“Would you tell me, please, which way I ought to go from here?”
“That depends a good deal on where you want to get to,” said the Cat.
“I don’t much care where — ” said Alice.
“Then it doesn’t matter which way you go,” said the Cat.
” — so long as I get somewhere,” Alice added as an explanation.
“Oh, you’re sure to do that,” said the Cat, “if you only walk long enough.”
- Lewis Carroll ”Alice in Wonderland”
It has been a wonderful experience writing here in my little blogworld. Someone once told me how sacred, important and powerful writing is. I agree with that. Writing is like prayer to my pantheistic heart and agnostic nature; it is necessary catharsis. Along with the cathartic appeal, part of sharing this blog meant that I was offering a peek into the middle of a story (mine), much as all blogs or journals share partial stories, glimpses and moments of life captured. Well, simply, this old chapter is done. I’ve crossed over a bridge seeking another sort of home, with another chapter opening — and one with far less public disclosure. Those that need me, I can be found there, albeit also very rarely.
Should I feel the pull of necessary contemplation or purity through writing that seeks a semi-public expression, perhaps I’ll venture this way again. After all, if there is anything that I’ve learned in life, it is to always give yourself the option to change your mind; things are cyclical and you might circle back around.
In closing, please let me say that I have dearly appreciated everyone who accompanied me along this part of the road; you all had parts of the map and I like to think that maybe we all helped each other find our way along. I’ve loved the company. Please know that I sincerely wish you all kinds of happy. Be kind to yourselves.
And thanks….for getting me somewhere.
I walk out of the public world, a world where I am increasingly a resident and slip into the internal world — where we do what we do and I am less a visiting guest, increasingly slipping into uneasy residence. Even with distance, there is a continuum with the D/s world that is melding and melting into what I refer to as my public world. A world where things are essentially dutiful and compromised, where the roles are concrete and universal identifiers….I spoke that language once, glibly.
Things change, baby.
I am transmuted to the place we reside and at times I wonder if I am a willing or knowing prisoner. Tonight, I pad through my house silently through the dark of night, just past midnight. The days belong to another sort of me but the nights are the whole of me — and you are with me. What to say after all this time — loving, mentoring, enabling, disciplining, controlling and slowly breaking in a resistant soul over creeping time. Four years is a long time and it’s been slow going. Training has been slow; unlike most, you’ve been controlling and mastering my inside, my mind, my heart; transformation is slow.
There’s a lotta love in…Love.
Can there be that in what we do? What do you call yet another four letter word in the world of Power and control — where I am a conscientious objector to my own undoing? You don’t ask anything of me — until you do. And then the asking is urgent, strident, commanding, formidable. Obey. There’s another four letter word. I’ve not learned to tame myself, I remain just out of reach and there is no coy intent. Moving lightly, enigmatically, weaving in and out in a catch-me-if-you-can dance, it has to be tiring to have to do what you do to me, for me, with me. Love engenders transformation.
Well, that’s somewhere, baby…
WANTING
.
“I Am Not Yours”
I am not yours, not lost in you,
Not lost, although I long to be
Lost as a candle lit at noon,
Lost as a snowflake in the sea.
You love me, and I find you still
A spirit beautiful and bright,
Yet I am I, who long to be
Lost as a light is lost in light.
Oh plunge me deep in love — put out
My senses, leave me deaf and blind,
Swept by the tempest of your love,
A taper in a rushing wind.
Sarah Teasdale
I can remember when we started out, when things were fluidly easy; everything was possible and I was a goddess surveying the worlds — a buffet of worlds to pick from. Waterfalls of words and not enough time, the bottomless well of selfish and hedonistic wanting…
Today you asked me “What do you want?”
And there is nothing but resounding silence roaring in my ears. Words come in measured doses now; you know half of my life and that percentage is dwindling still. I’m afraid the road is running out of road now and I dread tipping the balance, rushing us to where pavement meets nothing but dusty, dirt road.
I don’t know what I want.
Words smother in my throat, squelched and murdered before they pass betraying lips. You’ve made me lose my edge. D/s hasn’t set me free — but it has made me aware of the golden, gilded cage. I wear handcuffs made of gold that glitter dangerously and too garishly. I can choke on a collar that never was. I’m not the same woman that I was; I’ve travelled too far on this road now with you and I’ve lost my way.
I used to know what I want.
Tidiness of life — that’s what is worth striving for. At least that’s what was taught. To be good, in the eternally good ways. To be ethical, sentient, to find my life’s value in measured plans. I believe in good. But I am not a good girl. I am every kind of selfish. I am every kind of unrelenting. I am every kind of stubborn. I am every kind of Woman.
Tell me what I should want.
The price of control is the loss of control. It is no longer a question of want…it is a case of need. Strangling need. To voice that is to say that I’ve become something less. They say that D/s reduces no one, that the submissive is set free. I don’t feel free. I feel clipped and caged…pretty birds always are. Days pass and I’m wilting, unable to decide. Indecision is the biggest and cruelest burden of what you’ve produced. Once, I was certain. Today, I am unsure. I want someone to tell me what I should want….or what I should need.
I want you…I think.
poe
ICE
.
Some say the world will end in fire,
Some say in ice.
From what I’ve tasted of desire
I hold with those who favor fire.
But if it had to perish twice,
I think I know enough of hate
To say that for destruction ice
Is also great
And would suffice.
- Robert Frost
Cold. Ice cold. It’s been -10F here, -30F with wind chill. Nature acts as a fitting antagonist in my current headspace. It’s always this way with me; after much stormy and fiery engagement, when I’ve been too intensely passionate and wholly consumed there comes necessary distance, a stagnation of emotion, a cold ice of defense that has great staying power.
I think of Arizona where I existed while my husband finished his graduate program. I remember my constant and desperate attempts to find shade, all the while slowly overheating and contemplating rios (rivers) that seemed to mock the very word itself. I marveled in horrified wonder at the crumbly dry river beds of baked beige earth, such fractured pottery in a desert kiln. It seems a distant memory against today’s cold.
I think I prefer ice.
—————-
Image by Boudin, one of my favorite photographers. Check him out here.
MY FAVORITE THINGS
~
Spanking fun poses,
And bright pinkened asses
Red ribboned nettles,
And well punished lasses,
Buying spanking toys and
Being tied up with strings,
These are a few of my favorite things…
Pale white soft bottoms,
And dark leather brown belts,
Classrooms and Woodsheds,
A hard strapping that welts,
Hard spankings that force me to wail out “It stings!”,
These are a few of my favorite things…
Girls in school uniforms,
With school crestened sashes
Panties ’round ankles,
Taking countless hard lashes,
Stubborn hard tempers
That melt with the stings,
These are a few of my favorite things…
When the cane bites,
When the strap stings,
When I’m being bad,
I simply recall all my *favorite things*,
Then I don’t want to be so bad…!
“In the summer I have this friend who I am closest to, and sometimes, in the winter, I long to call her up and say, come here and live with me, in this cold place. But we are summer friends. There is a rule it seems, that summer friends don’t get together in the wintertime.” - Jacqueline Woodson
It is late summer and storming like crazy outside. I’m at home, packed and waiting to go away for the anniversary week and idly being online, peeking back into blogworlds. I’ve had a lovely, needful summer doing things — doing, instead of writing. Not a bad tradeoff. I want the last few days of summer to myself; Labor Day isn’t too far off. Then, out of the chrysalis, I’ll emerge again and turn my restless head back to the kinky side of things — at least the writing and perusing of it.
The summer has changed me, but all the changes are more internal than external — no, no worries, no big life dramas or colorful changes or missteps. There have been personal changes in my life, which surprisingly (or maybe not so surprisingly) has had direct impact on all of…this. Some things are difficult to write about because I’m still adjusting, settling in with some of them. It has changed the path that I’m on with The Other. Things have become more immediate, necessary and it is permanent. I’m happier. It is easier not to fight myself all the time. I’ve understood that is what I’d been doing — engaging in two battles, one with myself and then on a parallel course, one with The Other. Straddling the fence, crossing the modes and compartments has been really difficult. Admitting what I want admidst all the choice, chaos and control has been a struggle to say the least. Honesty in becoming what and redefining who I am has been the struggle. I’m still suprised and tentative in saying “this is what I want”….Yet it is infinitely easier than sitting on the fence.
Now, leaving that alone for now, update on blog changes…New digs?
I’ve attempted an initial pass at WordPress. Here it is.
Moving to a new place online is so strange. Sounds silly but I feel clumsy and an intruder there. The new place is too *quiet*, if that makes any sense.
Peeking and poking about, I’m surprised that a few of my cherished blogspaces have seemed to have languished or disappeared — what happened? Perhaps some of them have taken a summer break too; or perhaps some of them have moved onto other things. Blogging can be a time sink and it doesn’t always fit into things when life gets busy I know. Whatever the reason, I’ve loved what they shared with me and wish all the good things for them — the best things. I hope they come back, greedy me. 
Ok, that’s about it for now. I’m going away for a few days on vacation. Blog at you laters!
CONTROL
.
Transparency
Invisibility
was the power I claimed,
whenever armor
was insufficient distance.
Then, you came
offering me my pain
and drowning me in my fear.
Somehow
you slipped past all defense,
and freed me of my power,
and left only Tenderness.
- Ganagi
TRUST ME
.
“I can’t let myself become comfortable with you. That is dangerous. You try and find ways to destroy that person — not consciously of course. But your personality always prods, looking for weak spots….Yes, that is because you don’t trust me in this. You never have. But thats ok. I’m kind of like the guide that you don’t really believe knows where he’s going… And you’re always surprised when I get you from destination to destination,” said The ZenMaster (aka “The Other”)
Recently hearing the Other say that to me, calmly stated as universal truth, wounded me. Reflexive defensive posturing aside, I know that it is a correct assessment. I couldn’t even really deny it. The statement sat there, awkward in its bluntness in the silence that yawned between us. Feeling unreasonably hurt (unreasonable because it is true and truth is truth), yet having no real argument to deny or deflect the statement, I sat just wincing inside. As much as I might seek external pain — or even a certain amount of emotional masochism — it is the little words, said without malice or motivation that can reduce me to tears. Hot, flashing eyes blinking away my weak response, I turned away and changed the subject in an all-too-bright tone of voice. Tears are never my refuge as they might be for other women. Tears are only the physical proof of my weakness and vulnerability, the shameful end to losing face or dignity or emotional superiority. Tears are the ultimate submission for me, wrenched from me, never freely given. That sort of submission is outside of the D/s dynamic.
The point of this blog isn’t really to whine about how cruel the Other was to me in a stray moment. He isn’t cruel. He is truthful. I hate to admit it but that stray truth has sat with me for a couple weeks now and I still have no responses to refute the truth in those words. I think hearing those words from the Other is like getting affirmation for all the worst parts of myself. The truth is that I’m nicer to people that I don’t really know; strangers get my manners, my social demeanor that politeness expects and demands. I am never more kind then when I have nothing emotionally invested. I’m really nice to strangers. I have always known that I tend to manipulate or seek to destroy those that are short-sighted or foolish or weak enough to love me.
If you love me, what the hell is wrong with YOU?
I’ve somehow confused power with strength. I’ve equated power and being powerful with being strong. Power and the power balance is everywhere around me, all around us. Even as a submissive personality in this kink, outside of the kink, I’m very attracted to power. Power over the self and others is sexy…it is powerful. Learning to master power, holding it, watching the fluid nature of power exchanges outside the kinky construct is fascinating. Fluid. I am ashamed of my love affair of power and my perverson of it — and there is no artifice in that, no ulterior motive.
But power perverted into bullying is really just weakness, with an external shell. Issues of power have dominated my life, in and out of the kink. From the weak child that I was, stuck in a powerless situation, I learned that power is the only real thing there is. Things like status, money, fame….are merely expressions of power. I was raised by a man who taught me very early on that tears are weak, that women are weak. When I say that I am my father’s daughter, that is what I refer to: his utter disgust at weakness. It is the one true lesson that I can really remember him teaching me. I grew up inherently knowing that bullies hold one form of power — and there are bullies everywhere. I grew up careful to stay out of his way (and not succeeding most of the time) and where I don’t remember the physical pain he regularly doled out with a sadistic precision, what I still recall is how I felt being that small, vulnerable and powerless. The power spectrum has molded and created every facet of my life — including my career choices, my relationships and my life decisions. I’m not sure what to make of that just now. Yeah, I’m really fucked up.
