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| We are both professional, attractive, and very very experienced.
He's into spanking, whipping and fucking til it hurts
I'm into needle play, sensation play, electric play, fisting, and making girls horny and then giving them to Master. My masochism is expressed in NOT being allowed to have sex.
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I often obsessively pursue feeling good, no matter how bad it makes me feel. |
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Note to self: REALLY bad idea to listen to the Delphonics when you are feeling blue. |
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I went to the gym today. There was this gorgeous man working out; huge smile, bright eyes, arms the size of tree trunks ... and paralyzed from the waist down.
We talked (and flirted). He was in a car accident and his spine was severed. "Oh well" he said. "Life goes on."
We joked and laughed and the whole time I felt vaguely ashamed; here is this man, who has every reason to feel sorry for himself, and he is cheerful and living his life. Me? I have everything I need and most of what I want, and am wallowing in self pity.
Sometimes, when God kicks you in the ass, it really hurts. |
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On another board, someone posted this:
A person who can only be aroused and satisfied by an dominant posture in his or her partner, is not a submissive person. It’s a person with a dominance fetish.
Add to that:
Fetish: any object or nongenital part of the body that causes a habitual erotic response
Bingo! I have a label! I have a dominance fetish. Dominance turns me on. |
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I really like men with a lot of muscles. I was thinking last night, and realized that preference is totally irrational (like lots of preferences).
I like men with muscles because they make me feel safe, protected, and incredibly feminine.
Now, realistically, the biggest threats in my life are things that don't repond well to muscle: the IRS, the promotion board, reviewers.
I am well equiped with the tools to respond to those threats.
But the desire to be protected from bad men (not the good kind of bad men), wild beasts, and monsters under the bed by a big strong man seems to be hard wired. Muscles turn me on.
Turn me on, and change my attitude. The bigger the muscles, the fluffier, softer, and vulnerable I get; after all, I don't have to be on guard against the monsters anymore. |
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My ex came over yesterday. I like my ex; he's good people. He is also vanilla-twisted with a huge cock. (My motives are not pure).
I was in the kitchen fixing him a glass of ice tea, when he grabbed me from behind with an arm around my neck and started choking me. I struggled and flailed and my glasses fell off.
He threw me down on the kitchen floor, held my head by the hair, and said, "Pick them up with your teeth."
Owwwwwwwwwwwwww. The hair pulling hurt!
I picked the glasses up with my teeth, and he pulled me to my feet by my hair (whimper), and took the glasses out of my mouth. He then slammed me up against the wall, and stood behind me, pressed up tight. I could feel his rock hard cock pressing against my ass while his hands mauled my breasts.
I am in flight or flight mode now; the bastard is HURTING me. I tried to flee. He tackled me and I hit the ground (huge lump on my head the next day. Oh well. Pay to play.).
He twisted my arm behind my back. "Kiss the floor, bitch." "Now, lick it with your tongue." "Tell me what you are. Tell me you are a floor licking bitch."
My arm is breaking. I'll tell him anything.
He stands over me and masturbates, while I kiss the floor, cry, and mumble that I am a floor kissing bitch.
Damn. I love that man. I love that kind of raw, unchoreographed, no-toys-needed violence. I love the fact that he thinks BDSM is stupid role playing. I love the fact that 95% of the time he gives me total freedom, enjoys my power, lets me run. That other 5%? He says my name in a certain tone of voice, and I cower.
He asked me to marry him (again). I said yes.
But ... once we both cool off we will remember why we got divorced. That kind of passion makes for hot sex, but poor serenity. |
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Damn it. I crave intensity. I want fear and terror and blood and lust and sweat and smells and piss and cum.
I literally cannot remember the last time I let the beast play.
She is pacing. Back and forth. Growling. Pacing. Hungry. Needing to feed.
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The beast is howling for blood and meat. |
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BDSM = a psychosexual connection. It is NOT a religious experience. |
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Good Girl
by Kim Addonizio
Look at you, sitting there being good.
After two years you're still dying for a cigarette. And not drinking on weekdays, who thought that one up? Don't you want to run to the corner right now for a fifth of vodka and have it with cranberry juice and a nice lemon slice, wouldn't the backyard that you're so sick of staring out into look better then, the tidy yard your landlord tends day and night — the fence with its fresh coat of paint, the ash-free barbeque, the patio swept clean of small twigs — don't you want to mess it all up, to roll around like a dog in his flowerbeds? Aren't you a dog anyway, always groveling for love and begging to be petted?
You ought to get into the garbage and lick the insides of the can, the greasy wrappers, the picked-over bones, you ought to drive your snout into the coffee grounds.
