Friday, January 28, 2005

Temper Tantrum Brewing

I didn't get the result that I wanted from the surgery. My uterus is too big, and the doctor was unable to get a "seal" with the equipment, so was not able to do the ablation. It is a safety feature, apparently, of the "Novasure" system -- no seal, and it simply will not fire. So, she did the D&C, and left it at that. That may get me a couple of months of relief and then, most likely, I'll be back to the same old story. I've got a post-surgical follow up appointment in a couple of weeks, and we'll discuss "Plan B" at that time...

Her recommended "Plan B," I already know, from talking with her previously, is going to be hysterectomy. Seems like everybody, but me, thinks I'm foolish to want to hold on to the old uterus. After all, what the hell good is the darned thing? I'm definitely not planning on birthing anymore babies, although given the size of the thing, I could I suppose start cranking out entire bowling teams in one fell swoop. The blood tests show that I'm nowhere near menopause, so waiting this out isn't necessarily a good option.

It's just that I get something out of having it there (at least I believe I do). Orgasmically. The waves of sensation carry up into that big muscle and, well it is big and powerful and strong. I know that The Heretic mentioned that to the doctor yesterday after the surgery when she talked about the less than successful outcome with Him. She expressed to Him that it was very rare for women to have any uterine sensation during orgasm -- of course she'd just told Him that I was in the 100th percentile in terms of size of uterine cavity too... go figure. So maybe I'm imagining things, but if it turns out I'm right, can they glue it back in after the fact? No. I don't think so. Once it is gone, I'm just shit out of luck.

But hey, I won't have periods anymore!

And then there's vaginal fisting. I've liked to do that too (although I've had some trouble with it here lately). Now I've read that it is possible to relearn how to do it after some kinds of hysterectomy surgery -- if they leave enough space. Of course there's not the same kind of sensation at the top of the vaginal canal, so you have to do other kinds of stimulation to achieve the same kinds of responses. And there's more risk because well, the top of the vaginal canal (where they close it off) is more prone to perforation and tearing than it was when there was a uterus and a cervix there to bump up against. Could take as much as a year to be healed up enough to tackle this... and even then, go slow and work up to it gradually... Good grief...

But hey, I won't have any more periods!

If we do this, it would have to be June. Right after school is out. So that I can heal up in time to be up and about for The Heretic's knee replacement in July. Five months. Decide.
Nobody's fault. Nothing anyone can do. I don't have to choose this. Can say no. Go on and do nothing. There's some guy out there selling "natural progesterone" oil as a surefire cure for fibroids. What the heck? Why not? Can he save me I wonder? I feel like I've got 5 months to live.

I want to cry. I want to scream and yell and throw things. Except there's no one to throw them at. I'm furious and there's no one to be furious with.


Wednesday, January 26, 2005

Tomorrow is my surgery

Tomorrow is my surgery. D&C and ablation. And I am not upset and I am not particularly fearful.

More resigned. Ready, really, to just do this and have it done with.

I suppose there are risks to this, but they seem minor. The hassles and issues of not doing this are so far more aversive than the potential benefits to be gained from these procedures.

So here I am at 10:00 the night before. A couple hours more to eat and drink before I must observe the NPO pre-surgical orders. And then, for me at least, things are relatively easy: go to sleep and let it happen. The doctor has the hard part. And The Heretic...and T. They have to wait for me to come back out the other side. And then I'll hopefully sleep and rest and feel better.

And the weirdnesses of these last few months and years will be over with. Wow! I can't imagine how that might end up being.

So... through the next few hours and then through the next few weeks...

And then maybe a life that will be well and healthy and strong again. And sexy. I so want that.


Sunday, January 23, 2005

Giving in

I think I know part of the key to my problem with the eroticism "gap" I've been experiencing in our SM life.

Caught a glimpse of it the other day.

We were "playing." A different sort of session than has been our norm lately. Different implements. More straps, more leather -- and in the midst of the pain, more sensuous stuff.