You know, I know that I’ve been exploring all the edges surrounding this thing, called “the kink.” It is far safer to go exploring the edge; the darker edges don’t frighten me more than exploring the core internal foundations. It is easier for me to want theory than practice. I know that I’ve been zeroing in on all the kinky areas…and there are only so many places left to go without addressing the internal core parts of this thing.
I’ve been exploring this incorrectly. The “kink” isn’t a separate thing like I’ve been exploring it; rather, it is fundamental to my core, all things in some sense spring from that. In my current perspective, I see the kink as the uniting force that connects all the dots to the parts disenfranchised or integral to what I see as “The Self”. What I’ve learned and tasted in the kink has complete relevance to the other parts of my life, outside all of this. The kink just puts into direct play all these facets of the self, and plays with them tangibly. It uses deliberate physiological triggers to induce responses — designed to go up or down the power spectrum. The kink uses counterbalancing triggers to release pressure off the psyche, to allow the secret inside wants out.
Why else is humiliation somehow such a big sexual trigger for myself? How can shame be reframed, changed, to provide such excruciating pleasure — rather than crippling hurt? Why else does the rush of forgiveness of spanking somehow translate into sexual longing and need?
I’m ashamed of my inability to trust. More than that, I’m devastated on some level. Perhaps this makes no sense to anyone else, but given how huge trust and vulnerability play in all human relationships — especially those within the kinky lifestyle — it is a harsh failing. It is another affirmation that I didn’t escape unscathed. For quite a few years, I took smug pride in thinking that I’d beaten the odds, that the insanity of my childhood hadn’t taken root within myself. That I wasn’t a monster and that I wasn’t a bully like they were — and how my siblings still are. As time passes and as the kink restores my humanity and requires me to dethaw, to change my landscape and take responsiblity for more than I ever thought I had to…I know differently now. The inability to trust, to allow for vulnerability….isn’t that the definition of a monster? Really?
I recently read on Bliatz’s blog, a recap summary of vulnerability and trust: “Vulnerability and trust are closely related, in fact mutually interdependent. At the very outset it is our human vulnerability that makes it necessary for us to build our lives on trusting other persons. At the same time, this trusting relationship, the fact that we have confidence in someone, increases our vulnerability. If our trust turns out to be misplaced, we may not just be disappointed; we can get hurt…Trust is at the deepest level not at our command. Furthermore, the fact that we cannot actually produce trust (if it is not already there), also implies that we cannot ‘instrumentalise’ trust. We cannot make our trust in other people an instrument for gaining benefits for ourselves, or for obtaining a goal beyond that trust…Trust is simply a given, basic phenomenon that we at the most profound level are dependent upon, but that is not at our disposal. This is what we may call the given-ness or granted-ness of human trust. “
Reading that, I sit. There isn’t a lot to do is there? Trust is not produced — we cannot produce trust. Rather, it is a spontaneous phenomenon, coming from the most fundamental part of us. We have no control who we trust and we we don’t, with some exceptions. Think about how huge that is — and how much that is to overcome if you cannot completely trust your Partner? How do you learn to trust — if it isn’t a learned thing?
When the Other said, simply, that I have never trusted him, I know what he was referring to. He was not referring to the trust that exists between two people in a play session. Trust over another’s physical control exercised over you is certainly one form of trust — and a very important one! But I recognized that what the Other was referring to was my lack of innate trust in him, my inability to give over the internal territory. It is because of that that I will never be submissive…enough. It is an impossiblity, no matter how much the Other can reduce me during play or a session. I also acknowledge why we’ve been struggling so hard for so long now.
My defenses, my stubborn pride in myself, my belief that I know my worth, my refusal to have a partner to submit to who cannot be superior to myself….it is all just excuses or weapons of justification to never give up what I can’t.
———————
Icon by Obsessive Icons
“Hi….are you back?”
“Yeah, I just got back. Tired.”
“I’m glad you are back..I missed you.”
“I know…So, have you been a good girl?”
Instantly, there is the sliding downward, world slightly tilting. The deliberate trigger words linger, echoing in the in the night’s balmy air, and I glance up to catch you watching me. I feel the flush…and the quiver. Triggers, like the words you just used are never explainable. Good girl….what is good? What does being a good girl mean? Being good is undefined. My own standards of what is good has nothing to do with….any of this. I feel faintly foolish at the cliche term and also a stirring within. That question It isn’t meant to be answered; rather it is only as a beginning cue down that slide back into our world where the power synergy flows. I’m getting better at ignoring the private tingle and reflexive pause at being asked such a blatantly cliche spankified and loaded question.I sit back, settling into the cues….
I missed you.
Did you know that I missed you? I know I don’t tell you that I do. Do you know that I can go days, weeks even, without needing you….then the very minute you must leave town, I miss you? Do you know how uncertain I become when you are out of reach? It triggers some sense of abandonment in me and that vulnerability is with me until you come back, until I’ve re-established connection again.
I missed you….
Do you know that I want you here, right now? Do you know that I’m only half-listening, trying to ignore the rising cravings for touch, tangible connection back to you? Abandonment leaves me uncertain, unbalanced and unsure…no matter how often you go and come back. Where you are concerned, I become the “every girl” that I can’t stand, the needy, clingy, wanting, high-maintenance girl who needs….this. And You. Do you know that I’m tired of battling with that weakness? It is too much power to give someone else….to be that needy and needing on another human being, let alone all the rest of this we do. But lately, out of necessity, changes have come. I’ve passed some milemarker along that way and I think it might actually be ok to be weak with you, that you won’t think less of me for my capitulation of power. There is no need to struggle against that and it is huge, for me anyhow. Huge. I know that it is ok, with you….I missed you.Welcome back.I’m never good for very long. —————————————————
Image: Fanillik on Flickr
CRASHING
.
“The truth be told,
It can be said that there is an edge
between reality and fantasy,
But at what cost ?
There are those worlds
that have yet to be found,
shadow dancing and meditating
to the sounds of songs
trapped in the minds
of those unshielded….”
- Sidewinder, “Full Circle”
“A man’s worst difficulties begin when he is able to do as he likes.” — Thomas Henry Huxley
I wish I wasn’t into spanking. I wish I wasn’t tempted to explore all of this. I wish that I wasn’t wired this way. For all the bliss of unlocking the core of myself, I am ashamed of all of it now. Am I allowed that? After all this, can I freely hate the kink, without hating myself? Is that even possible now? All that time, all that I thought was truth and sustainable…I was wrong. It just hit me today and I’m free falling now, this time with no parachutes, no way to undo my decision and no way to really move forward. I reassure myself that the end of something is part of the circle, the cycle of all things, yet it is no consolation. It is difficult to face endings with pragmatism, decency, grace. It is made more difficult without another clear path to reassure me that what I’ve chosen is right. What am I mourning? I am mourning what is lost now, both the tangible and all the little intangibles of the ride, the journey.
What to do when the journey’s road simply runs out of road?
Honestly, it feels as if I’ve come full circle now, from where I was just a few years ago. My beginning forays and my deliberate determination in seeking all this out was the most freeing and *right* thing I ever did for myself. Reckoning with myself and struggling to understand why I was so different was an easier way to be then to sit secretly in shame for liking all this. Shame is crippling and I felt like the worst little perv in the universe. For a long while, since it had no discernible name, it was nothingness and could be blocked out.
As I stated in a previous post not too long ago, calling something up from watery Chaos and giving it a name made it a reality. It was only when I went online and searched “spanking” that it jolted me alive, made me realize that this thing had a name and I could claim it and find validation. Throwing off shame is empowering, heady stuff. I rejoiced and breathed the fine ether, knowing that I wasn’t a deviant (actually, in mainstream society, I guess I still am) and, like all things I do, I threw myself into it. Out of that energy, goodwill and gratitude came productivity — a created community of like souls to congregate. Hell, I even started blogging, thinking that I had a story to share and a mildly exhibitionistic streak in me that wanted out. More importantly, I wanted and craved contact, constant affirmation that venturing off the well-worn path was worth it. I ignored the tiny pings of worry that I was venturing too far off the mainstream path, knowing that life is still largely mainstream and that I needed to keep this all contained. I’ve never been a good liar, you see. I’m still not.
But it hasn’t been easy. Oh no. Throwing off the chains of shame while embracing the chains of guilt in the same fell swoop….sucketh mightily. Furthermore, it is the greatest recipe for self-destructive reality. For all those that had no troubles progressing on your own journeys, you have my admiration and envy. Yes, envy. Those that know what they want, how they want it and never have to struggle to find the dividing lines or draw lines in the sand, bless you all. I know that you must have had your own struggles, so I don’t mean to diminish your stories. I’ve come to realize now that I must be the most uneasiest, obsessive, worried, freakyass, denial-laden, greedy, selfish, fretful and unwilling little kinkster walking this planet. I overthink, underplay, worry for everyone and privately wonder if I’ve fucked myself up.
Masochism has nothing on my internal world, baby….
Some stories have no good endings; I just hope to goddess that this isn’t the end of the road of this particular journey. I’m angry that I’ve gotten myself here. I’m angry that there isn’t an easy way out. I’m angry that there is no happy ending, even as I tried to anticipate everything to be as responsible and ethical as I could. I’m angry that this thing that I sought and fought so hard to claim has turned into nothing but sand. I’m angry that all my foundations were built on sand with no genuine or lasting platform to hold me up now.
Yes, welcome to my period of freefalling. Don’t look as the train derails off the tracks. It isn’t going to be very pretty folks. Excuse me while I crash to earth.
CHOOSING
.
I do not want to be the leader.
I refuse to be the leader.
I want to live darkly and richly
in my femaleness.
I don’t mind working,
holding my own ground
intellectually, artistically;
but as a woman, oh god, as a woman
I want to be dominated.
I don’t mind being told to stand on my own feet,
not to cling — all that I am capable of doing.
But I am going to be pursued, fucked,
possessed by the will of a man
at his time, his bidding.
- Anais Nin
It’s been quiet here lately. Life has indeed kept me busy, but perhaps I’ve been deliberately keeping myself busy staving off the disquieting whispers of doubt finally bubbling up to full consciousness. For those of you that know my current conundrum and doubts, thank you for patience. For those of you that read me, thank you for allowing me silence. There isn’t a simple way to say that I’m going through a rather conflicted period of things and I’ve been unwilling to communicate that or do much with it other than sit with it, letting it play out, knowing that you can’t change the inevitable
It is kind of people to inquire where I am. No, I’ve not fallen off the face of the planet. I’m slowly tuning back to this channel, this vibe again. It has felt like I’ve cocooned, out of necessity. It hasn’t been all that long but it is easy to walk out for a while, clear the head and mind. I’ve gotten buried in work, in new projects that are work related. But, sometimes I think that the hectic pace that I deliberately at times do create for myself is an outward external representation of what is churning inside me, you know? It is hard to face permanent change, choosing new things and I’ve not been able to adequately write about it — I tend to freeze when certain eyes are reading.
I’m being purposely vague. Double lives are complicated enough; it is made even more complicated at the end of the road. There are days and times in all of this that the bright light of honesty shines too brightly and I have to avert or deflect it, just for a little while. The white, hot light makes me shrink and scurry for shade in the shadows. Unlike some, I am quite bad at writing through difficulties as they happen. Rather, I retreat or ignore things until I can absorb fully what needs to be done and how to best accomplish it. Once I find some resolution, then I can process and explain and fill in the blanks — revisionism on the run? Life is lived in hindsight, seriously. I’ve found that this can be a good thing as the soft retrospective light of certain revisionism is much more flattering sometimes.
Enough rambling.
Simply, I’m choosing another path now. Another path that is unknown territory, new explorations for a new day. The current path I’ve been on is just not fruitful nor rewarding and it hasn’t been for quite some time. In fact, it is hard to write that here for it makes it permanent and I’m on unsteady legs. I am unsure what the next chapter is nor am I really sure if I want there to be another chapter in this whole thing that we call…the kink. This whole thing, this whole journey takes energy, emotionality, close connection and the most intense mindfucked moments that is like nothing else. Yet the cost sometimes hasn’t been worth it. I’m afraid to depart completely and yet I’m also reluctant to take another step on my own.
I want to be led. Simply that. Whatever else, that much I know I want.
NAMED
.
“No, my soul is not asleep.
It is awake, wide awake.
It neither sleeps nor dreams, but watches,
its eyes wide open
far off things, and listens
at the shores of the great silence.”