Ah, coffee! Why not gulp some down with four cigarettes and then blast naked into the streets, and leap on the first beautiful man you find? The words Ruin me, haven't they been jailed in your throat for forty years, isn't it time you set them loose in slutty dresses and torn fishnets to totter around in five-inch heels and slutty mascara?
Sure it's time. You've rolled over long enough. Forty, forty-one. At the end of all this there's one lousy biscuit, and it tastes like dirt. So get going. Listen: they're howling for you now: up and down the block your neighbors' dogs burst into frenzied barking and won't shut up.
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I pack my trunk, embrace my friends, embark on the sea, and at last wake up in Naples, and there beside me is the Stern Fact, the Sad Self, unrelenting, identical, that I fled from. - Ralph Waldo Emerson
That's the bad news. The good news? I'm my own hero and good company. AND, I like talking to myself. |
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Juggling 10 balls at the same time. Breathless. Tired. And not exhibiting any grace; but damn it, they are ALL up in the air! |
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So I got off my self pity and made plans for Christmas. Invited some friends over for early dinner, and then heading to another friend's house for late dinner.
I guess this means I rescued myself. Again.
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Quick fix
The third thing I thought about was Christmas. (No wonder I hate leisure; all this thinking isn't good for me)
This is my first Christmas without any family. My mother is dead. My son in jail. My dad MIA.
I think I was waiting for a miracle; someone to rescue me. I made no plans for Christmas. Me. The woman who plans everything.
I am dreading the sadness I am going to feel. Bullshit. I am terrified of the pain I am going to feel.
Denying it is not helpful. Action is. I have options, most of them involve spending Christmas with other people's families. Not good.
That leaves ... kayaking. Plenty of time to plan a three day trip down the Oklawaha. Enough gators and bears to be distracting. Being alone in the woods provides enough fear to be focused on the moment.
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| Another thing I thought about was my reaction to being at the Westin.
A $400 a night room with a view of the ocean, a heavenly bed, and room service doesn’t sound like it would trigger this gut level discomfort that I am feeling.
And it doesn’t. What it does do is trigger two memories: one from childhood and one from my marriage.
Childhood
I grew up in Europe, mostly in American-occupied West Germany and the American zone in Italy. Americans were hated, mocked, called “amies.” They lived in their little American enclaves and army bases, shopped for peanut butter in the Army exchanges, and went home having never ventured into the country they were living in.
I grew up denying my father or any links to America. I passed for German.
The Westin reminds me of that. A chuck of land, totally cut off from the rest of the island, private beaches, no natives (unless they are wearing a maid’s uniform and a servile smile), a grocery store with peanut butter and diet coke.
Why, you can come to the VI and never feel like you left the continental US.
I am embarrassed to be here. I am an ugly American.
My marriage
This is a family resort. Every where I look I see wives. Pretty, well-groomed pets.
“John, did you pay for the pizza?” “Henry, do you think the kids would like some ice cream?”
I was one of them. My toenails matched my fingernails that matched my lipstick. I lived a life of powerlessness and quiet desperation. I told myself how lucky I was to have a husband who brought me places like this, bought me a Mercedes, came home every night. I told myself that over and over and over, hoping I would believe it. He told me, too.
I existed. There was no life in my life.
I can feel the women looking at me. They know I don’t belong here. A backpack and no luggage? A paddle bag and no man? Not to mention my kayaker tan; dark brown from the waist up, snow white from the waist down.
I feel relief, joy at my narrow escape. I catch myself gloating that I can afford to come here on my own, and leave on my own. I want to taunt them with that.
But mostly, I feel fear. Fear at how narrow my escape was. How close I came to being one of them.
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The thing about terror ... it focuses the mind
I’ve had some sleep, a shower, and some time to think. And what I thought about was kayaking in the 12-foot waves.
At the time, I was fairly certain that death was a good possibility (any mistake that led to capsizing would kill me), although not an inevitability (all I had to do was not make a mistake).
I love the way it focused my mind. Hyper vigilant, Zen-like presence in the moment, total clarity within a very limited sphere. I knew what every wave was doing, where the wind was, the changes in the sky. But all the rest of the garbage that fills my head? Gone. The stock market? Gone. The book chapter due? Gone. The loneliness? Gone.
Totally alive in the moment. It was just like skydiving or whitewater kayaking; Remaining totally calm and totally focused in the face of terror.
Good stuff. I want more. |
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Olga. The bitch ruined my vacation!
