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.

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.

Something from Lady T

You Are a Pegasus

You are a perfectionist, with an eye for beauty.You know how to live a good life - and you rarely deviate from your good taste.While you aren't outgoing, you have excellent social skills.People both admire you - and feel very comfortable around you.

What Mythological Creature Are You?

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.

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.

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!

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....

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.

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.

Southeast Leatherfest and Chattanooga Fetish

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