- Antonio Machado
It is late, so late. I’m tired and weary after the longest day in the world. Silly to come and write when sleep is just behind my eyes.
But I long to write….something. Anything. Reconnection back to this world for the thread is becoming so worn and thin. These long hours are holding me hostage and I wish to stop. Just stop and look around me, find true North again on my compass. Where am I going, after all? Hours disappear into days; days have turned into weeks…so endless. But this cycle too shall end; normalcy will return. I will exhale and shed my skin, skin that is becoming too uncomfortably tight and deadened. Skin that is like an ill-fitting suit and boring to wear. Skin that craves stimuli and stinging vibrant pain. Skin that wants to be alive again. Or maybe I’m just seeking stimuli for my bored brain and my underspanked, underfucked self and unwilling to say it just that way.
Leaving that aside for just a moment, now might be a good time to mention something. I’ve had people write me for a variety of reasons. Some touch me beyond words. Some digust me. Some simply amuse me. It seems that I’ve been somewhat of a disappointment to those that come searching out reading or other visual material that appeals strictly to the one-handed typing sort, so to speak. Sadly, I must admit that I fail to deliver in that department. Yet, I make no apologies. It is damn annoying when you want to get off and go to the bother of searching with all those weird ass keyword searches and I come up, isn’t it?
Just to clarify, I write and share stories only when I feel like it — and it takes me a while to feel like it as I’m very lazy about such things. And nope, I don’t really have a lot of spanking related pictures (although I do admire erotic illustrations and other people’s pictures). But I’m not going to change that; there are other places that can do a much better job with those sorts of things or are certainly more free about sharing. Furthermore, I am not always light nor is my writing always geared to the wonderful ecstasies of submission, spanking, and all the accoutrements that supposedly goes along with all this. Simply, I write about my journey — and my journey entails traveling on bumpy, hot, dusty, lonely roads sometimes. Other times, it is pure ether. Mostly, it is somewhere in between. Lately it is largely vanilla and b-o-r-i-n-g….which is probably why you all get treated to such random, unfocused writing such as this piece.
While I am sitting here blogging about nothing but feeling the comfort of bringing words to life (what the hell did I write before blogging?), I think I’ll just write whatever comes out. I’m too lazy and sleepy just now to figure out proper essays and topics and all that. See, just further evidence of an undisciplined me.
So….before I ever realized that there was a name to call this thing we do, spanking, kink, whatever, it was all nothing more than secretive and guilty longing. It was only darkly swirling half-thoughts that went unnamed playing the primary role in my heady fantasies, even as I plundered and pleasured myself longing for…more. The mere mention of spanking had me instantly wet, embarrasingly slick and throbbing — forget foreplay, who needs it when you have spanking? Or, more aptly, spanking IS foreplay, isn’t it? (Yes, I know that punishment spankings are not supposed to be arousing — but tell that to my lower senses, that gutterminded part of me)
Maybe giving something a name really does bring it to life. Or maybe it just seems that way because other things die. I say this because something imperceptible changed when I gave this a name. In calling it forth, I gave it form and depth and life. I heeded the need it awakened with a vengeance, fueled it into action and allowed it to exist outside of me as a separate thing to answer to. Yet, I can’t pretend that there isn’t an uncomfortable division between two worlds — especially when I’m constantly hurdling over the fence that keeps the worlds distinctly separate. Also, now that I’ve given this ‘thing’ a name, I am aware of an uncomfortable tightness now, as if I’m wearing a stranger’s clothes when I walk out into the world as a guest, no longer a resident, of the mainstream world.
Used to compartmentalizing, I am still trying to keep the worlds separate out of choice and circumstance. I will say that even with my husband knowing of all this, man, it is still a bitch to manage. I wonder how others who do this secretly do it. I have it in me to feel for them. Serving two masters is hard; serving two masters in secret is a burden. I don’t pity, but I empathize. The options are so bleakly limited sometimes if you aren’t married to your spanker/top/dom/master/whatever.
Sidenote: just because my husband knows doesn’t necessarily alleviate me of inevitable guilt or excuse what I do. I don’t want to give anyone reading me any false delusions — god knows there are enough of them out there about the blissfulness of this “lifestyle”. What a crock. There are choices and prices to pay for having this; there are times that I know that I would never deliberately consign another soul to be a “spanko”, not even for all the blissful moments there are to be had within it. I think I might sort of envy the domestic discipline crowd, their primary partner is their Disciplinarian/Authority/Spanker/Dom.
Over all, I wish I didn’t need this as badly as I do. I wish I didn’t need to juggle a confusing triangle, a fucked up menage a trois. Lately, as I am saturated in the ‘vanilla’ world, I guiltily peek over into the mainstream and wish for…that. To not be out of the mainstream, to be satisfied to dwell in a place that has no division or need for it.
Truthfully, at times I feel less innocent, less free. I feel yoked to this, like I’m supposed to do double duty in both worlds and I’m getting wearied by both. The freedom that I had before I gave it a name is gone, dead. Once you experience something, you can’t ever go back to a blank tablet. Had I thought these things before, maybe I wouldn’t have been like Pandora, letting Chaos out into the world. Should I be disturbed? Maybe. Do I accept responsibility for my action, my choice? Yes, of course. But I also find myself inwardly cursing myself at times for having let the beast out at all to begin with. Am I being a traitor to the incredible beauty and orgiastic magic that is supposed to be The Kink? Quite possibly, yes.
I say that I don’t feel like I’m a resident of the vanilla world because I can feel the kink oozing out of the box, taking more ground inch by creeping inch. I notice that it makes its presence known even as I go about my day. Now, I’ve long since perfected the art of looking like I’m paying attention when my head is a million miles away. Recently, while sitting through a training lecture, I caught myself idly scanning the room and wondering “Hmm. I wonder if anyone here is into spanking…” or dreamily wondering if anyone else was vaguely craving to be spanked as I do. I’m astonished to realize that I seem to spend quite a bit of time now thinking about scenes, or potential for the most improbable scenes anyhow, as I’m going about the day. They aren’t really full fledged fantasies — more like skits, but comically, not even full fledged skits. No real plot. Just spanking scenes. I actually caught myself lost in fantasy (while gravely nodding right along with the speaker as if I really was listening) musing about being unceremoniously yanked out of my chair to be laid across the broad conference table with legs obscenely splayed, and soundly spanked. Or fucked. Or both.
Anyhow, I just wanted to share that with you, as I’ve tiptoed back in my Sanctuary here tonight. I’m too tired now to keep typing and I want my bed.
I’ll shut off the lights on my way out.
—————–
Image: “Ariadne” by Waterhouse
sentiment
abuses my clemency
memory
presses on bruises
before they’ve a chance to fade
resurrection comes
from learning to
stop asking questions
from denying the want
that founders
in foolhardy
pink ignorance
i choose wrong
the pea is always under
the other shell
the smart players
bet against me
- M. Forrest, “Untitled on Monday”
This is a long blog. It is kind of a continuation of the previous post, more musings from me, but also about related topics…so bear with me. Historically I’ve blogged posts dealing with a central theme and once blogged, that is the end of it. Next topic. However, in keeping with my new resolve to be more emotionally honest, which gets channeled to the blog, I pause to give the prior post more thought and to clarify something if only to myself.
I’ve thought about my emotional armor — and why that is my first line of defense in challenging relationships. All of them, not just the kinky ones, mind you. The rhythm of intimacy is abruptly interrupted by a patch of cool distance, emotions halted by the rational mind and social politeness. Recently, I’ve had a number of interactions, not just with one person but with a few (so don’t read into that if you think it is you) that sort of circle the same theme: Emotional Intimacy.
It is impossible to have relationships and friendships without this on some level, albeit in varying degrees. I also know that emotional intimacy is especially necessary within the dynamic of a Power/Control-defined relationship, so it bears looking at.
I’ve read, with delight and appreciation, so many accounts of the physical stimuli and sensation based facts of a session, play, erotic or punishment. Physicality aside, my present consideration is the the softer connections dealing with the intimacy and levels of emotions that are touched off and experienced within play or within a power dynamic. There is something — not quite describable – about the special connection that is required to make “this thing that we do” so palpable, alive, fulfilling….and good.
Magdalena writes so articulately about this phenomenon in her essay, “The Violence of Love – The Pleasure of Pain.” Although I cannot summarize this well, basically what I understand this to be is that the nature and experience of physical pain changes, redefined as high pleasure with the exquisite emotional intimacy and psychological synergy with one’s Partner.
She writes: “Within the context of a scene, beatings may give the appearance of cruelty, of violence but this is an illusion. Psychological empathy and insight allows one to collapse into the sensation and choose to interpret it differently. We change our experience of pain. Safe in the knowledge that no real damage is being done, that we are emotionally cared for, we can relax into the pain-pleasure paradox. There is no distress connected with the sensory pain of high intensity, because it is unaccompanied by suffering.”
Exquisite. Without both halves of that coin, Pain is merely just physical/physiological expression, stimuli to be felt as a sensory thing. It is such a necessary central thing but, devoid of the other half, that which is emotional and psychological intimacy and care, to accompany pain, it is a dull and flat experience. Wouldn’t you agree? I would imagine that even those that seek high levels of excruciating pain, would still find it necessary to have that emotion connection interwoven throughout.
Play is simply better with someone that you *trust* and who has plumbed your emotional, intimate depths to best play to your senses, mindfuck you into sublime bliss, take you to the edge — and maybe beyond – and to bring you back from the ether. Emotional connection is the thread that ties you to your Partner. I dare say that might be the quality both in play and maybe out of play too, that makes any of this…stuff…worth selling your soul for.
Of course, that brings me right back to the issues of psychological, emotional intimacy and the watery depths of emotions. OY!
So, I’m going to lay this all out:
My previous blog, “Just Now” that I wrote…took a lot from me. As I said to another sentient soul, there are times when writing for me is fluid joy, smooth and eagerly flowing, fingers flying to type out the chunks of words. There are other times that I sit for hours, sinking into time, grappling with disclosure and the inability to let emotional things show. This is one of those times and I need to look at it, clarify it.
Anyone that has been reading me for a while or has gotten to know me has to know by now that I am not the most readily emotionally accessible creature. One of my dearest friends in the kink has laughingly even said, “You are so stoic, you are one of the most stoic people I’ve ever seen.” Yeah. She’s right. It has taken me 3 bloody years just to start really sharing details, small life moments and intimate confessions.
I know that writing this blog honestly represents some of my most *real* moments being in touch with this sort of stuff — and I usually write it only after I’ve wrestled with an issue to rationally articulate it. Expression only comes after examination and is never free-flowing for myself, even in the seemingly anonymous blogosphere. Admittedly, it is *easier* to confess these things to people that I don’t face on a daily basis — which is a huge reason that I value the voices that comment or write to me. Simply, I’m trying like hell to reach out, past my linguistical walls that smother and box me tight. It makes me unapproachable. I’m trying like hell to share, to disclose and it is disconcerting that I can’t do it easily. I envy those bloggers who can divulge, be so open, be courageous enough to let people in. It is why I find quotations, poetry or prose to be tools — my love of things literary aside, they often convey what I can’t adequately express and it is a relief to include them in blogs. Now you know.
1. Personal emotional boundaries
Perhaps Naughty_One sums it up best:
“My writing is a way for me to express myself. I am able to tell stories, verbalize my feelings, or create any of the soul searching, angst ridden literary vomit-fest-like blog posts I have been prone to on occasion. I am able to “talk about my feelings” through my writing. In person, however? Face to face with another human being? If I wanted spilled guts, I would go to a fish market, thank you very much….I guess you could say that I am not in my comfort zone when verbalizing my feelings, so I make it a habit to avoid it if at all possible. I am not an outwardly touchy feely person. Actually, barring the inevitable estrogen moment, I am sort of like a guy when it comes to girlie type displays of emotions. I get uncomfortable around “emotionals”….those people who tend to gush, snivel, hug/touch excessively or coo over me….And you can just forget about the people who make the mistake of doing any sort of weeping/sobbing/wailing/gnashing of teeth in front of me. They are treated to a gaping stare and an expression of vague surprise mixed with bemused horror, while my mind frantically searches for the least obtrusive way for me to run screaming from the room.” - Naughty_One “The Non-Physical Cuddle”
I read that and I totally understand Naughty_One. Emotional “stuff” is normally associated with being female, soft, weak…I’m like a freaking guy. I am not a cuddly, huggable, touchy-feely sort of girl. I like politeness and reserve. Chin up, give me facts, let me have the realm of rational and controlled pieces of the puzzle. Most importantly, don’t overwhelm me with emotional noise and I’m your best ally. I’ll find you resources, solutions, information and choices. I’ll be happy to give you advice to solve your current problem. I’ll fight for you, I’ll defend you, I’ll sustain you through it all….as long as you can respect my personal limits and emotional boundaries.