I arrived in the Virgin Islands with no fuss, spent the night in a B & B, and arrived at Big Planet Outfitters on Monday morning, ready to go. There were 4 of us; me, a couple from Seattle, and the guide. We loaded the gear onto a speedboat, which took us into the British Virgin Islands and dropped us off on a small, empty island called Peter Island. We set up our camp, did some snorkeling, talked about the next day’s paddle, and slept.
Day Two: When we woke up in the morning, the sky was black with storm clouds, and the seas were running at 6 ft. Too rough for kayaking, so we spent the day at camp. I read Blond by Joyce Carol Oates and thought about food. (That day’s paddle included a stop at a marina for groceries. No paddle; no groceries. We subsisted an entire day on chips and Oreos.)
Day Three, the sky is still black, and the seas are running at 10 feet. We are hungry, really tired of being on Peter Island, and suddenly 10 feet doesn’t look so bad. We load up the gear and paddle out of the cove. Once we get past the shelter of the cover, the waves are running 12 feet. We can’t go back; the current is against us. We did a 2 hour crossing in 12 foot seas. It was terrifying. When I was in the trough of the waves, the wave behind me would be 4 times taller than the top of my head. I tried to keep my stern perpendicular to the waves, but the winds were wild and made the wave pattern erratic. Sometimes my stern would be sliding down the slope of the wave, and my bow would be completely submerged in the wave ahead. I later found out I was kayaking in the middle of tropical storm Olga. We made it to Tortoga and land. The couple decided they were done with kayaking and want to be left on Tortoga and picked up by a rescue boat. I figured I had some miles left in me, and the winds had settled down, so the guide and I bought groceries and paddled to St Johns, and camped at Cinnamon Bay. The crossing was rough, but nothing like the morning; 4-5 foot swells.
Day Four: Paddled from Cinnamon Bay around the coastline of St Johns to Cruz Bay, which was our starting point. Dropped off the gear about 3, and had the outfitter drop me off at the Westin Resort. The Westin. I hate places like this; artificial white American enclaves. But they have that “heavenly bed” … it’s their trademark; the fluffy, soft, white bed with the duvet and feather mattress cover. And a hot shower. And my principles just couldn’t stand up to those pleasures.
No idea what happens after today. I don’t do leisure well, so the thought of lying around the Westin leaves me cold. The outfitter said the weather should be good enough to kayak by Saturday, but a day trip doesn’t thrill me, either; too easy, not enough sweat.
Think I’ll see about going to a laundry tomorrow (everything I own is covered in mud) and going to Virgin Gorda to see the baths on Saturday, and getting some windsailing lessons on Sunday.
I feel lonely.
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I went to the Bahamas. Thanks to Topical Storm Noel, what was supposed to be a three-day trip turned into a day and a half trip.
Thank goodness. I might not have survived three days.
I love the out islands: Eleuthera, The Exumas, Cat Island. I avoid Nassau and Freeport like the plague; duty free shops, fat pale Americans looking for McDonalds, fake “straw markets”, huge gaudy hotels and casinos … ugh.
But I went to Nassau to visit some friends; friendship outweighed aesthetics. It was a revelation!
Stayed at a wonderful B and B, slept for 12 hours, and then my friends came and woke me up, and off we went; me, 5 gorgeous black men crammed in a jeep, some awesome Reggaeton, and a pack of Cohiba cigarettes. (I was liking Nassau better already)
We drove around for a while, stopped for lunch at a parking lot where Mrs B was selling fresh conch stew and beans and rice out of the back of her station wagon. (Delicious! Although the woman had never heard of time and motion studies).
Played dominos, talked, laughed, played dominos, talked some more.
1 am. No time to sleep, but time for a snack.
We load into the jeep and drive to the “Belly of the Beast.” The hood. The ghetto.
Narrow streets, crammed with cars and people. No stop lights, no traffic rules (yes, I squealed). Music everywhere. Perfect temperature. A sky full of stars. Every couple of feet, a vendor selling something from the top of his car, breathtaking women (The most beautiful women in the world apparently live in the Bahamas) swaying down the street, hips rolling. On every corner, a barrel cut in half with a fire in it, and someone making BBQ on top. Laughter and shouting and dancing.
We drive for hours (at 3-5 miles per hour) and I am mesmerized by the flow, the river of humanity. The sounds, the colors.
We finally pull up in from of the Bamboo Shack; a booth with a huge line in front of it. Everybody apparently loves the cracked conch from the Bamboo Shack! We wait in line for an hour. No problem; there’s plenty to see; there’s the guy making bootleg DVD’s on the trunk of his car, the woman arguing with her man, some FINE looking people to watch, and of course, talking and laughing.
Somebody starts playing the Staple Singers’ “I’ll Take You There” and now we are ALL dancing.