I caught myself starting to follow His touch and His caress into the sheer pleasure of it all and then all of a sudden, I was afraid. Afraid to let myself go into that place of being turned on and lost in the pleasures. And in that moment of fear, it evaporated.

I've gotten focused on getting through the pain. Been completely fixated on the discipline needed to stay in place and manage, stay with, handle the pain, and follow all the rules. In putting all my energy and all my focus there, I've lost the linkage to the other side and withheld that side of my submission.

I've got to take the risk to give in to the pleasures as well as the pain.



It snowed here Thursday night. So Friday was a snow day and there was no school.

The Heretic had a meeting in the state capitol, so I got up early and fixed His breakfast and got His car all scraped off and moved over to the other driveway so it would be out of T's way when she got ready to go to work.

I was just hanging out, visiting with Him as He made His final preparations to leave. T took off for work and I was looking forward to a rare day off to just do "my" stuff.

He was just about ready to leave when the phone rang. It was an odd phone call. Didn't really make a lot of sense at first as I listened to His side of things -- and then it all started to get clear.

T. An accident! A semi! ARE YOU ALL RIGHT?!?!? WHERE ARE YOU???

I was up. Pulling on my jeans. Not thinking. Just moving. Still thinking, "He has to go to His meeting..." Needing to get to her. Moving. Afraid.

Slowly, my heartbeat slowed a little and things started to come into focus a little bit. He wasn't (obviously) going to His meeting. He called the police who told Him there was a sheriff on the way to the scene already, and "NO -- don't even try and get to her. The highway was jammed for miles." So we waited.

She called back. Said she thought she was alright. Sore and stiff but otherwise not hurt badly. Staying in her car and could hear the police car coming. There had been another car that had run into the truck. That other car was badly damaged. The truck's back tire had clipped the front of her car and spun her around and around across three lanes of traffic.

Eventually, she called and said she was on her way home. The other driver -- the one who had caused the whole mess, who had run into the truck and forced him into T, had been taken to the hospital in an ambulance. T was shaken but basically OK and on her way home to us, although unable to handle the stress of driving on the highway. Coming home.

We waited.

And then she was here. Hugs and tears and absolute relief. We all went out to see the car and stand there amazed. Shaking and stunned.

She had to go to the urgent care center and get pain pills and muscle relaxants. And the insurance company has been an absolute PAIN IN THE ASS!!!!

But our T is safe. No reason she should be. But she is. It's enough.


Tuesday, January 18, 2005


There's been some discussion in the last day or so on some of the lists that I take part in about freedom and whether or not, entering into this kind of power exchange relationship means that one must give up all of one's freedoms -- or some of them -- or just how much...

And the short answer, of course, is "yes, but it is a choice so to do."

Then there are those who have come back, mostly from the TOP side of the equation, to say that it isn't really a "giving up" so much as it is a trading of one perceived good for another. I suppose there's some validity in that perspective, especially if you are the one on the TOP side of the equation. I think that perspective is disingenuous at best.

There most certainly is a very real sort of "giving up" of real freedoms if one is going to do this in any concrete sense. I can't see how I can be "His" and still do everything MY way. The simple fact is that if I were living on my own and by myself, I'd do a lot of things differently. I live my life by His rules and in His patterns and by His lights BECAUSE I am His, and in doing that, I've had to let go of plenty of big and small things that were my ways of living and doing. Some of those relinquishments were easy. Others were and are hard.

Feels to me that there is something deeper in this though. That beyond the daily, mundane, tangibles, there is a spirit question about what it means to be truly free -- or truly captive maybe...

When I type in a query about what the word "freedom" means, the search engine returns an interesting array of definitions:

the condition of being free; the power to act or speak or think without externally imposed restraints

exemption: immunity from an obligation or duty

Being allowed to sing in my bath as loudly as will not interfere with my neighbour's right to sing a different tune in his. [Stoppard]

n. An emotional experience of being unrestricted, unlimited, uncontrolled and unrestricted by thought processes which would otherwise create internal or external constrictions in thinking, acting or results - it is the results of our being love, celebrating life, expanding into possibilities rather than being in fear, collapsing or moving away form life, as prisoners of our own intellect.