Don’t get me wrong, there is a certain amount of emotional largesse that I do extend, especially if I’m close to you and there is a personal connection borne out of time, mutual respect and past experience. But, for the most part, my personal comfort zones and boundary lines are drawn at toxic interactions, personal dramas that never cease, wallowing about endlessly or emotional vampires that knowingly or unknowingly drain me dry. I literally try to avoid those sorts of people; my biggest dread is that I might be an emotional burden to people when I lean or am asking for advice. I disengage from those sorts of situations faster than fast and I’m running for the hills never daring to look back — we all know what happened to Lot’s wife when she made that mistake, don’t we? I make no apologies for it.
In fact, there is a part of me that is impatient and disdainful that people would expect that sort of negative emotional interaction as a regular course of the relationship. Friendships are important; they need to be healthy and positive to thrive otherwise I am left gasping for air, floundering in the horror of watery Chaos, flailing like a fish out of water and desperate to escape. My brain literally screams, “Run away, flee, fly, before the avalanche hits, before the quicksand sucks you in…RUN.”
2. Cultural relativism
Some of it is valid. Being Asian-American, raised in *that* environment, reserved politeness is de rigeur. (When I say “Asian”, I am referring to East Asia; I know in some places “Asia” is associated with India and that region) I am not even first generation yet and I did not grow up expressing emotions, nor did I have a physically affectionate family. Oh horrors just to think about it!
There is a concept of “face” that is cultural, at least what I saw growing up. It is hard to describe what “face” is; it is more than Ego. Basically, it is personal pride, honor, strength in public and lack of weakness. People who lose face have killed themselves, in my culture; it is that bone-deep and rooted within the culture. It is necessary to have a public mask and a certain amount of distance with those not in one’s inner circle.
I deal with this on a real level. This concept feeds right into the issue of Humiliation in play. Humiliation is absolutely horrifying. Personal humiliation would absolutely break me — and is probably why I am so ambivalent about it in play. Truthfully, I have a love and hatred of it that is really dependent on the context and situation. Humiliation is a huge trigger that has to be played with carefully, or I have come very close to breaking. Corner time, name calling, face slapping, are usually out. Exposure, certain objectification, lectures and public play are very in. Paradoxically, that which horrifies by day…can excite by night. For the most part, there is a certain safety that is built into *just* Spanking that I find blissful; however, going into D/s, we tread cautiously.
3. Conflicting beliefs or values
For the most part, I have worked primarily with men. I have always been in male-dominated industries and being a woman in those environments meant having to have the internal fortitude to “Man Up” when navigating challenging situations. Having to prove myself was good discipline that appealed to the competive side of me so I’m not complaining. Communication is different in a male-dominated environment. I learned a “bullet-style” of writing, keeping things formal and dealing with no more than 3 issues at a time in one communication. I learned to communicate sequentially, to brief and summarize with crunched bare facts, ending with solutions. I learned that adverbs are not your friends, nor is overly descriptive language — not if you want to be taken seriously and get your objectives met. So, my journaling evolves from that place, slowly dethawing and becoming more intimate as time goes by (or at least I think it is intimate).
“Sometimes, it feels good to give in
It won’t later
Later, it will feel like fool idiocy
But right now
While the iron is hot
It feels just fine
Right now, my weakness, my frailty
I treasure them
I pet them and appreciate their honesty
I count them among my gifts
To feel love for you
To want you
To miss you
These are part of my weakness
I put them aside only after much effort has been dispensed
And I do so reluctantly
With great exhalation and strain”
– Mary Forrest
I guess I never thought that being *strong* was going to be a questionable thing in the context of the kink. I understood Simone De Beauvor’s quote “To make oneself an object, to make oneself passive, is a very different thing from being a passive object.”
Switching modes out of one aspect of my personality into the other is a big hurdle, one that hasn’t found real resolution. Getting me to switch modes is startling, jarring, almost dizzying. Once in that submissive or bottom headspace, I’m molten and soft, arching with greed and need. Pooling in my own liquid, I am so fillable, fuckable, mindfuckable, flying and screaming myself raw. The energy then is pure, so primitive and I *know* my place, that which supersedes gender politics, killing Equality dead. I am where I belong. Even my voice changes, softer, wispier, with a soft, breathless, feminine musicality that is lilting with murmurs, coos, tinkling laughter. I could exist there forever, hedonistic me — and I try desperately to cling to the hours, bargaining with Time to still for me. But Time, as they say, waits for no one.
Upon wakening the next day, it is gone and self-consciously, I create distance between myself and…that thing, that space. As blissful as the session was, you’d think I’d be clamoring to get back to that place, wouldn’t you? Nope. Next day, I’m out of reach and deliberately so. I am strong again, distant and Equal — or trying to be, anyhow.
I’ve thought that, “Well, maybe you aren’t a submissive, maybe you just aren’t looking for this sort of thing.” But I know it isn’t that. I’ve gone into areas that are darker than I ever thought I would, with fear and excitement pulsing. I’ve never felt more alive and worthy when I am conquered, fully and totally so. I want to please so much that I seek out pain to express it, willing and wanting my body to please Him. In those times, He is not my Equal — but my Superior and I know it, gratefully sobbing my relief.
4. Bottom Drop or Crashing
Related to the gender-driven values, I’m starting to think it is something called “Bottom Drop”, a term that I hadn’t run into before that I found at The Kinky Dictionary.
“BOTTOM DROP: Colloquial A sudden, abrupt feeling of depression, unhappiness, or similar negative emotion in a submissive which may occasionally occur immediately after a period of BDSM activity. May include feelings of shame or guilt, especially if the submissive has traditional ideas about relationship or socially appropriate behavior; after a period of intense pain play, bottom drop may be related to the reduction of levels of endorphins in the brain as well.”
I’m not sure that I get totally depressed but I do know that I get troubled. Certainly there is a part of me that is in conflict with the submissive within. It could be guilt or shame at going against what *I* think and act like in the vanilla world. In the vanilla world, what I call my External World, I embrace equality of the sexes and all that goes with it, with all my heart.
Yet…in my Inner World, in this thing that we do, the power shift drives Equality right out the door. In fact, as I recently mused to another, Equality kills the dynamic and the magic is gone. Just like that.
So, those are my current pseudo-intelligent conclusions. I do not exactly know what to do with those conclusions yet — but there they are.
Which leaves me…where?
Examining my earlier post, taking the nudge from Him to stop stagnating, I need to take responsiblity for my distance — even if I might long for Him to ride in storming my walls to rescue me from myself. Personal responsiblity is a big deal with me. Plus, the cycle is exhausting, you know.
Does any of what I’ve touched on resound with you? Has “Bottom Drop” happened to you, the dissonance going from two worlds (vanilla and not) with differing values and rules? How do you find ways to *safely* be lead/topped/dominated — when you aren’t in that headspace and you simply can’t get there?
———-
Keywords: spanking, bottom, kinky, subdrop
Icon: With my thanks from Obsessive Icons.
JUST NOW
.
where are you
where is the straight of roses
where is the path through the fire
where is the peak that forgets its oath
where is the pear
whose body shuts like a clam
where is the pre-doomsday carnival
where is the flag’s victorious star
where is the dense fog’s centre
where are you
where are we
- Bei Dao “Old Snow, The Letter”
How do I begin to blog when everything seems half-hearted just now? I want someone, anyone to relate to where I find myself right now. The New Year is here, it is supposed to be a time of new beginnings, new resolutions from within, reconnections and psychologically kick-starting from a clean place. But it isn’t, just now. I have been dishonest with myself and those around me, trying to keep the falseness going, sequestering in silence as I tend to do. Sharing…I don’t share. At times, when it isn’t personally costing me anything, I am generous and contributing, effusively brimming over with happy energy and dispensing the good parts of me. When it becomes dangerous, treacherous to reach out, I become mute. I am mute right now, silenced for the moment, behind walls that are seemingly so paper thin, yet such impentratable armor.
“I am distant from you…do you realize that? I giggle nervously and shift in my seat, all the while, hoping that you will find some way to reach me and pull me back out… I don’t want to change into the familiar plaid skirt and strappy heels. I don’t feel girly…I want to keep my vest on. It’s cold… I am cold… I don’t want the intimacy, Professor…I can’t seem to come back from where ever it is that I am.” – Naughty One, “I Am Me Again”
I’ve halfheartedly started to blog, surface blogging. Feeling the pressure to blog, I am conscious that I am only minimally participating in the kinky community, struggling to keep channels open and trying not to revert to my habit of shouldering things too large to break down. I wearily know that too that I have avoided my sanctuary, my blog. It sits, yawning, blank canvas, accusing me of desertion and wearing on my conscience that I’ve not been honest. Liar, Liar, pants on fire…
Perhaps it is knowing that people are reading — Ah! The thing I have been most afraid of has come home to roost, no matter that I want to deny it. Knowing people are reading, I didn’t want my dispiritedness to show, just now. The New Year should be about happy things — this is “whatever will the neighbors think” sort of thinking; how fruitless that is! Conscious that people are reading, I’ve been attempting to write through my distant heart, my lackluster self trying to match the positive energy found elsewhere, envying them for it. Attempting to write fake-happy blogs, I’m dismayed to realize that I’ve caved on my own ideals, my own promise to keep truth whole and sentient, even at the cost of personal comfort. There are more ways to be compromised.
Self-censorship is the most creeping of creatures, slow to be noticed and hardest to shed. Enough of it.
For, if I have nothing else, I have to live with my thoughts, sit with my inner voice jeering at me for patent falseness, for cowardice. I have let opinions matter, influences resound. This place is sometimes so unforgiving — when did that happen? When did I create that reality? There are no consequences to silence; I should have the choice to be silent. But smothering in silence is false and sins of omission are the cousins to lies. Damn ideals, they make me surly. Just now.
Reading Naughty One’s words, I feel a tiny moment of relief, a plausible excuse. See, I haven’t run away. I haven’t tested fences. I haven’t been a bad girl. I’ve not done anything that can possibly be construed as a spankable offense. In fact, the thought of spanking just now makes the bile rise, my brain rejecting that thing, that other headspace. Situationally submissive….yeah, welcome to it, welcome to the downside of it. Pick and choose the wrong times to reject it and Siberia is reachable. Distance can be more than merely physical and I’m in it, wandering aimlessly, too disinterested in finding the map back.
Nihilism is complete and the social contract between us is fractured. All deals are off and that is my right, isn’t it? I am vicious in exercising my right of choice and liberty. I’ve taken control back, just now. I want it. I need it, even if it doesn’t really accomplish anything good. This is not rebellion, even if it looks and sounds like it. This isn’t “topping from bottom” as they say — please don’t make me laugh with trite kinky rhetoric, just now. Don’t put me into pigeonholes of thinking or existing, just now. As interwoven the threads of the kink are within my life, my life is bigger than the kink. Just now.
Honestly, I know how I got myelf here, my self-imposed (although not by conscious doing) exile from Him and all things kinky. Putting on the armor to get through the long holidays was too easy this year. The re-emergence of old things long buried have reared their horrible heads making personal demands and the pressure to put a good face on things to get through the festivities are telling on me now — I never am a good liar, certainly not to myself. Compounding that was the death in the family — I mourn her still; we all do. Rituals and traditions will anchor through horrible times and things become even again, I know this. So it was. Now the families out of mind, the holiday pressure off, the demands met, I exhale. So where is the next cleansing breath? The armor won’t come off and I’m marching forward in it, doing good girl things.
I hadn’t seen Him since before the holidays — out of circumstance and, if I’m completely honest, out of conscious choice. He is too keenly tuned into me and I can’t fake things. He is careful, puzzled and wounded too. I should feel guilty and if I were a less selfish creature, I would be engulfed in obligation borne of guilt. Distance punishes Him and He is frustrated at my dispiritedness. He doesn’t deserve my half-heartedness. Weeks apart, He wants answers — and I have none to give. Avoidance is more polite than rejection, just now. That is more than mere words; if pushed, I would resort to rejection if necessary. The push me and pull you is a dangerous game to play, just now. If He pulls wrongly, I’ll push Him out. I’ll undo everything to keep control. Just now.