Me too. Dancing in the street under the tropical moon and feeling SO GLAD to be alive.
I know a place
Ain't nobody cryin'
Ain't nobody worried
Ain't no smilin' faces
Mmm, no no
Lyin' to the races
Help me, come on, come on
Somebody, help me now
I'll take you there
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If not actually disgruntled, he was far from being gruntled. (P G Wodehouse) |
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I hate the fact that I feel incomplete without a Master. It violates my sense of self; my self image as a competent, brave, adventurous, woman. I feel ashamed when I admit I am not complete; it is so damn politically incorrect. But true.
I have been looking for a Master for a long, long, long time. I try to have faith that he will appear when the time is right, and in the meantime, my job is to work on myself, to be the kind of person that would attract the kind of person I am attracted to.
But sometimes, I have this horrible feeling that the universe may have a totally different plan in mind for me. A nunnery springs to mind.
And I just cannot seem to wrap my head around accepting that. And that causes me pain.
Buddha said the root of all suffering is desire and ignorance; ignorance being the unwillingness to see reality for what it is.
I AM suffering, and I am not sure if it is desire or ignorance or both. |
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This is NOT Burger King, baby, by Me
This is NOT Burger King, baby.
You don’t get to have it your way.
And you don't get to eat fast.
This is fine dining, you fool.
The kitchen is very hot,
The cook is temperamental.
You eat what’s on your plate,
And come back for more.
Cause you never had meat like this.
Don’t worry about cleaning up.
I expect you to lick your plate clean,
not missing a single delicious drop.
So eat slow, baby. Savor it.
Lock the delicious flavors in memory
In case the kitchen is closed next time
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MUSE by Kim Addonizio
When I walk in,
men buy me drinks before I even reach the bar.
They fall in love with me after one night,
even if we don’t fuck.
I tell you I’ve got this shit down to a science.
They sweat with my memory,
alone in cheap rooms they listen
to moans through the wall
and wonder if that’s me,
letting out a scream as the train whines by.
But I’m already two states away, lying with a boy
I let drink rain from the pulse at my throat.
No one leaves me, I’m the one that chooses.
I show up like money on the sidewalk.
Listen, baby. Those are my high heels dangling from the phone wire.
I’m the crow flapping down,
that’s my black slip
you catch sight of when the pain
twists into you so deep
you have to close your eyes and weep like a goddamned woman. |
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That bastard.
He stood outside the bedroom window and whispered mating calls.
The beast woke up when she heard him.
Whimpering, she paced in her cage all night.
I couldn't get a wink of sleep. |
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Destruction before creation - Joseph Campbell
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I shot the beast.
She is still alive, but writhing around on the floor and howling.
The sounds she makes are horrifying.
I’m going to put my headphones on, play some really loud music to drown her out, and go to the gym until I think she is dead. |
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A quick foray into cynicism: Abstinence makes the heart grow fonder |
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My beast is awake. I had her nicely sedated, asleep in her cage. I went about my daily life ignoring her, except for the occasional bowl of dried food.
It wasn't a bad way to live. You can do a lot of fun stuff when you are not followed by a ravenous beast slavering for meat and blood.
Now she is awake. She wants out. She is roaring and rattling the bars of the cage.
The noise makes it hard to think.
I keep reminding her that desire is the root of all suffering. She doesn't seem to care much about enlightenment.
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The last time I played
For reasons that are boring to anyone but me, I have not bottomed in about 5 years.
I went to a BDSM event this past weekend, and met a stunning black dominant from S Florida. He was charming and funny. So off we went.
We started off with some rope bondage. Nice, but not as good as kayaking. hen the cross. Some pretty floggers came out of the toy bag. Hmm. Not bad. But not up there with a good book.
Then the bastard hit me hard.
I practically moved the cross across the floor. I KNOW I saw red. He came up behind me, grabbed me by the hair, and whispered, "You want to kick my ass right now, don't you?"
"Yesssssssssss," I hissed.
"Then come and get it," he said, and unsnapped the quick releases on the cuffs.
I charged across the floor at him, growling. He flipped me. I caught my breath, and attacked again. This time, I got a death grip with my thighs. I got him down, but he quickly flipped me again.
After that, it was a blur. Sweat, growls, rug burns, my naked skin against his leather, his hand pulling my head back as I tried to bite his ear.
Finally, his hand around my neck, choking off my air supply as he whispered in my ear.
"Uncle?" he said.
"For now," I replied. |
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My profile says:
1) I don't do chat (that's why we have cell phones)
2) I don't correspond with people who don't send me a picture (For me, this is about chemistry. If there is no physical attraction, we will never be more than friends, and I don't collect friends on-line)
3) I will not spend months exchanging emails. Write me when you can meet within 2 weeks.