Voluntary, in the absence of coercion

". . . that which has its centre in itself . . . . exists in and with itself . . . . self-contained existence . . . . I am free . . . when my existence depends upon myself."

The subjective experience of having a rich and realistic set of alternative actions that one may undertake.

As I work my way down through that list, there are some simple observations to be made: I don't have the power to act, speak, or think without externally imposed restraints, nor am I immune from a wide array of obligations and duties. I sing in the shower, when the mood strikes, and while the neighbors have been known to complain (I suspect) to the condominium association about a number of things, that does not seem to have been one of them. My life does not have its center in itself, does not exist in and with itself and I am, possibly for the first time ever, certain that my existence does not depend entirely upon myself.

It is in the middle of the list that I find that the definitions of freedom converge with my experiences of "freedom" in slavery -- in being free while being owned. Something about having "given up" the right to have everything my own way has resulted in almost exactly that emotional experience of being unrestricted and unlimited in my thinking. It has opened me to possibilities that were never apparent to me when I was "free." Indeed, the act of surrendering control to One who is meant for me has let me become "love" and celebrate life without the continual shadow of fearfulness that was my reality before.

It is true that I have limited alternatives from which I can choose. Looking in from the outside, an observer might see a life that is tightly bound and constrained too tightly to soar to the heights. Spirit, however does not experience the same boundaries that we, who live in corporal bodies, understand. In finding my way into a small "heart's home" I have set my life free. This is the paradox of what is gained in the giving up of slavery.


Sunday, January 16, 2005


I had a terrible nightmarish dream on Friday night about being in the stocks and about the single-tail. For me, those two things together seem to evoke a horror and a terror that plunges me into a mental darkness that is as black as anything I know. I woke in the middle of the night, sweating, chilled, with my heart racing, trying not to cry... and I couldn't get back to sleep.

The irony is that the single-tail, like the stocks, was a gift from me to Him. I bought it, knowing that it was a fearful thing, but that it was something that attracted and fascinated Him. So, I swallowed hard and took the leap.

I never kidded myself about it (at least I don't think I did). I knew when I chose to give it to Him, that it would challenge me from the moment it went from my hand into His. The giving of it was a facing of my fears, and a relinquishing of a measure of control, and an ongoing act of submission. The fear of that whip remains to this day, each time He takes it in hand, I fight the urge to scream, to beg, to refuse, to flee.

Now there are these stocks, and they are truly awful. Mentally and emotionally awful because they take all the options away; because they are cold and hard; because they leave me alone and isolated; and because they enforce a sort of physical vulnerability that is tangibly humiliating. But, it isn't just the emotional tangle. There is a purely physical issue with these things, too. I don't have to be pretzeled into this monster very long before my legs start to shake and cramp while my shoulders and elbows and back start to strain and ache. It stretches the flesh so tightly over my butt that there's no padding so every blow feels like it lands straight on the bone of my pelvis or my tail bone. I have to hold myself just so, or the weight of my head puts pressure on my throat and it becomes difficult to breathe. It is just physically hard to be there... so no way can I just relax and try to find a way to "ride" out the pain of whatever else might be going on.

But I'm trying to learn. I made the committment when I chose this gift. The fact that it is hard doesn't let me off the hook, but we are finding that we are needing to go slow. I am needing to learn ways to stand, to lean into it, to bend, to breathe. I am needing to find a place in my head to even be able to get there in the first place.

Honestly, it is making me crazy a good part of the time. Making me question my path. Making me wonder if I can do this. Making me wonder about "consent." It isn't Him pressuring me. I'm putting the expectations on myself, and it is me that feels disappointed when I "fail" according to my own set of goals. I want to do this better and braver.