Reconnection is necessary. Somewhere in the silence where common sense still rules, I know that. The distance is a false reality, but it seems real as reality is to me. My thinking path is stuck in this groove and isn’t able to switch out of it. It isn’t lack of discipline — again, don’t make me jeer at trite limits — or a lack of appreciating Him. Empty submission is mindless action and I won’t do it, not even the pretense of it. He’d know anyhow and it would be a lie. Hours of disinterested, aloof talking the other night and I’m still in Siberia. Funny, now out of the kink, I was so aware that we were totally equal and that is a sure death knell to any kinky stimuli. Hate to admit it, but pure Equality in this dynamic makes things stagnant, gray and kills the synergy. Now I know.
There is no tingle, no verve. I could weep because….there is no arousal. I wanted to feel arousal last night; it makes me worry which adds to the pressure. Thinking on a darker edge, I wonder about consensual nonconsensuality, forced consensuality –would that break me out of my current headspace, force me to switch back to where I ideally should want to be? Why am I even thinking like this? Why is discipline and punishment easier to embrace than the primary issue of Control? It is possible to be disciplined and punished for shortcomings but still retain control. Consenting to be spanked has implications of agency, say yay or nay…unless I’m looking at it with skewed thinking, which is entirely possible. Just now.
“Innumerable changes of moods are yours,
and they are uncontrolled by you.
If you knew their origin,
you would be able to dominate them.
If you cannot localize your own changes,
how can you localize that which formed you?”- Rumi, “Fihi Ma Fihi”
Keywords: spanking, consensuality, kinky, control
Icon: Icon_Goddess found here.
WANT
.
having to do with want
desirous
covetous
acquisitive
grabby
grasping
greedy
itchy
prehensile
esurient
gluttonous
rapacious
ravenous
voracious
hoggish
lickerish
piggish
swinish
avid
eager
keen
envious
jealous
grudging
selfish
demanding
expectant
impatient
unrestrained
intemperate
clutching
ambition
fear
unsated
insatiable
hungry
edacious
starving
craved
desiderate
yearning
longing
lust
urge
urgency
passion
pining
thirsting
concupiscence
cupidity
eros
wide-eyed
empty
emptiness
lacking
void
————–
Keywords: want, desire, sensuous
Image: Sensuous on Flickr
I want to wish everyone the loveliest of Holidays (whatever you celebrate, Christmas, Chanukah, Solstice, etc.) and all the warmth, joy and love that the Season holds. I don’t know if I’ll get a chance to blog until next year, so
“HAPPY HOLIDAYS!”
—————————————–
“So the shortest day came, and the year died,
And everywhere down the centuries of the snow-white world
Came people singing, dancing,
To drive the dark away.
They lighted candles in the winter trees;
They hung their homes with evergreen;
They burned beseeching fires all night long
To keep the year alive,
And when the new year’s sunshine blazed awake
They shouted, reveling.
Through all the frosty ages you can hear them
Echoing behind us – Listen!
All the long echoes sing the same delight,
This shortest day,
As promise wakens in the sleeping land:
They carol, fest, give thanks,
And dearly love their friends,
And hope for peace.
And so do we, here, now,
This year and every year.
Welcome Yule!!”
- Susan Cooper, “The Shortest Day” ———- Card found here.
REMEMBER
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“I know a girl
She puts the color inside of my world
but she’s just like a maze
Where all of the walls all continually changeAnd I’ve done all I can
To stand on her steps with my heart in my hands
Now I’m starting to see
Maybe it’s got nothing to do with meFathers, be good to your daughters
Daughters will love like you do
Girls become lovers who turn into mothers
So mothers, be good to your daughters tooOoh, you see that skin?
It’s the same she’s been standing in
Since the day she saw him walking away
Now she’s left
cleaning up the mess he made
So fathers, be good to your daughters
Daughters will love like you do
Girls become lovers who turn into mothers
So mothers, be good to your daughters too
Boys, you can break
You find out how much they can take
Boys will be strong
And boys soldier on
But boys would be gone without warmth from
A woman’s good, good heart
On behalf of every man
looking out for every girl
You are the god and the weight of her world
So fathers, be good to your daughters
Daughters will love like you do
Girls become lovers who turn into mothers
So mothers be good to your daughters, too”
- John Mayer, “Daughters” (Album: Heavier Things)
I remember you, today. I pause to think about you, even if I don’t want to, like little shards of jagged edged glass piercing into me. Today is your birthday and I am, still, a conscious daughter, tied to you through more than mere DNA. I wish I wasn’t. This day always comes, bitterly, painfully, annually, during the Holidays, serving to divorce me from the full joy of the Season. It is an auspicious day for an untidy connection and I don’t find myself celebrating the day; I am in strange mourning.
There are too many losses, too little time and really, too little interest, to create bridges back; some things you can’t ever get back. Foundations destroyed can only be rebuilt on level ground; here, there is only rubble, steep treacherous hills, threatening valleys and gaping divides. You should have been the first love of my life, the source of all good things, the weight of MY world. I won’t be gracefully numb. Even after all this time, it is still too complicated but worth grieving for…and so I do. You made me run, away from your flying fists, your frighteningly cold fury, a tyrant’s cruelties that come out during war time. I ran to seek sanctuary.
I am running, still.
I still heard it in your voice the other day, still the same cagey quality, triumphant in these late days and I anguished because I can still recognize it for what it is. I know with keen clarity that I am too like you at times; time itself is a slippery slope. I learned that the best power games are in the subtle psychological nuances.
No, You don’t love me; I’ll never believe it.
It wasn’t Love that destroyed my childworld, or robbed my body’s integrity to have boundaries, sacred and personal territory. Maybe that is why today, Love is still the flattest word at times, a stale, distant theory and I can never quite believe that it has anything to do with me.
Hearing that you are different now, seeing evidence of it does not comfort me. Rather than reassuring me that things can change, it is but a hollow realization, observed from a safe, safe distance, devoid of thoughts. If anything, it is muted, buried, helpless rage within, a desolation so great that it threatens to swallow me whole. It is confirmation that I was not lovable — perhaps I’m still not. Lucky for them, those other little girls, they got the father I should have in their grandfather. I muse at the Fates and their logic.
You know, it goes against every ethic I have, to have one set of rules for everyone and then another set of rules for you, proving that you can force me from my conscience. But it doesn’t matter anyhow since personal ethic is but something only half-hearted that I can claim, rationally, to allow myself to hide a past of anguished child memories in adult grief. Law fails me now, which is yet another defeat that registers keenly and threatens to release the dam of my grief wide open. Cautious admissions are too late; another year has passed.
I remember you, today.
———-
Happy Holidays to you, dear Friends & Readers!
It is has been hectic here lately, a time of much scrambling to get things done — I think I lost a week. This happens to me every December and this year seems even worse. Winter is most definitely here, as I run around freezing, from store to store like some madwoman, cursing crass commercialism and my fellow humankind over the lack of available parking.
I’m panicked as I’ve yet to get my cards out, write the requisite Yearly Newsletter, gather gifts and ship them out on this week, finish up some projects…where did that extra week go?! As God(dess) is my witness, I am never doing handmade projects for holiday gifts again — what was I smoking this year to have come up with that idiotic idea?
Anyhow, I know that the holidays are always an auspicious time for me, as well as a few others….and my sweetest thoughts go out to you. Like any other blog-addict, I’m chomping at the bit to sit and be alone with my thoughts, blogging happily into the great blogosphere and feeling rather petulant that I can’t but gamely dash about to the stray blog here and there leaving my scattered thoughts…
Bear with me, this time of madness shall soon pass!
In the meanwhile, cherish yourselves a little this Season — we all deserve it!
———-
Image unknown origin, sent to me via email.
“And we turn away from the flowers of disappointment
Not letting their fragrance reach far enough
Yet it is that fragrance that reminds us
Of a deeper land, where entrapping dreams must shatter
A land where What Really Matters cannot help but matter
Disappointment, unrejected, embraces me
Its touch is cool, softly crystalline, sweetly sobering
Is it what I want?
That’s the wrong question.
Disappointment’s gift is rooted not in questions
But in something closer to home than answers…”
- Robert Augustus Masters “The Flowers of Disappointment“
“You are upset with me.” I say this neutrally, trying to keep things still.
“I was upset with you. I am not now.” He states in a quiet, calm tone…which sets my nerves on edge.
“So, is that how it works? Just go away for a couple days and then things are fine?” I say this in a forced, jovial, too bright tone.
“No. things are not fine. I am just not upset with you….I am disappointed in you.”
Hearing you speak in a such a neutral, calm manner makes it worse. I almost wish you’d rant and rave. It throws me that cues long learned in my childhood aren’t present, but I am always still like a cat on a hot tin roof, hypervigilant and poised to flee.
Landmines are easy to trigger, with this kink.
Five words, innocuously spoken, quietly, without rancor or anger. Five simple words of seemingly little consequence that can manage to send my world plummeting south, falling, falling, like Alice down that rabbit hole, into random chaos. Chaos is hell, for me.
Sighs. Five simple words that affect me like nothing else.
“I. Am. Disappointed. In. You.”
Oh if only I was a more externally demonstrative soul — I’d kick some walls! I want to give into my internal urges to throw stones, large ones, through my windows. Glass shattering would be a satisfyingly appropriate illustration of my world shattering into jagged, splintered fragments. No one can put Humpty Dumpty back together again sort of fragmented.
As I am wont to do in my dark moods and moments, in my rush to deflect, I take it all apart, trying to put it back together so it puts me in a better light, but it is a reflexive thing done more out of desperation. I can feel myself tossing about. Like a flailing fish out of water, I flail about, trying out different escape hatches, trying to deny the soundness of truth, wanting to catch my breath before I go headlong into a certain fate that I am too rebellious to claim just now. I can’t meet His eyes as I’m once again inwardly cursing the Gift and Curse that is my mouth that has led me here. I find myself wondering for the umpteenth time why I can’t ever just shut the hell up when I’m ahead, what inner masochist living inside me is always gleefully consigning my external bottom to a sure spanking.
Damn that bitch.
If it is merely the physical pain of enduring a spanking, that is one thing, because I do like the stimuli of play spankings. Play spankings are what puts the twinkle in my eyes, a quick smile on my face, easy laughter bubbling up, almost breathlessly out of me. I can fairly dance on the way to get the toys, happily twirling in the ether of sure and anticipated bliss. Pleasure spankings are the great equalizing fun in our dynamic, both of us familiar with the roles. Inequal but equal, strange logic that makes sense for those that understand spanking’s headspaces.
In play spankings, control is still very much mine in one sense, as I meet Him on the playing field, ready to play, needing to play, wanting to play. Play spankings are the sweetest sessions, concluded with a pleasure-soaked me, writhing and screaming out in arching, orgiastic ecstasy with throaty, earthy and raw screams…or cooing, sweet, tiny little bird noises, as I delight in the tingling, spreading sensations….and back to groaning and grinding out my needful wants, all under His watchful eye and direction.
Even the physical pain of punishment spanking is just temporary, fleeting, even if it is extremely painful, stingingly hellish and I’m trying like hell to just get through the next round of spanks, gasping for relief, lurching and bucking, trying to get away from the punishing blows.
No, it isn’t the physical discomfort that has me close to breaking now, eyes dry and hot, overly bright, betraying my urge to just burst into tears.
No, it isn’t that.
“But if you are not upset with me, then things are fine, right?” I gamely probe around the edges of things, feeling that sickly, funny twist in my stomach.
“No. If things were fine, you wouldn’t be so pensive now. And why do you suppose that is?” He smoothly counters, cutting through my attempts.
“I’m sorry. I don’t know why I did what I did. I’m floating around in chaos.” I offer, feeling a bit wretched.
“Yes, I know.”
I often wonder if you know that saving face is always difficult in this dynamic; either way, I thank goodness you do understand. For that…what words? There is never dignity in being less, being called on the carpet for trangressions, being soundly spanked until the dam breaks — yet, you manage to always let me hold onto that, face. It is a gesture that goes beyond words, beyond this culture, and touches me deeply. The notion of humiliation doesn’t begin to cover the ground that the concept of saving face is rooted in. A child of immigrants, I am always in between worlds, never truly comfortable in either. Odd that I claim certain cultural markers, triggers without knowing the fullness of the concept or the value that created it.