If you disapprove, feel that is rude or unsubmissive, that's fine. But why waste your time writing me?
Move along. Nothing to see here. |
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One tiny suggestion: If you are going to post a web cam picture on your profile, make sure the background is not full of dirty underwear and crushed beer cans.
Humbly, |
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The BDSM journey is one of constant evolution. I am always learning new things about myself. The most recent? TEETH. I have discovered that teeth are a can't-do-without-quality in a dominant. Who knew? |
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SELF rocked! As soon as I got there, I realized it was 95% gay leathermen. Since it was abundantly clear I was NOT going to find Dom Right, I was able to surrender, relax, wear my pajamas and Converse to the workshops, and be incredibly social. Met lots of cool people, ate lots of good food, and laughed a lot.
Also spent some time wishing I was a gay male; they suck cock, have anal sex, play rough, and slut around like crazy. The good life, ya know?
Next stop ... Bash on the Bay |
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Three of my best friends and I are heading to Atlanta next week for Southeast Leather Fest. If you are going, please say "Hi!" |
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Another "I love your eyes!" email in my inbox.
What to say?
"I love your psychic ability to see my eyes even though they are not pictured on my profile."?
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Still dreaming.
I'm a simple country girl with very simple needs:
1) a funny, smart, sexy man who KNOWS he's a man, and;
2) knows that I am his devoted and obedient fuckmeat.
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Some guy sent me an email, and then a second email a few minutes, later accusing me of ignoring him.
And THEN blocked my response.
Thus proving both Darwin AND Barnum right!*
*(CanadianDom, 2007) |
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Dreaming like a Texan girl ....
Did I tell you I was lying by the way
When I said I wanted a new mink coat.
I was just thinking about something sleek
To wrap around my tender throat
I was dreaming like a Texan girl
A girl who thinks she's got the right to everything.
A girl who thinks she should have something extreme.
I love to listen to Beethoven (Eurythmics)
Apparently, at the moment, God does not want me to have everything.
Only one thing to do ... ta da! Enter ...Shoe Ho!
Bought a pair of utterly useless black high heel sandals, so high you can only walk to bed in them.
I may not have everything, but I DID get something extreme! |
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Where's my Daddy? I'm overwhelmed, overworked, stressed, and sick (physically). I need a lap and a strong pair of arms and a deep voice saying "It's OK, baby."
It would sure make a nice change of pace from being my own knight in shining armor. Sigh. A girl can dream, can't she? . |
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Notes:
"Size queen " does not mean "queen size." Size queen means "I like big cocks." Queen size means "I am big." Pay attention. It is YOUR size under discussion here, not mine.
Feeling the urge to ask me "how kinky are you?" If you send me an email saying that and nothing else, the answer is "Not as kinky as I am bitchy." And I block your ass.
Being really kinky requires some imagination and some intelligence. An email saying "I am kinky too" immediately eliminates you from consideration. Thank you for saving me further effort.
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Goody (1997) ran 4 fake personal ads. 1) beautiful waitress (600 + replies), 2) average looking female attorney (200 + replies), 3) unattractive male attorney (67 reples), 4) handsome male cab driver (15 replies).
Hmm. Actually, if I look at it as a buyers market (I want a handsome cab driver) rather than a seller's market, I'm in luck. |
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I'm pretty sure that light at the end of the tunnel is not a train ....
I think I am coming out of my grief.
Last weekend I loaded the dogs and the camping gear in the car, put a kayak on the roof, and headed into the woods.
That night, as I sat by the fire with my loyal doggie companions (loyal to the hopes of getting some of my stew), I had "a moment".
I don't know how to describe it: a sudden recognition? A 'flash-bulb memory'? epiphany?
Anyway, I suddenly remembered who I was.
Ever since Mom died, I have been so sad, so fragile, so dislocated. Somewhere along the line in these last 4 months I started thinking that 'sad, fragile, dislocated' described me.
Sitting by the fire, alone in the wilderness (except for my loyal doggie companions, of course) I suddenly remembered who and what I really am; bold, brave, beautiful, courageous, competent, brilliant, adrenaline junkie, humble.
Oh yeah! THAT'S me! Welcome back.
I promptly signed up for some racecar driving classes at the local track, a trip to whitewater in Costa Rica, went back on my diet, and started looking for a hot man.
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Heading to the Bahamas. Thank you sweet Jesus. I need a break. |
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My mom died a month ago today. I am not touching that topic. Not now. The pain is too much.
