he simply needed a new heart valve and went on further adventures. The man was Rubbermaid.
Enough for now….
Goodnight, sweetheart, Goodnight.
The man basically showed us how to live and how to die. As he had his daughter tell us, "I wasn't always good and I didn't always make myself proud, but I did the best I could." And died without whimpering over the choices he had made. God love you, Opa.
This is an email I sent out thenight I heard of his death:
A., my next door neighbor and good friend, called me on the way home from work tonight to tell me that D. had died. He was with his daughters and at home, sleeping, when it happened. He had been expecting it and did his own way, not our the medical) way. Evaded hopsice and even ever admiting that the pancreatic cancer had recurred. Lasted 21 stubborn months, bless him.
I turned on the radio (satellite) in the car and the first station was CNN with some big report on the gangs of LA, and it was wrong so I punched in the button for the 1940’s station, one of my favorite when I’m feeling stressed as the music soothes me. Ray Noble was singing, “Good night, Sweetheart, sleep will ease your sorrow, good night sweetheart, until we meet tomorrow…” It was the right song, for he was just that, everyone’s sweetheart.
I awoke this morning, wondering what I could tell his daughters about their father. They knew him as a Dad, I knew him as a part of our family in the hanggliding community, where, despite his age, he could be eccentric, wild, youthful, himself, not old. I think that was part of the allure. He was always young, and didn’t want to hang with old people. Their life did not interest him. He was independent, adventurous, a traveler. He wanted to be different and so he was.
He evaded death any number of times, had had an open heart bypass before any of us had ever met him, then took up hanggliding at 65 when the FAA wouldn’t give him a pilot’s license due to his heart history. He was determined to stay in the air. He tried to kill himself hanggliding at least once, when he pounded into the ground trying to emulate one of our top pilot's low level landings, and bent his heartbolt in the process. A week later my ex and I had to threaten to cut his flying wires to keep him from launching again despite the small sheer hemorrhage he had sustained. Years later, while learning to ski in Montana at 72 he went over a cliff only to land in the crotch of a tree just eight feet below instead of the fifty he could have fallen. Still later he had resigned himself to death and turned into a recluse, so we dragged him out and to the doctors where it was discovered he simply needed a new heart valve and went on further adventures. The man was Rubbermaid.
Enough for now….
Goodnight, sweetheart, Goodnight.
The man basically showed us how to live and how to die. As he had his daughter tell us, "I wasn't always good and I didn't always make myself proud, but I did the best I could." And died without whimpering over the choices he had made. God love you, Opa.
Tuesday, March 21, 2006
The Kitty Cat Club in Munich
Any kinkster would be proud of that place. Short of murder, almost anything goes. Piercings, brandings (didn't see any of the latter, but they showed a recent one on the website) fistings, whipping, sex, rope bondage (had to help rescue a fainted maiden), water and medical play rooms, glory holes, it just went on and on. And they were friendly to boot. Golly, Heaven on earth. www.kittycatclub.de
Has me looking forward to Froliccon in Atlanta next month:
Has me looking forward to Froliccon in Atlanta next month:
It's not a War
It's not a normal war. They aren't trying to invade and occupy us. It's more like an attempt to make us spend ourselves (our lives, money and liberty) in fruitless efforts to protect ourselves fromtheir threats. Trouble is that when somehting really big comes along that is a danger to a huge nuber of us, we havn't the resources to deal with since we've expeneded so much already. They achieve theri goal of disrupting our lives by having us running in circles.
Thursday, February 09, 2006
"Do More; Want Less"
10 days until the European trip and the main water line to the house is busted. If it wasn't for the fact that the line was built in 1981 when there was no water on this road and that a private line had to be run over 1/4 of a mile, and part of that line is now under the county highway (i.e. the part that broke) it wouldn't be so ill-timed. As it is, I will have to wait on the water company to install a new meter closer to the house, then pay the plumber to connect us back up, and all this while working most of the remaining days (mostly at night) until the trip. I'm already tired!
And the reason for the title is simply that it is my new mantra. All those years of buying and wanting freely have left me so deeply in debt that I am working to pay my debt rather than working for my future. The line can be interpreted several ways as in 'want less things' and 'do more with what you have' and 'spend less time wanting material objects' or 'spend less time wanting to do a thing (such as writing), and more time just doing it.'
It's a slow process to learn that wanting a thing is not the same as needing a thing.
And the reason for the title is simply that it is my new mantra. All those years of buying and wanting freely have left me so deeply in debt that I am working to pay my debt rather than working for my future. The line can be interpreted several ways as in 'want less things' and 'do more with what you have' and 'spend less time wanting material objects' or 'spend less time wanting to do a thing (such as writing), and more time just doing it.'