“So…does that change anything?”
Attempt number two. Futile, stupid, transparent…
“No. Why should it?” Calmly asked, it is hard to refute or deny the logic.
“Because…It has been a hard two days going through this.” Pity ploys never work. Why do I bother?
“Yes, I know.”
“There isn’t a lot that can be added to it.” (I actually said that, how stupid am I?)
“Yes there is. You may as well get the brush out. You know we’re going to talk about this.”
There is that tone of absolute conclusion, decided judge and jury. There will be no reduced sentence, no room for an appeal.
Silence. Yawning, teeming with too many things, loaded silence…broken by my audible sigh.
“If you let me explain…It got all away so fast. I got frustrated ….”
Reflexive posturing, this. He listens, mainly out of politeness, both of us hearing the futility of excuses.
“Never mind. I’m so tired of being scared. I have no point…I’m sorry. Please…I don’t want this…”
But…that is a lie. I do want it. Rather, I need it. It is so hard to explain, this need to be cleansed.
When I came *out* so to speak, I was eager to claim just the edges of the mainstream when it came to spanking. I was happy to flirt with the fantasy of ‘naughty schoolgirl’ roleplays, the light stuff of cool kink. The concept of the naughty schoolgirl or a flirty sort of spanking is legend by now, coyly referenced in mainstream shows (Will & Grace, Joey, Friends, Saturday Night Live, etc.). I wanted also to play in the world of controlled submissions, D/s (Dominance and submission). I was quite satisfied openly claiming sexual needs that emphasized the kink’s fun and sexually satiating side.
Punishment is….something else entirely.
While exploring this kink further, it was hard for me to admit that I needed something more than mere kinky fun play. I’m not really altogether sure why that is so hard to admit. Really, spanking, by its very nature is a direct hearkening back to childhood punishments. I mean, unless you live in certain countries today, corporal punishment is reserved as consequences and certainly not for adults. God knows I hated being hit as a child — so why the hell didn’t I grow out of my need for corporal punishment, spankings? I know that I dwelt too long in trying to figure out the origins, the etiology of my spanking kink. Silly me, trying to apply some measured science, some safe statistic to my subconscious needs that have been with me all my life. Simply, what lies underneath dictates what I need today.
For myself, spanking is always teeming with the stuff of landmines, psychological, where the past and the present intermingle and the demarcation is sort of blurred by the psyche’s needs. I’ve mused if perhaps exposure to overzealous religiosity when I was younger could have had some impact, or if one’s past history combined with hard wiring could cause these huge voids in me. I’ve had pseudo-intelligent thoughts of random connections, sociological and psychological, but none of the conclusions capture the wholeness of my needs, nor the changing aspects of so many things that spanking addresses.
It is why labels in the kink have been difficult to wear — and I’ve given up.
Perhaps it is because punishment is beautiful in its simplicity. It restores order in my head, my world. There is something beautifully simple about discipline, achieving discipline and becoming disciplined over the areas or parts of me that I think can be better. When that discipline fails, that there is a direct negative consequence, a swift and sure punishment that awaits me verifies that randomness can be banished. Consistency banishes the chaos, even momentarily and that is bliss for my overloaded mind, my pressured self and my perfectionistic nature. Punishment also grabs my attention, the painful sessions leave their mark physically and emotionally: the physic works. It gives me permission to let things go. The beautiful cycle of conscious trangression resulting in punishment, concluding in forgiveness is the most simple, basic consistent thing that I can bank on. Events, people and things that expose the world for its randomness, are in some way, frighteningly chaotic for me. I deal, because I am an adult…and we are all expected to “just deal with it”.
Spankings that are meant as punishment reduce — not diminish — me. It outlines boundaries, coloring the edges so that I know what things to consciously care about, otherwise I’d overwhelm and drown myself in too many details. I’d be endlessly carrying random guilt with me for things that are, well, stupid and destructive to myself, because I’ve been conditioned by other earlier influences that have long robbed and raped the integrity of my own right to claim boundaries.
Sometimes, punishment spankings give me an outlet, captured in tiny fragments of time, to have what was lost in childhood, or never had to begin with. It is those times that I can see the attraction that some might have towards ageplay — but I don’t fit it. I’m not a little girl, and He isn’t a Daddy….in that way. But, as I’ve blogged before, in some undefinable and loving way, it does touch upon those needs (god I still can’t even type “Daddy” without flinching, what does that say about me?) but it also affirms things in me that are very adult, and not little girl based at all.
Punishment spankings channel the girl-woman to emerge, needing the accountability and consistency of a girl and all the after-effects of a woman responding to that careful care, feeling my emotional self and my sexual core awaken. I am never more feminine, girlish, soft and wanton then after punishment. It is then that I am clear, no longer crippled by half-apologies or disclaimers. I am set free and I am created anew. It is affirming, this.
So, it concludes, as it always does, all the fear and dread being replaced by a sure, solid, punishing spanking. I will cry, and I dread that loss of control more than anyone knows. Because I am a lover of leather, wood is the choice that has been deemed appropriate to be used for punishment. There is fear and apprehension when I think of wood: hairbrushes, bathbrushes, wooden spoons, paddles, switches and canes. That twinge of respect is born out of a past of wincing memories — and it is an effective tool.
Some might say that punishment spanking for those who love spanking isn’t really a punishment — I disagree. It is all in the context of headspace, implement and severity of the spanking that makes one spanking fun and the other a different sort of thing that fills my world with searing, hot, cleansing pain.
“I. Am. Disappointed. In. You.”
Those five words said in that combination are the hardest five words to hear. I would do almost anything to not have that said to me, by the one that I look to for discipline and punishment. There are so few rules, but higher concepts of behavior, thought and action that are asked of me. I don’t like to disappoint — a fact that is well utilized by Him. If things were easy, I’d lose interest, so having high standards is a good thing.
You know, I can talk about His ethics or his care of me — but how would I find the words to do that justice without waxing maudlin? I couldn’t. Suffice it to say, He is fair, patient, ethical and loving in a way that defies definition….even while punishing me.
“Ok.. Enough delays. Go get the brush. I will be with you in five minutes. Be ready.”
Five minutes.
The clock is my necessary enemy….I must fly…
———-
Keywords: spanking, punishment
Image found on Flickr.
BRISTLES
.
Hairbrushes. I can never walk past them at any department store without a heightened sense of tension building — the fluttering tickle in my stomach, my coloring rising and my breath quickening. There is something about finding and openly engaging in the love of the edge in public, in a seemingly and outwardly *normal* facade, environment and situation that tells tales on me.
A couple nights ago, I was at Whole Foods Market near me. The lovely philosophy of organic produce, sustainable agriculture, community citizenship aside, they have these natural wooden hairbrushes that are the “classic” timeless hairbrushes of yesteryear. As I’m meandering through the store, I happen to walk into the bodycare section — and like a beacon calling out to me, I espied these gorgeous wooden hairbrushes in both oval and rectangular shapes.
I swear, I got tunnel vision.
Had the store cameras closed in on me they’d seen my dilated, dazed eyeballs, and a musing smile playing about my can’t-stop-grinning face….a tiny spankified moment, while the earth stopped rotating on its axis. Heart stealthily thumping, I cast my eyes about furtively, while discreetly trying to judge the nice heft of the lovely piece. I casually pretended to examine the bristles while making slight swipes at the air, vacuously looking around me, noting the comfy handle, how it fit in my palm, holding it. Only $20 for this lovely find — who cares that it had some natural bristles and was all handmade? I couldn’t be bothered with trite details.
My glazed eyed and greedy brain clearly said “MUST. HAVE. THIS.”
My food list forgotten (I’ll forego food for spanking. Hell, I’ll forego sex for spanking…) and tossed to the winds, I had to have these hairbrushes. As I’m juggling and concentrating on the spanko-quality of my soon to be new toys, I look up to find my husband, Argos, standing a few feet away from me, openly grinning from ear to ear, watching me indulge in my spanko-gluttony. Blushing only slightly, I casually tossed the brushes into his basket amidst his guffaws. Feeling very perky and self-satisfied, I floated through the rest of the store. I can’t remember if we got all the stuff we were supposed to get — but who cares, really? In the nightly prowl of fooding, our hunting and gathering….I scored.
Getting home and putting the odd items away, making idle chit chat, the hairbrushes now sitting deliciously on the island in the kitchen, I reached out to undo the tags on it. As my husband was in vicinity, eyes twinkling, I jokingly gave him one and asked him to give me a practice whack, greedily wanting to feel the pop and sting. Good humored as always, he was willing to oblige my spanko wierdies (as he calls it). Grinning widely, I leaned over the counter, jutting an auspicious bottom out….and…
*Thwimpshh!* came the most peculiarly dull and thwumpiest sound.
I blinked, puzzled.
“Er….that didn’t work. Try it again?”
Again, that wierd *thwumpy* sound and a sensation that I can’t adequately describe, not that *pop* sound of wood bouncing off bottom, or the requisite surface sting.
WTF?!
In consternation, I turn around and hastily take the brush out of my husband’s hand. I anxiously examined this hairbrush, this fine specimen, not quite understanding what was wrong — could I have bought a defective hairbrush?!
Slowly, with disappointed puzzlement, I handed it over again to my husband and asked him to try whacking me ONE more time. I turned over to peer at him as his arm was coming down….and then noticed as he flipped the bristle part down, bringing the bristled part across my bottom.
*Thwumpff!*
I turned around, mouth gaping, bursting into a peal of laughter.
“You…you…are using the wrong side of the hairbrush…” I gasped out.
The puzzled look on my husband’s face was priceless…as the light of clarity dawned across his concerned and sweet face.
“Er….you mean, you use the FLAT side of the hairbrush?! Ohhhhh, that makes sense! Man, I was wondering how you spankos could enjoy the bristles!”
He nodded, sheepishly grinning.
The man isn’t a spanko. He never will be. Ever.
More importantly? He doesn’t want to be one — and I don’t want him to be one. At all.
Disclaimer: The issue of converting vanilla partners is an important and complex issue for a lot of people — and by NO means am I suggesting that it should it not be attempted if that is what both people want and desire.
With that said, subjectively speaking, this hairbrush example (amongst a million others) just further hit home to me: I am lucky. I have a loving, adoring, wonderful husband. Argos. My best friend. Vanilla. Permanently Vanilla. Happy vanilla.
Never-want-to-be-converted-but-I’m-glad-you-enjoy-spanking-honey-vanilla.This beloved man, who has supported me in my *coming out*, who was the first to go to the bookstore and come home with “When Someone You Love Is Kinky” by Dossie Eaton, who has watched more spanking movies, read so many articles, asked more questions in support of my spanking interest, has NO interest in sharing what I like.And, I like it that way, just fine.When I first got enough nerve to confess that I was into spanking, it was on our 7th anniversary in wine country in Northern California. One heady and wine-soaked day, coming back to San Francisco, I got the guts and the happy sense to just tell him what I liked. The man had the openmindedness to go with me to “Good Vibrations” and as well as explore this new found *kink* of mine. He tried, gamely, often, to convert into spanking.
Why?
Oh, I suspect, it was out of the same reason we do a million things for each other: L-O-V-E.
Funny, so many four-letter words out there for us to use when talking about being into the kink, and the one word that was as old as time, is a good a word to use for all the right reasons should ever be: Love.
Simple. We love one another, tremendously and always will. So, out of that sense of care and duty and love and committment and wanting each other to be as happy AND good to one another as we can be in this one lifetime that we are guaranteed….he valiantly tried.
WE tried.
I can still remember the look of perplexed bemusement on Argos’ face while I bristled when one blighted Dominant dared to try to make him feel inadequate, for not spanking me. I wanted to strangle that dolt for daring to suggest that Argos must somehow be less then a “real man” for not wanting to spank me, trying to make him feel guilty for not being able to give me what I needed. I can still remember the quiet, firm and intelligent way Argos put him in his place — with polite dignity, rationality, good humor and confidence.
I remember too, the reluctant look of revulsion on Argos’ face when we tried to get him to whack me, as he was bristling at the horrible chore. He couldn’t escape the room fast enough, disturbed and needing to be left alone to recover his reeling sensibilities at having to *hit* me. To this day, he can’t spank me, let alone do the “other stuff”, like the lectures, the calling to account, the best he can do is the occasional playful tap. He truly bristles at the idea of roleplaying being a Spanker, let alone being dominant to my submissive.