But there are still interesting (to me) peripheral observations to be made:
M is the one person I expected to be there, totally counted on. She bailed on me. Vanished. People tell me "She probably doesn't know how to deal and so she ran. Forgive her." Maybe someday. But right now, all I can feel is I can't afford people in my life who "don't know how to deal" when the chips fall.
S is flew in from New Mexico. E from Colorado. B babysat me while the ex ran errands. T drove 200 miles to spend the night. And it all did make me feel better. It doesn't fix the loss, but it helps with the fear. The fear of never ever being loved the way my mom loved me. Nobody is going to love me like that. But I have so many people in my life who want to try. I am blessed.
Once "business was taken care of" (another topic to be addressed some other time when I am not so raw), my first reaction was to go kayaking. Did a 6 hour paddle with E. I was paddling along and thought "My first reaction to this pain was not to get high, not to get drunk, not to shop, not to over eat. It was to exercise! Holy shit. Sanity is sneaking up on me." I did, however, take Hostess HoHos on the river with me. No point in getting carried away with this sanity stuff.
My Dad. Oh shit. Can't touch that yet, either. But if you are a praying person, pray for him. His pain is frightening.
I have strength that amazes me sometimes. I don't see myself as strong, but when the occasion called for it, I rose to the occasion. The ceremony was over, and they wanted to hand my Dad my Mom's casket to place in the niche, and my Dad couldn't do it. Just shook his head and cried. I took the casket, kissed it, said "I love you, Mom" and placed it in the wall, then took my Dad's hand, held it, and said, "Let's pray for a minute." Who IS that woman?
I can get over myself when I need to. I managed to be there for my Dad, drove over 13 hours hauling him from home to the cemetery and back, spent the night, made him eat, turned down a LARGE sum of money (he wanted to give me the house as he doesn't feel he can live in it anymore), was patient, loving, and fully present. ( I kept thinking how much D/s has helped in other areas of my life. "Being of service" was my default mode.)
Religion doesn't comfort me. The priest's words ment nothing to me. I couldn't even begin to believe them. Heaven? Angels? Jesus Christ? None of it was anything I could relate to. Next funeral, I am going with a physicist; conservation of energy, transformation of matter, the laws of thermodynamics ... all THAT would have helped a lot.
Death makes me crave sex. I want to fuck. Have been eating instead.
I spent the weekend tuning up my Mom's sewing box. Cleaned it, oiled it, patched it. And cried. I miss her. I miss her.
God wrote me. He knows me so well. He said:
if you spend time near an airfield late at night, and you lie on your back under the flight path of jets, you will find (if you listen carefully) that once the roar of the engines has passed, there is a much quieter sound. it's the whispering noise of the sky returning to itself.
Slowly, the jets are passing. But the echo of the afterburners still play in my head.
I am in the between time. The ending of the old and not quite into the new. The waiting room. I want my mom. |
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Another "slaves should not have limits" rant in a profile on here. I agree that slaves don't have limits with their owners. But that doesn't mean they go through life without limits for their children, bosses, co-workers, neighbors, and friends. If someone is on here looking for a Master, that means they don't HAVE one. That means they should have lots of limits. I have limits. As a friend of mine said, "Pick your Master wisely ... it might be the last decision you ever make." |
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My inner-Pollyanna is alive and well today. In fact, she speaks:
I first came across the term "mental model" when studying human-computer interaction. A mental model is an internal representation of an external reality that is built from knowledge of prior experience, schema segments, perception, and problem-solving strategies.
Mental models change as a result of learning (in the sense of "a relatively permanent change in behavior as a result of experience:) For example, our earliest models placed us at the center of the universe. As we grow, hopefully this changes.
I try to look at this process, this experience, of being on this site as "mental model development" rather than "a waste of time."
Every person I meet teaches me something. Each interaction helps me form a better, more accurate mental model of what I want. |
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I love reading other people's journal entries. They are so much more revealing than profiles.
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The wilderness was wonderful. I woke up at sunrise and drank coffee watching the sun come up over the mountains.
I kayaked Class 3 and 4 rivers all day. Clear water, so cold you had to wear a wet suit. Red rock canyons. Big horn sheep. 6 foot waterfalls I shot in my Wave Sport. Lunch of fruit and cheese and avacados while perched on a rock with the river roaring by.
Hot tea at camp watching the sun go down, and then curling up[ in my sleeping bag as the temp dropped to the low 50's.
I saw 4 people in 7 days. I didn't miss them. I wasn't lonely. I was content and at peace.
The minute I came home, I felt alone. |
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I really am not looking right now. |
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Getting ready to head out into the woods for a week; just me, my backpack, my tent.