A big part of what makes this hard for me is that I see all the "Internet Chickie-Poo's" who get spanked and caned and whatevere-d and smile through it all and never even get their hair of makeup messed up -- and I know I'll never ever measure up. There's always some cute, young butt out there ready to take on whatever the meanest sadist can dream up. How's a working, washing, ironing, cooking, cleaning, old lady like me supposed to keep up? I can't tell what's real and what's make believe and what is legitimately a viable yard stick for any kind of anything anymore. There aren't any real people for me to see, except now and then when we manage to get to a BDSM conference.

I think I might be lost.


Thursday, January 13, 2005

Teaching Fractions can Make me Cry

Telling stories is one of my favorite ways to capture kids and convince them that math is really not all that scary or difficult. Because, the hardest thing about teaching math in junior high is that, by the time I get them, they've had six or seven years for someone else to scare them half to death and convince them that they can't do this stuff.

So when I get to fractions in sixth grade, inevitably, some of them groan and go, "I hate fractions!"

I've got lots of stories about how kids know how to do fractions just naturally... About how any two year old understands when she is not getting her fair share when the dessert gets divided up, and how they all "get" how to split up a dollar between them and their friends, etc.

Today, for some reason, I decided to use my family to illustrate. Not the family I live in now. Not the family I formed as an adult. The family I grew up in. Me and the 3 rotten brothers -- Hank, Gregg, Kurt. That makes four and that's a real easy way to talk about halves and quarters and, by extension, eighths and sixteenth and ... Well, yeah. Fractions.

Well, kids just love to get "into" the teacher's life. So we "got" the fraction part handled and that was all clear and kewl, and then the trap opened up and swallowed me whole.

One of my precious darlings said -- where do your brothers live? Oh shit! I took a deep breath and started in... Hank lives in Dallas, Texas. Kurt lives in Denver, Colorado.


Stand there and look at all those bright, earnest, sweet, young faces.

"What about Gregg?" they want to know.


Gregg died 15 years ago.

"Oh... We're sorry. What happened to him?"

He had AIDS.

"Oh... How old was he?"

He was 31.

And three of them stood up and came and hugged me. And I stood there and cried. About the quarter of my life that still feels like it is missing.



Puttin on the Ritz

I just don't believe it!

I was driving in to work this morning and listening to NPR's Morning Edition. I don't always play the radio in the car. Sometimes I just leave it off and let it be quiet, so I can think and get settled in my mind for the day. Other days, I put the radio on and listen to whatever the talk is. Today, I might have been better off leaving it off.

Steve Inskeep was interviewing Vivian Deuschl of the Ritz-Carlton Hotel in Washington, D.C. Apparently this person is in charge of public relations, and as such, she was discussing the "doings" around the upcoming inauguration. As I listened in growing disbelief, I had two thoughts:

The first and least complicated, was that this woman was just an evil witch without any desire to relate to "the public" if that public didn't have multiple thousands of dollars to spend frivolously on conspicuous consumption. She was dismissive and condescending and, frankly, nasty. I was appalled and offended at her tone.

Then it got really unbelievable. The conversation turned to the plans that people were making for accommodations to attend the inaugural. Turns out that (for the inauguration) the Ritz offers plain, old, garden-variety rooms (in a four night block -- nothing less is available) for a minimum of $2000.00 a night. Of course, she explained, there are upgrades available for people who want to do that. She gave the example of their "One and Only" package... With private jet from wherever, and 24 hour caviar and Dom Perignon -- all for the flat rate of $150,000 for the 4 days. She spoke of one guest with a reservation who had called the concierge to rent a sable fur coat for the event, and was willing to pay a $15,000 deposit, plus the daily rental, just so they did not have to deal with the hassle of bringing their own fur coat from home through airport security. Inskeep mentioned that competitive hotels in town were offering other packages as well. One even offers a deal where two actors will masquerade as members of the "Secret Service" to guard you for the duration of your stay.

I was trying to drive, but had to keep picking my jaw up out of my lap.

These people are living so far beyond the reality that I deal with that I don't even begin to comprehend how they think or perceive reality.