It is like comparing apples to zebras. There is just no relational sense to it.
Period.
Admittedly, it wasn’t easy, coming to terms with something that was this huge — that could act as a barrier to everything good we worked for: our marriage, our way of life, our friendship, our conscious care for one another. It is hard to explain to put into context, what Western society and culture put on us all, when we couldn’t conform.
Some of the hardest panicky questions:
What if we can’t come to terms with this, is it over? Is our marriage over, just like that?
If it isn’t over, what if the farce of trying to convert or deny eventually becomes more of a burden than the truth?
Does this mean I am less — we are less?
Does the wholeness of a person, a relationship, a marriage…rise and fall on if one partner can strike the other…when conventional society frowns on that to begin with, consensuality be damned?
No. Just that. No.
In delving into the kink, from my own subjective experience, there have been a lot of *coming outs* and a lot of coming to terms…such as finding out how strong the bonds really are, how strong our committment to the other has been, and still remains that way. Love, like anything else in life, is multidimensional. Finding out the full measure of ourselves while daring to ask and push the bar higher for ourselves, as a couple, as individuals, as human beings has been life-changing and hardwon.
To ask ourselves to find alternatives, it was necessary in searching out our humanity to make concessions, necessary ones, seeking compromises that were NEVER written into our marriage vows. It had to be in neutral ground, not blame or guilt, that acceptance and careful support had to be planted. Ultimately, it was finding out that a marriage, if strong, decent, good and lasting enough….can take a lot more then you think it can or would.
Maybe, it always should.
For myself, it took demystifying what marriage represented: A social contract? A religious ritual? A tax break?
Once you have what is arguably one of the best relationships around, yet the incomprehensible grief of facing an end to it just because I was hard-wired or conditioned to be something that couldn’t be helped, you begin to question the order of the universe. I know that I wound up letting go a lot of the romanticized bullshit. Hollywood never made these kinds of movies; Hallmark is short in these sorts of cards. So, I started to look for pragmatic logic, sense and my inner ethics. I looked for human forgiveness. I had to find and re-define “love” to stretch and fit and envelope even this hard thing.
More than anything, harder then trying to bullshit each other about “converting” Argos or persuading ME to drop the kink (as if this was a real choice that I could deny or put away without causing real damage to myself and then, ultimately, us), was learning to let go of our egos. Truthfully, it involves putting ego aside for the other, and understanding that whatever needs can’t be met, might be allowed for, to be met by another…with full knowledge, support, approval and encouragement by both. But, even with full support and effort, it was still difficult, complicated. It still is.
Some of the questions that we faced involved questions like:
Why should a vanilla man have to be forced into converting anyhow — was he not perfectly fine the way he was?
Why would I force someone to do something that they didn’t want to do — just because we were married?
What right did I have to force this on him, as a condition to be happy?
What right did HE have to force me to give up a need as deep as my own self-identity, as a condition to be happy?
Who the hell determines what is considered compromise and what is considered being held hostage?
As I said, I’m lucky. But then again, I firmly believe that people can create their own luck. Most good things are never by accident, a stroke of magical good fortune. You create it, nurture it, search for it and work at it. Both of us…perhaps…are a bit alternative in our thinking. Perhaps, because we are not overly zealous in religiosity for any sort of dogma or groupthink and were willing to understand that perhaps NOT all needs can be always met by ONE person. We weren’t so polarized in our thinking: it didn’t have to be all or nothing. We both bristled at having to have such impossibly limited options, discounting what we had built over the years.
You know, there are billions of people walking this earth — it isn’t the unlikeliest of prospects to think that maybe the person you adore isn’t going to be able to be The Everything you need them to be.
Safe, Sane, Consensual.
More than anything, those were the concerns. Safety. Sanity. Consensuality. NOT with many partners, but maybe one. One more to join our world, with full knowledge, consent and relief on Argos’ part and mine. I found Another to meet the spanking core needs that encompass discipline, authority, dominance…all the things that no vanilla knows or maybe doesn’t even want to know.
Anyhow, long story short, today, Argos dwells, happily, in a world that hairbrushes are used to brush my beautiful hair, bristles side down. Simultaneously, I thrive in a world where hairbrushes blister my bottom — bristles side up. I’m ok with that arrangement, happy and light.
Good enough.
You know, it really is a “happily ever after” of a different sort, reading from a different sort of fairy tale altogether.
———-
“I’m beginning to notice a pattern here: I get spanked, I make a post about it, and then nothing happens for a month. But only for a month. When those few weeks are over – well, what do you know, I’m in trouble again. Do you think I have a reserve of “goodness” that lasts only for a month?” - Haron, “Holy Paddle” The Punishment Book
“I dont know what has gotten into me, but just a week after that TPE, I have been froggy again. I’m thinkin that i’m just a glutton for punishment…” [sic] – Randi, “Feeling Froggy” Orrie’s O
Reading Haron’s blog at The Punishment Book, it made me grin. Then, reading Randi’s admission to feeling ‘froggy’ again made me chuckle at shared common plights, a connection of shared spanking universal themes.
Over the long Thanksgiving weekend, I’ve been happily sequestered in our inner world. Since the ‘homecoming’, I’ve been satiated and content to dwell in my fences. The world is righted and I am feeling light, riding the magnanimous swell that always hits me, post punishment.
Invariably, I wind up basking in the glow of things (no pun intended). It is as if I cannot get close enough to Him; the intensity of the emotional and physiological reconnection borders on the downright nauseating. The world is a rosy place and I am light and fey….for it is the rosy afterglow of being ‘taken in hand’ and cared for. It is the sweetness of utter safety. If I wasn’t so bloody cynical, I’d use Naughty_one’s favorite word: “swoony”.
Madness, I swear.
Anyhow, since the reckoning, I’ve been very good — whatever that really means. In my case, it means that I’ve been eager to please, trying to find a way to hold the magic in for a while longer. But, I can feel myself becoming bold again, daring to quip, make my usual ribald comments that are designed to sit right ON that fence without exactly going over, all the while impishly looking over my shoulder to see how far the elastic will take….before another reckoning needs to be, to snap me back. It is a cycle, and it puzzles me. It isn’t an urge to be deliberately naughty, cocky, push buttons. It isn’t out of some latent interest in bratting.
“So, are you being a good girl? Are you behaving?” He asks, half gentle jesting and half seriously guaging where my headspace is, checking in with me, knowing that I am needier, wanting more of Him.
In one of my quirkier moments, I opined that my goodness has a shelf life — for as long as it takes for the soreness to fade from whatever last spanking. As quirky and as flip as that sounds, it is true, isn’t it? Invariably, the itch to get affirmation of fences and control, to hold onto the feeling of being allowed to be submissively cared for, rises, bubbling and creeping within.
Of course, He isn’t helping, not one bit.
The query, “Are you being a good girl” is a trigger, an instant control button. I never know how to answer that anyhow — what IS good? Being good is confusing and complicated at times — especially since I want to be good, undefined as it is. So, being the trigger that it is, I get slightly defiant, trying to quip my way out of it, wanting to test how much I can get away with before He uses that tone. Masochistic me, I like to play with fire, seeing how many matches it takes and how much of the match I can hold before I get burnt. It is only a matter of time now.
Playing with matches never leads to anything good — or does it?
As I said: Madness….
Where are the lighters when I need them?
I remember being warned not to go there.
I tried to learn to think things through.
I really did try to go slow.
It made sense not to go near anything that would burn.
No one else is to blame,
I knew to stay away from the edge.I never saw the danger of your smile.
I certainly never dreamed that my heart
Would race so wildly out ahead.
I really did try to go slow.
Then I walked through a ring of fire,
To you.
Now I am standing on an edgeI know the danger,
I see the fire.
Dear god I want to fly.
I really did try to go slow.
I could very well be wrong.
I might get hurt,
I may be burned.Yet I can’t help myself.
I seem to have lost the will to resist.
As I walked through the fire I learned,
That sometimes it’s better to get singed.
Rather than to always be safe,
And going slow.
I have to try.
- Annie, “Through the Fire”
———-
Keywords: spanking, punishment, discipline, control
Images from: stock.xchng
Steeling myself, I halt for a second that drags on. My stomach muscles are taut, with a quickening of pulse and anxious indecision. I look desperately around, thinking, half resentful at needing what I do. Taking a decisive breath and cursing the Fates, cursing my need, ignoring the jeers in my head, I will myself forward, down the Hall of Reckoning, to the inevitable accounting. I feel silly and small. For my tempest in a teacup and all that running about in my own personal drama; I need to get my head examined. Truly.
It is a funny feeling, inside. It is a strange sort of defiance tinged with regret, petulance and mixed with weariness. More than anything, I want to come inside and shed the burden of chaos and be reset; I want the world outside to be made lighter and make sense. While I am confused and conflicted and still a bit unresolved about my time away, running away, it is always the dance that brings me back, for the chaos eventually gets too heavy and burdensome. It is the overarching need for release and reconnection and all the unmentionable needful things that always wins out. After all, it isn’t like I am an unwilling partner. However, there is always an inner struggle for things to be clarified, yet, never are.
Fences are, in the end, always what I seek out…no matter that I push and need to push against them. Admittedly, it is an almost weary walk now, because, as always, it is really the same fight, the same struggle to accept what I can’t. Maybe one day the light will go on, eliminating all the need for darkness; but for now, I can only sit in the half shadows. I know that the fences are my own needful boundaries, for it isn’t like I am being forced into participating in what I don’t want. So, the dichotomy inside and upstairs seems false, while I struggle with myself in accepting all the dimensions of the edge.
In the end, as it always goes, I know You are waiting for me to come in from the fog, from my willful wanderings and my denial-laden trips to the carnival. Self-consciously, I walk towards the inevitable, feeling partly glad at the constancy, while half-wretched at my failings and wondering if this time…the magic has worn out and You have too. There is always an odd dread and a strange comfort knowing that once I’m done running away, those fences, standards and needs will be answered…but each time, as earnestly as I try to be good, somehow it all goes so very oddly wrong. I can be selfishly unfair.
Pausing to steady my nerves, I knock on the door, always dreading that You might be there….or, worse, You might not.
“Come in” I hear from the other side, in relief.
Well, it is time to settle up then, isn’t it? Cocking my head up and feeling a sham bravado, I open the door and breezily saunter in refusing to meet Your eyes.
You are warm, welcoming, and in your own way, steady. I feel even more girlishly foolish as we make casual conversation, like nothing is unusual or out of place. All the casual nothings that mean everything hover in the air as I restlessly move around, getting reacquainted with the familiar environment. I sneak furtive glances at You, wondering when a good opening is….inwardly cursing You for your unfailing courtesies, manners and good humor. I am restless; it is unnerving how You can keep things so even, the soul of neutrality. I feel the first faint tinge of unsteady want rising in me.
The cat and mouse game is part of the dance — and oh, it is electric! This is part and parcel of the whole ritual — the heightened senses engaged in our formulaic dance. It is sweetly familiar, warm and beckoning. Feeling the tension, I want fully in now; we both know the smooth rhythym and cadence. If there is one thing I can say, it is that You never are dehumanizing, never judgmental. You never reject my seeking You out, even if You should at times. That knowledge is a humbling thing — a fact which brings out an immature defensiveness. Suddenly I am an awkward girl, fumbling to right myself.
“So. How have you really been then?”
You query neutrally while carefully watching me, endlessly patient. Your tone is playful and friendly, beguiling the cavernous divide that yawns before us. I instantly work a million saucy and flip remarks in my head — but in the end, the jeering voices of my conscience prevent me from carrying on the charade.
“I…don’t really know. Not so hot, I guess…It has been a time of confusion, tumult, chaos…I’m tired of running.”
With that confession, I am aware of the pull of trying to maintain a facade, trying to hold onto some semblance of equality before we go sliding off into the power dynamic….and it is hard not to feel small, vulnerable.
“I know…I’m sorry things are changing so fast. Not easy, is it?”
Silence.
It will never cease to amaze me, all the dimensions of the spanking dynamic — and of all the roles You play and provide for me.
Maybe it has always been this rational part of You that I seek out — indeed, the steadiest part of You that is a harbor. Suddenly, all my confusions come rising up to the surface and I am all half sentences and rambling excuses. I feel the pull, the insistent pull that is our dynamic, and the world outside now is shut out.