Curious to see how my taste for solitude holds up under prolonged exposure. |
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So far, my quest to become vanilla isn't working too well.
I seem to have taken "lead or get out of the way" to heart.
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I have only had one Master, and he was gay. Odd? In some ways, yes. We never played or had sex, which is a big part of D/s to me. On the other hand, he was brilliant, honorable, self-disciplined, and totally able to resist my wiles; an even bigger part of D/s.
We are still very good friends. He has cancer, and I go see him and give him massages and pedicures.
He says he will beat me if I cry over him. He doesn't have the strength to beat me any more. I don't cry because he doesn't want me to, and crying would be self-indulgent. My purpose is to serve, not snivel. I can cry on my own time.
But it is some of the hardest service he has ever had me do.
No idea why I posted this, except I am feeling sad.
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Inter-species bonding
Took my girls to the dog park this afternoon to let them romp.
This fat old cocker spanial kept following Mitzi around and trying to hump her. She kept dodging him, but finally gave up and bit him.
I knew just how she felt. |
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Perfection:
Perfection would be having a bunch of highly monagamous partners.
:) |
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Met the most delicious sadist at this party. Handsome, smart, funny. We flirted madly. He told me I was stunning. I told him he was, too. He said he desired me. I said the feeling was mutual. He said he wanted to beat me. I said I wanted to be beaten.
Then he said "You will suffer much more if I don't beat you, and beat someone else instead."
And walked away.
Yummy |
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Topping from the bottom
"Topping from the bottom" is right up there with "true submissive" for statements that make my skin crawl. If I am topping you, I am topping from the top, not the bottom.
If I am topping you, YOU have lost control. That means YOU are not the top, I am.
"Topping from the bottom" is simply your way of trying to blame me for your lack of control.
Stop it. Right now. |
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Went to a party this weekend. A dominant approached me and began reciting from the BDSM 101 manual.
"What is the most important ingredient in a BMSM relationship?" he asked?
"Hmmm," I replied. "Cock size?"
"No! TRUST!" he snarled.
"I think trust is highly over-rated." I said. "To me, trust is just another version of control. What 'trust' means is 'I am confident that you will not do anything I don't want you to do'. I trust you not to cheat on me, disrespect me, hurt me in ways I don't like, and to make me happy. I'd much prefer NOT trusting you. It is more interesting."
"And the second most important ingedient?" he said.
"A hearing aid? I am obviously talking to myself." |
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Regarding my last couple entries:
All Doms are not jerks. All Doms are not married. All Doms are not self-centered.
If they were, I wouldn't be on here looking for one!
A brilliant, spiritual, kinky, masterful man makes life worth living in my world. And they do exist.
I've just been running into more than my fair share of wankers lately. |
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Dear submissives; I am psychic.
Don't believe me? Try this: the next time a dom demands to chat with you, see how closely the conversation matches my prediction.
Him: My name is Lord XXX. Turn on your web cam.
You: I don't have one
Him: Your first task as my slave is to buy a web cam. Do you understand me?
Him: By the way, what is your name?
the next day
Him: Well slave, did you get your web cam as I instructed/demanded?
You: Yes Sir
Him: Well turn it on. I wish to inspect my property.Take your clothes off and kneel. HEY! WAKE UP! I said take off your clothes and kneel.
Yawn |
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Chat. Chat baffles me. It is a time consuming process, prone to mis-communication, and - since all non-verbal cues are missing - leads the participants to "fill in the gaps" from their own imaginations.
Why bother?
If you like each other enough to want to get to know more, why not use the phone? I don't get it.
(Must add that to the relatively huge list of things I don't get.) |
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Are YOU worthy? I get emails all the time asking me if I am worthy to be someone's slave. Good question. I love it when the honest answer is "no." Shivers. That's HOT.
Unfortunately, not very many doms seem to ask themselves if THEY are worthy to be my owner. They really should.
I will be perfectly frank; I love doing service for people I adore. I love making them happy, comfortable, content.
But I do NOT wake up in the morning thinking "Gee, I hope I get to do some service for someone today." Or "I wish I had a Master so I could mop some floors."
BDSM, at its core, is about SEX for me. The D/s provides the framework, the structure, the context for sadomasochistic sex.
The service orientation comes out of the adoration; it is not "natural" for me. How do you become someone I adore? By being brilliant, lion-hearted, funny, and giving me 15-20 mind-blowing orgasms in one afternoon.
If your idea of sex is 5 minutes in the missonary position, I am not going to adore you. My idea of sex is 3-4 hour romps that leave me covered in sweat, cum, blood, tears.
You get one chance to make a first impression. Rest up.