I can't begin to imagine how this must play in the mind of a parent who's son or daughter is trying to stay alive (without the needed equipment) in Iraq or Afghanistan right now because this president somehow convinced us all that it was important.

I can't square this kind of arrogance and waste with the pure chintziness of our offered aid to the victims of the disaster in South Asia just after Christmas.

I understand that the Bush folks "won," and by their lights, they are entitled to their party. So party. Just don't preach to me about ethics and morality and being on the "right" side of things, unless you live it -- and I just can't see it. Really, I can't


Wednesday, January 12, 2005


Somedays it seems my mind just won't settle anywhere. It just flits around from place to place, drifting here and there, picking up bits and pieces of thoughts and images, and turning them over, and then putting them down again. I just can't seem to feel solid or serious or deep today.

He obviously reads what I write here -- and hears with a heart that is as bound in some ways as mine is. There was much stroking and touching last night on skin that had hungered for that touch for a very long time. Like water poured out on the desert.

A good spanking and paddling, too. Had been awhile and I fussed and struggled and wailed. Of course.

Fucking like sixteen year olds afterwards. We needed the connecting. All of it. The stresses of our days can pull at us, and it is good to come flying back into one another's arms. Pure, simple, honest, human animal contact. No place there to misunderstand.

Slept soundly then. First time in days that I haven't been awake through some bit of the night worrying and fretting about me or Him or T or us in some configuration or another. Oh, I had to get up and switch off the TV in the middle of the night and retrieve his knife from the bed, but that's another story altogether... Still, I rested, warm and serene, tucked into the crook of his arm all night...

...Even though I don't have my Christmas tree completely down yet... It is still standing there, half-dressed, pitiful and pathetic looking in my living room.

...Even though I haven't done anything for the dual birthday event of my mother and my daughter that occurs this Friday. Oh dang! That's going to be late I guess. Mother will be crabby, but what else is new? Daughter will be glad to get whatever, whenever -- especially if it is cash. But then, she understands, deep down that I love her dearly (and that I am truly a flake).

...Even though my housekeeping seems to have just gone all to hell and I can't seem to get it back in line to save me.

...Even though I sometimes get scared and wonder what would happen to me if the Heretic were to die. What would an old "slave" like me do then? T and I are sisters who share a husband, but I wonder what we would do if that husband were not here between us anymore. That's the sort of "monster in the closet" stuff I keep for nights when I want to be up ALL night long.

...Even though I know there's a trip to the stocks for a single-tail session looming in the not too distant future, and that it may even be up to me to pick the date for that to occur.

...Even though there's one of my kiddos who is being raised (through no fault of his own -- poor darling) by evil Republicans, who is just continually baiting me with right-wing, bull-shit, propaganda as the time for the inauguration of Bush draws near.

Even though there are the usual money worries and tax time drawing closer and on and on and on...

Still, last night was good, very good -- and I would have given anything to have stayed curled right there this morning.


Tuesday, January 11, 2005

A memory that won't go away

I only played with Him once a long time ago.

He would come, infrequently, to the Labyrinth -- the now defunct BDSM club that we used to frequent in Denver. The word was that He had a wife who didn't share His interests, but who occasionally tolerated Him indulging, as long as she didn't have to know very much -- so He would show up at the Laby. Always, He wore a mask. I never saw His face. He was tall and thin and elegant in his manners and in his movements. It was as if He owned the space He came into, and as if there were no one else except Himself and whoever He chose to play with. I watched Him from a distance, and barely breathed. I am sure I was not the only one.

Finally, after months of watching, I asked my husband, who was my dominant then, if he would ask Him to play with us...

They tied me. Standing, spread-eagled, and blind-folded to a metal frame.

He touched. Lightly mostly. And everywhere. And randomly. Slowly. The curve of a hip, or a breast. Along the length of my throat, and then up the inside of my thigh to... And my breath would catch and I'd strain against the bonds and He would stop. And I would wait and strain to hear or feel or sense where He was. And then He'd be back, someplace different, with and edge this time, or a slap, or a tickle. And then again. And again. And again. Feet, cheek, back, arm, earlobe. I've never felt like that before -- or since. Ecstasy. And agony. Need that I couldn't meet except under His touch. A memory burned forever into my flesh and cells.