Feeling You watching me, I am aware of the ridiculousness of my position; I have forgotten my point. Pausing, I realize that I do to You all the things that I am so afraid You will do to me — and yet never have. The ridiculous thing is that it is all stupid tests — testing You? Me? I see the hilarity of trying to justify my actions when they are indefensible. Good thing that You never require me to be humbled; in many ways, I see now that You stop me from drowning in my own guilt. Bleah.
Is this ageplay, age regression? I don’t know, really. It smacks of a “littleness” that speaks to vulnerability, my weaker aspects. I need to lean, to be righted, to be — let’s face it – soundly spanked. I want the load lifted, the world lightened and then calmed and coddled to rights. It is the core of the archetypal paternal dynamic, and I am little. With a breath, I am shyer, quieter, unsure of myself. Little. Yet, I am not a little girl; You are not a Daddy. But the patina, the essence of something unnamed, akin to it, it is here.
It can take an eon of time for us to get here, weeks sometimes, for me to come in from the world, to be here, with You, leading with core of my most vulnerable me. There is little of the outside world that holds much value here, or makes sense. In these moments, I am truly a girl-woman. I put on a brave and strong face for as long as the world lets me — but the dynamic is the dynamic. Unmistakable. I want to, in my angriest moments, accuse You of conditioning me to be like this, and I do….but it isn’t true. It is the dynamic that is and holds. It is, even at the worst moments, what lasts. It is a reckoning of more than my sins, it is more than mere punishment and repentance.
It is solace and the safest of harbors — and why I forget that, or try to deny myself that when I go back out into the world, I don’t know.
I never know.
So, with You now and firmly within my fences, I can let things go. The room is filled with shamefaced remembrances of words said, things accused, all done in trying to escape fences and boundaries. In denying myself weakness, I have chosen instead to run away. For kinky fun play, I am always ready — for the fun play never takes much from me to fulfill. Rather, it is this other stuff, the intimate and needful things that make me run, and swear the kink away.
This stuff is all broken bridges, exploded landmines and secret fears; my insides are like broken glass, all hard edges and splinters guarding the soft underbelly of my heart. Brokenly, I try so hard to explain, in anguished agitation, of conflicts that exist in my outer world now….and that I am drowning in demands. I hear my bullshit rationalizations pouring out of me, vainly trying to explain what cannot be explained or defended. I know that I am falling far short — but oh! I am valiantly trying to allow myself something to anchor to, a semblance of pride and rationality.
My face cannot be lost; You understand even that filter of broken cultural heritage.
You make it…easy. You are forgiving without lowering the standards, or weakening the fences. In the end, You do understand me and yet, I am needlessly talking too many words but saying not much of anything. I am always so anxious to be understood, even when I don’t understand myself. So, in the quiet, I hear my words trailing away, a strange nonsensical confession cum explanation.
Trust is hard. It is hard, to be honest, to ask for a spanking. All spankings that are deemed ‘punishment’ are so much harder to ask for; it demands an inner reckoning. This isn’t punishment — and yet it is a cleansing that I seek. I want the bridges back, the noise upstairs to quiet, the door re-opened. I ran away,and in doing so, lost the way back. Instead of asking You to come and get me, I tried to be my own brand of good girl. I did. Along the way, I forgot to ask for directions and doubted everything all over again. Again.
We seem to be constantly back at Square One.
“So. What do you think you deserve — what do you want?”
“I want to be spanked. I need to be spanked….”
I sigh.
All that effort, all those words, just to get these necessary ones out. I’d laugh if it wasn’t sort of pathetic. Fortunately, You are never interested in making me grovel about what it is I’ve done or think I’ve done. Punishment isn’t really punishment — is it? It is more of owning up to actions and behaviors, an external accounting that cleanses but doesn’t lessen me. I am grateful. I’ve said the words –and the cues are all back now, and I am on familiar ground. I exhale as I await the inevitable, feeling the tension tightening for I am eager to take up the role, needing this now.
“Go get me the paddle.”
You are always minimal with words — after all, what need, really? There is an agreed easiness now, a fluidity between us. I’ve spoken and asked; You are going to give me what I seek. Like a little girl, I am greedy now, the familiar ache building already between my legs — which I try to ignore. My pulse quickens and I am breathing the magical ether that is this…thing…that we do. It is so basic and direct, comfort and care, pain and pleasure, the good things. Admittedly, it is still difficult to retrieve the implement of reckoning…but I am hungry to do the right things now, eager to find a way back to You.
There is a quiet firmness about you that I thrill in, something about that calm manner that takes me in stride. This time, I don’t protest at the taking down of my pants, the lowering of panties. Rather, it is almost welcoming, even as I stand before You, legs slightly parted, goosebumps raised to the coolness of the air. Your words are imbued with light reproach but infused with care, re-establishing the fences. I can feel them sliding smoothly into place, the arena surrounding me and so safely corralled.
You guide me over Your lap. It is familiar, intimate and close even as I feel myself struggling to balance myself, blood rushing to my head. The first stroke is always jarring; the crisp surface sting forces me to draw a quick breath. While the sting evaporates, I am conscious of a familiar tingling between my legs. I gasp, inhaling sharply. Each successive blow is deliberate, hard, spaced with ample time for me to register the sharp stinging. The urgent stimuli takes me out of my head and forces me to concentrate on each stroke. Trying to hold things in, I am braced and stiff. Over and over, You raise Your arm to bring the paddle down, firmly, gathering me close when I kick and jerk about, with inevitable small mews wringing out of me. I am warmer now, that insistent burn sitting low…and a residual heat building in front of me. It is an odd thing, to be aroused in punishment, shaming and erotic and forbidden….and safe. Blow after blow now, I am crying out, more insistently. I know by the deliberate strokes and minimal words, it is just starting.
It takes concentration, through the panic, the fear of pain, the spreading of pain…for each blow tears down walls built too high, too fast. It is endless, seemingly going on for minutes. This isn’t punishment — not exactly. There is enough of punishment in it to recognize the significance, yet each stroke also brings a wave of painful pleasure. Slow, burning, stinging and building heat…and I am becoming slowly undone. The universe is so still now, the sound of the crisp smacks resound loudly mixed with my crying out and the world has been reduced to my bottom. I am bottomworthy now, too aware of a growing and needy heat, of a sting that is under the skin, that will stay and warm long after the spanking is over.
I am cleansed, now.
When You stop and put down the paddle, I exhale. It is a release of tension and relief courses through me — because it is over. I could weep now, and in this stabbing relief, I am truly regretful of my actions and babbling out half words. It is a poignant pleasure to feel Your familiar touch stroking my hot, stinging, punished bottom. As the ‘punishment’ concludes, I am pliable now, willing and wanting and needing….I am instantly breathing hard, moaning and gasping as pleasure courses through between my legs, stabbing pleasure; I try not to writhe.
You raise me up and I am blushing, transformed, aroused and awakened and wanting…I swallow thickly, dazed and trying to close my legs. You hold me, for now I can allow myself to be held and soothed and made whole.
It is, as it always is, magic…
————–
Keywords: spanking, punishment, discipline, control, spanking story
FENCES
.
“There is a saying that running away doesn’t solve anything. That is true, but even running somewhere is a journey. And all journeys have interesting things to see and experience along the way if you take the opportunity to stop and look rather than fly by at warp speed.Find a good place, something beautiful. There is something to be said about exploring beautiful places, its good for the soul. But in the end you will eventually have to come home. And the fences will still need mending. And when that time comes, the fence will be mended one board at a time.” - The Zen Master aka J
I’ve run away to the carnival. To be honest, I’ve been running away for some time now.
Funny how reality truly is determined by one’s sentient thoughts; it is possible to walk so far away from things that your head tunes into some other frequency. Yeah, that is a good way to put it. I’ve changed frequencies, putting this stuff on the back burner and devoting time to doing other things — waffling about mostly, shunning the edge and the need for the edge. Funny what thoughts idle, ruminating in the background in a time of turmoil and change. Things like….how far away it all seems now, light years away. Odd how taking a breath to step back realigns one’s priorities and opportunities. Mostly, I’m taking another long hard look at the contrasting imperatives that go along with voluntarily, consensually, wanting, longing, needing to be this…way.
The longer that I embrace nonkinky things, maybe keeping myself overly occupied in it, the more I wonder at the dynamic itself, wondering why I need or search it out. I feel ok. I feel a genuine quiet, a lightness of letting go, a putting away of old things. More importantly, I feel a lifting of a burden of wrestling with something for too long. Restless, maybe. Reading, with a small smile at times, of others’ play and disciplinary sessions, I recognize the inner yearning, a restlessness to play, to be…back in this world. But, strangely, I’m not in some grand rush to get back.
All because of fences.
Fences.
I think that for the past few years, I’ve wanted or needed them. I’ve wanted and searched out, demanded limits, fences.
Hard. Rigid. Unbending….Fences.
For someone to put a limit to my ego, my full-of-self-ness, to create a line in the sand for me to abide by — and amusingly, to find out of He could hold me to the standards. The struggle to keep to the fences, to color within the lines, to butt up against the fences has been long and tiresome. Mainly, I wanted to believe that someone, somewhere, had the ability to hold me to a standard. To think that I was internally stronger of will, wit and ability than…most anyone I came across…was a point of pride for me, a touchpoint of finesse on my part to tear them down. Conversely, it was the scariest and most chaotic feeling to know…that no one could. I mused about this, pondered long and hard — post-adolescent angst? Childish stubborn regression? Who can say, really. But in the seeking of fences, and finding them held for me, holding me to a standard, it anchored my world.
It brought about a lot of indecisiveness and uncertainty on my part. I found myself alternating between secret gratitude and shameful defensiveness at my needing them — it seemed woefully childish and weak, vulnerable making, to admit that I needed someone to create and hold boundary lines for me. I think, it still does, as it instantly calls upon all the politics of self-determinism and gender consciousness. To be a woman, in our enlightened times, and to want someone to “take her in hand“….instant ook factor. Cautionary tales, apologetic disclaimers, nullifying excuses, and the best yet, the power of semantics — as if the ability to couch the wincing truth in prettier, more politically correct language could make it what it wasn’t. I was more than that.
Better. Faster. Stronger…..or was I?
What was it about admitting that I could be or needed to be weak, vulnerable…to let that guard down…to let someone hold the dam back…to admit to mortality, less than perfection, to be…needy?
There is a humbleness of spirit and ego in admitting that you need a spanking. Seriously. There is no parade for us spankos. No grand coming out party. No birthday cake. No gold star by our name. Nothing. It is sort of lame, as alternative sexualities go, to be honest, if you think about it.
It is honestly, just being humiliatingly lectured, reduced to a littleness that borders on the ridiculous, taken down a peg….and made to feel juvenile again. No matter how old you are, it is an instant hearkening back to childhood, scary teachers, yelling parents, the doom of report card days, the awfulness of being sent to the principal’s office (trust me, the principal is most certainly NOT your “pal” like they try to bullshit you as a kid) and the sheepish, scared, panicky sense that soon…there will be…pain. Spanking is, to be honest, the masochist’s sport of choice — and for purists of spanking, there is no “sex” good stuff after….
Plainly, it sucketh muchly.
But…with all that it engenders, there is no escaping it, or the fences that call you to it. There is nothing like the utter sense of care, of being utterly safe — which never fails to disgust or amaze me in this incongruity alone. How is being struck until you are red-bottomed, sore and stinging while you are pleading, trying to get through the barrage without coming totally apart….safe?! Pain sensors are there for a reason, yet, somehow, those alarm messages can be overridden in the brain and turned into….safe?!
So, I’m still having my time at the carnival. For all those that know me, I’m having a good time too, stuffing myself full of crap, sneaking onto forbidden rides, staring in utter fascination at the Bearded Lady and the Dancing Bear (which, privately between us, “bears” a striking resemblance to a few Spankers that I can mention) and having a regular time of it.
Fences…
It is hard to find your way back sometimes. 
———-
Keywords: spanking, punishment, discipline, control
Images taken from Flickr
COFFEE
.
“How can you know,
unless you are addicted so.
The smooth, velvet swish
of liquid, brown bliss,
coating all inner pores
with a soothing balm
of creamy, frothy joy.
Ah, to savor the flavor
of mellow, ground beans.
There’s not enough time, it seems. ”
- S. Holland “Heavenly“
| You Are an Espresso |
 At your best, you are: straight shooting, ambitious, and energeticAt your worst, you are: anxious and high strungYou drink coffee when: anytime you’re not sleepingYour caffeine addiction level: high |