It's a slow process to learn that wanting a thing is not the same as needing a thing.
Monday, February 06, 2006
Thursday, February 02, 2006
Brotweiler
It was a wonderful weekend when I got back. I slept most of two days, made love all day Sunday (when not sleeping) and have walked and played with the new puppy the remainder of the time. Our vacation starts in less than three weeks and I feel like Christmas is actually coming!
The new dog has made such a change in my outlook at home. Though we have all the puppy troubles -- housetraining is still a matter in flux -- she is so much fun to play with and watch grow and has such a determined personality (one reason we picked her form the litter.) I realized I hadn't really trained a puppy since the Bassett Hound (a stubborn and lovable beast) I had in the early 80's, and puppies are not like kittens. (God, kittens will spoil you.) But, having said that, she's just so much darned fun.
I had wanted a Bassett again and he tried to find one that needed adoption, but I will not pay for a dog (other than pound fees) with so many homeless animals. We finally adopted a friend's mixed Rottweiler puppy ony to fihd out the father was, probably, a Bassett mix himself. So, he got his Rottie and I got my Bassett (she's a bit short in limb.) I told him just to tell everyone she's a Brotweiler.
The new dog has made such a change in my outlook at home. Though we have all the puppy troubles -- housetraining is still a matter in flux -- she is so much fun to play with and watch grow and has such a determined personality (one reason we picked her form the litter.) I realized I hadn't really trained a puppy since the Bassett Hound (a stubborn and lovable beast) I had in the early 80's, and puppies are not like kittens. (God, kittens will spoil you.) But, having said that, she's just so much darned fun.
I had wanted a Bassett again and he tried to find one that needed adoption, but I will not pay for a dog (other than pound fees) with so many homeless animals. We finally adopted a friend's mixed Rottweiler puppy ony to fihd out the father was, probably, a Bassett mix himself. So, he got his Rottie and I got my Bassett (she's a bit short in limb.) I told him just to tell everyone she's a Brotweiler.
Sunday, January 22, 2006
Work, work, work
It's January, the dark days of the year, when old people die and the flu becomes a reality, and there seems to be nothing but work, work, work. It's too long to summer and too many bills and taxes ahead. Want less and you'll spend less and then you get to work less. Makes sense on the paper or screen. But, I am too tired after working all my shifts at my main job in the first three weeks, cooking a gumbo dinner for the book club from scratch (very successful, I might add) then flying out of ATL after finishing a night shift to SD to work a string of twelve-hour nights here.
And the remark about the old dying was personal. A dear friend who persistently denied having cancer made it through the holidays (as I predicted) and died on the 15th, aslo as I predicted. He was a stubborn and adventurous man, learning to hangglide after open-heart surgery at 65 and ski at 72. He was almost 79 when he succumbed. But he fought it until after he had his family safely past the holidays. Bless him. After my neighbor called with the news at 1115 p.m. I turned on the XM radio for the long drive home from work and heard, "Good night, Sweetheart, sleep will ease your sorrow...Goodnight, Sweetheart, good night." Sounded like D was talking to me....
And the remark about the old dying was personal. A dear friend who persistently denied having cancer made it through the holidays (as I predicted) and died on the 15th, aslo as I predicted. He was a stubborn and adventurous man, learning to hangglide after open-heart surgery at 65 and ski at 72. He was almost 79 when he succumbed. But he fought it until after he had his family safely past the holidays. Bless him. After my neighbor called with the news at 1115 p.m. I turned on the XM radio for the long drive home from work and heard, "Good night, Sweetheart, sleep will ease your sorrow...Goodnight, Sweetheart, good night." Sounded like D was talking to me....
Wednesday, January 04, 2006
Springlike and work
It's gorgeous, in the 60's (when it should be 30's F) but I have to go to work in the middle of the day (I have a difficult time transitioning to mid-day shifts. Fine with night, though I am a day person, but there's something so wrong about having to start to work in the middle of a day!) At least with nights I can fool my body by taking a brief nap before I get started. But he and I both awakened about 0930, had a tasty session (which left me feeling warm, fluffy, and DRAINED) then had to regroup for work. Fortunately, the new schedule (for good or ill) only requires us to stay for ten hours. I've never had an eight or ten hour shift in all my career. So used to twelves, don't know what it will feel like, except, I hope, short! Happy New Year, and hope you are accomplishing those things in your life that count -- love, creativity, friendship, and health.
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