Except that He haunts me still... An hour that will not go away.


Monday, January 10, 2005

It's no fun being a girl

It was a terribly difficult weekend.
For many months now, I've been battling ever heavier menstrual bleeding -- on an increasingly unpredictable calendar. I had hoped that it meant I was approaching menopause and a welcome end to all the inconvenience and mess. Hah! No such luck. Medical science has reached the point of being able to reassure me that I am likely to continue to experience the "joys" for the foreseeable future. Ick!

As all of these problems began to crank up months ago, I avoided the issue because, frankly, I was seeing a gynecologist that I just did not like or trust. The idea of approaching the needed interventions with that guy just gave me the heebie jeebies. I couldn't bring myself to go there.

Finding a new gyn is such an awesome, intimidating undertaking. I waffled and procrastinated and fiddled. Meanwhile the red tide just kept rising and rising. Worse and worse with each passing month. Sometimes it would border on hemorage and I would take to my bed with ice packs to try and stem the flooding. It would scare me.

Then finally, disaster struck. Without warning, I exploded in a wash of menstrual blood, right in front of a classroom full of 7th graders. Luckily the timing was such that they didn't actually see all of what happened -- it was at the change of classes and at the end of the day. The janitor was right there with his mop and bucket. I grabbed tissues, made some noise about a "nose bleed" and took off for the restroom. The janitor frantically mopped, and the teacher from across the hall dismissed my kids to go home. But that was enough to convince me that something had to get done about this. I can't go on doing what I've been doing obviously.

So, I found a lady doc who seems gentle and competent. I think she seems good and she doesn't freak me out. She says that the issue is uterine fibroids, and that has been confirmed by an ultrasound. The recommendation (as a first pass) is a D&C with endometrial ablation. It isn't a guaranteed fix, but it might work and it is less invasive than some of the other alternatives. It is scheduled for the 27th. Outpatient surgery. Home that same morning. Take the next day off work to rest and recover and everything should be right as rain in no time.


They say that it should significantly reduce or maybe even eliminate the bleeding, at least for awhile. Who knows -- at my age, a while might be all that I need. Couple days of discomfort seems a small price to be rid of all this crap every month...
But then I read that it can take weeks to recover from this deal -- anywhere from 2-6 weeks before full healing happens. No guarantees of results. Maybe as much as 3-4 months before things "settle down," and the actual results of it all can be determined. Sigh.

I sure hope I'm making the right choice here.

Being a girl can sure suck some days. Out loud with a straw.


Saturday, January 08, 2005

Spanking pants

I own several pairs of trousers that aren't anything special when you first look at them. Just simple poly-blend slacks that I wear for school.

They were some of the first things I bought to fit after the most significant portion of my weight loss. As such, they have real psychological weight to them. Anyway, almost from the first moment I put them on, the Heretic looked at them and dubbed them "spanking pants." I'm not sure what, exactly, earned them that title, whether it is the lightness of the fabric, or the fit, or a combination of things. Whatever, they have remained, to this day, my spanking pants, and whenever I wear them, I am risking at least a trip over His knee -- at least.

So, Thursday, when I put my navy blue slacks on, I knew the risk, but it was a chilly morning and, well... Life is full of choices. When I got home from work in the afternoon, I was actually surprised that He decided to go after a session in the stocks. There was really only a brief bit of time because He had an evening meeting to attend, and I was late getting to the house because of a meeting that had kept me late at school. But, there WERE those darned "spanking pants!"

Still, He was intent on it. Into the stocks I went, spanking pants, boots, and all. Just as he got me fastened in, just as I was working on focusing, just as I was trying to stay calm, He said, "Maybe, I'll just leave you here while I go to my meeting, and T can release you when she gets home."

I believed Him. My composure dissolved. My focus and my calm was completely destroyed. I begged, I cried, I completely panicked: assured Him that I would be good, pleaded with Him to please let me go, on and on and on...

He spanked me and paddled me through all my sobbing and all my pleading and all my begging. Then He released me and cradled me in His arms. Comforted me, and assured me that He was only playing with my mind -- that He would never, ever leave me like that, that He would always be right there with me. Eventually, my sobbing and my trembling eased. He left for His meeting, calling me from the car and talking to me all the way as He drove. His voice calmed me...


A "fun" trip to Lowe's

I've needed to caulk the tile in my shower stall for a few weeks. Yup. Real life intrudes into the kinky stuff...

I knew that the best thing was to do it and then have a day or so when I/we didn't use the shower so that the new caulk could dry and "cure." There's a second shower in the other bathroom -- in the tub there, but it isn't as easy to get in and out of, and the Heretic's knees aren't all that good... But He was going out of town for a couple of days, so I figured I'd have a window of opportunity... get it done while He was gone. Perfect.

There were complications in this plan of course. To do this, I had to get the job done on the first night He was gone. That meant I had to buy the caulk after work and get it handled that night. Unfortunately, I also had a doctor's appointment scheduled after work, and a PTO meeting to attend later that same evening. EEEEEKKKKK! Talk about the need to be efficient with my time!

OK, no problem. The medical appointment wasn't until 5:20, and I wasn't due back at school for the PTO meeting until 7:00. I figured, I could hit the local Lowe's on the way home from school, find the caulk, grab a bite to eat, quickly do the caulk job, and still get it all done. Tah Dah!!!

So, I went wheeling into Lowe's parking lot and jumped out of my car and went tearing into the place like a wild woman. As I approached the door, the dread began to settle into the pit of my stomach. You see, I had this problem. Lowe's is huge. I had no earthly idea where the caulk would be, and I didn't have a whole lot of time to figure it out. My natural, introverted shyness was in full swing, and the idea that I would have to track someone down and strong arm them into helping me find the stuff was making me sweat. My past experiences with places like that have not been positive. In my former life, in my old, frumpy persona, nobody ever paid the least attention to me, and I could have wandered the aisles at Lowe's for the rest of my natural born life and no one would have paid the least bit of attention.

But this time was different.

You see, I'm not that old, frumpy, person any more. I forget that. I'm the swan. I walked in the place wearing my red, suede mini-skirt with the silver zipper that runs from hem to waist, knee-high, black, Harley Davidson, biker boots, and a v-neck, white, ribbed sweater. I stood, just inside the door, looking up at all the signs, wondering which way I should go -- for about a minute and a half (maybe), and friendly, helpful Lowe's guys came from every direction! Mercy!!!!

Wasn't long before one of those friendly, helpful Lowe's guys was walking WITH me to the caulk aisle, picking out just the stuff I needed, and walking me back up front to the cashier. It did cross my mind that if I played it just a little broader, the poor fellow might just come home and caulk my shower for me... Do you think? Nah!!!!

Part of me feels like I ought to be ashamed of myself. But, it was fun. I knew exactly what was happening and why, and I got a huge charge out of it. It is silly and superficial and wrong, but oh well, the world works that way, and this one time, it worked to my benefit. After a long hard day, that was going to be longer and harder still, for just a few minutes, it was fun to have someone notice and appreciate.

That red skirt... Priceless!

Tuesday, January 04, 2005

Freedom of Association

I was listening to the radio sometime over the weekend -- probably AirAmericaRadio, which has become a passion around here these days, and there was a segment about the importance of forming friendships with people who share your interests. The discussion turned to something that was termed "supper clubs." Apparently, the idea is that folks invite a small group of friends into their home for supper -- 6 or 8 people on a regular basis. These groups meet to share common interests and have a meal and simply enjoy being who they are with one another. The suggestion was that one would form these groups with people that you might meet at church or at work or at the bowling alley or... Yeah! Right!

It's been bugging me ever since. Where do people like us, who like to do what it is that we like to do, meet up with people to share simple friendships? At church? At work? At the bowling alley? Yeah! Right! This is Cincinnati!!!! Good Grief!!!

There's a group of kinksters here. Might even be more than one such group. Have been others along the years. Problem with this... And this is true in almost any community you want to talk about, is that as "kinky people" we are relegated to the places where people like us are allowed to gather together, and then we are "stuck" with each other. Only a few of us show up in those gatherings and it's pretty much a take it or leave it proposition. What if I just don't like the ones who show up there this week -- or next week for that matter? I know for a fact there are other people out there somewhere, but they didn't bother or were unwilling to take a chance or didn't know about it or figured they wouldn't like the rest of us either. And it isn't easy for us to find each other or be selective, you know. Real limited set of options in a very limited set of venues under less than optimal circumstances.

So... supper clubs with friends that share your interests? Boy. That sounds good. In a perfect world, kinky people like me, that I liked would be coming to my house on a regular basis to talk and laugh and share a meal. And I'd be going to their place. We wouldn't be a bunch of faceless names on computer screens, wishing we could reach across the void except for the one or two times a year when we gather at the few hotels that are still brave enough to risk the wrath of the religious right and let us come together to be who we are as a community. We'd be able to stand up in the places where we live and work, look around and see each other, and pick our friends.

Wouldn't that be cool?


Saturday, January 01, 2005

The start of the year

The good news is that His mother is doing well. There were battles last night with medical professionals who wanted to release her from the hospital just barely 24 hours after surgery to repair the broken hip... In the end, they saw it His way. T and I were not surprised.

We spent the night together, all of us, in the big bed. It is something we rarely do. We bought the big, king-size bed, early in our poly life together, for precisely that reason -- so that we could sleep 3-in-a-bed. It is a most basic poly question: who sleeps where and with whom and when and how? And if we all want to sleep together, how can that be done? Just try and find bedroom furniture to accommodate that. Go ahead. I defy you to figure it out. The best we could come up with was a king-size bed with a nice bookcase style headboard so that the person in the middle would have a place to put a glass or whatever. Still, when we sleep together in it, we find we are seldom actually comfortable. It really isn't about the size of the bed so much as it is that our various sleeping styles aren't really compatible. The three of us tend to snuggle and snore and thrash in radically different patterns. One night together (every so ofter) like last night has left us vowing that it won't happen again anytime soon... Show me a poly bunch wondering about sleeping 3-in-a-bed and I'll show you a brand new, still in the throes of poly starry-eyed newbie impracticality.

I guess the thing that is weighing most heavily on my mind, and the thing that is hardest for me to talk straight about, is spanking and my response to it. I seem to have lost my ability to respond to it as anything sexually stimulating. It has become, for me, something I submit to because it is part of my place and my love for the Heretic. I don't enjoy it and I don't like it and, often, I struggle not to slip into anger and resentment around it.

Today, was a case in point. I was paddled. Not severely. He modified what He might have done rather significantly, actually. Left my leggings on and even left my butt covered with a light down throw that we keep on the bed. He did use an Ash wood paddle that He knows just freaks me out, but I managed to keep it together. As usual, I was required to ask for the paddling, and unlike most times, I was required to count strokes and thank Him for each one. Twelve. Not extreme, but it was massive in my head. "Thank you, Sir" wanted desperately to transform itself into something far more disrespectful and vulgar.

The sheer rage and anger I am finding at the edges of my submission scare me. I don't know where it is coming from. I'm not sure if it is because I've lost the sexy part of this. Part of me wonders if I've withdrawn the sexy part somehow because I'm angry. Could that possibly be? I'm not aware of that consciously but the fact that the question is there makes me wonder.

I don't know the answer. I do know that if that's what is going on, it is backfiring. He's probably even more turned on by my struggle and my dislike of the spankings. I'm the only one who is losing in this deal. Somehow I've got to find the path back to joyful masochism. I know it is here in the dark somewhere...