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No chat. No chat . No chat.
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"I r inteligant, sucksesful dominate. U wil neel at MY feet and thank ME 4 letting u warsh MY floors."
Err. No. I will sit at MY desk with MY red pen in hand and correct your writing.
Or, maybe, just delete your mail. |
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In the grips of PMS. Where is that Daddy? I need a lap, a pat on the back, and probably a spanking ...I am having one of those recurrent "Queen of the Universe" delusions. |
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Horrible day. I need a Daddy. Make that "I NEED a Daddy!" |
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What's up with this married men thing? When a married man writes me, what is he thinking?
"She is a masochist. She will love spending Christmas, New Year's and Thanksgiving alone while I am at home with my wife."
"I'm so fantastic that even an occasional couple of hours 'on-the-side' with me is better than having a full-time relationship of her own."
"She's a submissive. That means she is sex-starved and totally devoid of morality. She won't blink an eye at helping someone to cheat in exchange for some cock."
"There's nothing more domly than a man who sneaks around to get what he wants instead of shaping his life to meet his needs."
"When I tell her my wife is vanilla, and therefore I am deprived, she will feel sorry for me and nothing makes a woman hot like pity. Especially woman who like dominant men."
Did I miss something? They have got to be thinking something.
I know! "I wanta get laid, I wanta get laid, I wanta get ...."
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Hopkins - Carrion Comfort
Not, I'll not, carrion comfort, Despair, not feast on thee;
Not untwist -- slack they may be -- these last strands of man In me or, most weary, cry I can no more. I can;
Can something, hope, wish day come, not choose not to be
But ah, but O thou terrible, why wouldst thou rude on me Thy wring-world right foot rock? Lay a lionlimb against me? scan with darksome devouring eyes my bruised bones? and fan, O in turns of tempest, me heaped there; me frantic to avoid thee and flee? Not to be.
Why? That my chaff might fly; my grain lie, sheer and clear. Nay in all that toil, that coil, since (seems) I kissed the rod, Hand rather, my heart lo! lapped strength, stole joy, would laugh, cheer.
Cheer whom though? The hero whose heaven-handling flung me, foot trod Me? Or me that fought him? O which one? is it each one?
That night, that year Of now done darkness wretch lay wrestling with (my God!) my God.
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T.S. Eliot
April is the cruelest month, breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain.
Winter kept us warm, covering
Earth in forgetful snow, feeding
A little life with dried tubers.
And when we were children, staying at the arch-duke's,
My cousin's, he took me out on a sled,
And I was frightened. He said, Marie,
Marie, hold on tight. And down we went.
In the mountains, there you feel free.
I read, much of the night, and go south in winter.
Come in under the shadow of this red rock),
And I will show you something different from either
Your shadow at morning striding behind you
Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you; I will show you fear in a handful of dust.
I am a scientist and a philistine. What I know about poetry can be written on a match head, and leave enough room for several dozens of angels (or strippers) to dance.
But there are a couple of lines that reach out and grab me, besides the always popular "fear in a handful of dust":
April is the cruelest month, breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain.
Winter kept us warm, covering
Earth in forgetful snow, feeding
A little life with dried tubers
To me, that is about the rebirth of hope and desire and longing after a season of keeping all those underground, in hibernation, in abeyance, in the peaceful sleep of near death.
And with the rebirth comes pain. Memory and desire springing forth full blown.
I don't want Spring. Give me Winter, please.
In the mountains, there you feel free.
I read, much of the night, and go south in winter.
Holy Mary! Those lines rip my heart out. That's me. |
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I was Attacked by Strippers
Last night I was invited to go to a strip club. A strip club packed to the rafters with men in a testosterone-based male-bonding frenzy.
Any place packed to the rafters with testosterone charged men is OK with me, so off I went.
Add to the already potent mix:
* 50-75 absolutely gorgeous young nymphets with no clothes on
* loud music (80's rock no less, so I could sing along)
* alcohol flowing like the heavenly clear waters down a Colorado mountain side
* a friend who thought it would be entertaining to buy a bunch of lap dances for me.
I had naked woman all over me. Naked woman in my crotch, naked woman squeezing my breasts, naked woman nibbling on my neck.
Lesson learned: It is incredibly hard to be "cool" when drowning in strippers.
My life flashed before my eyes. As I was going down for the third time, luckily something a friend once told me flashed across working memory: just go ahead and be a fool. Strippers like fools.
So I did. I told them I was in love. I begged them to go home with me. I asked them if I could spank them. Cough. I sucked on their nipples and moaned. Then I went ahead and spanked them.
So, they stole my dignity. But I had a great time. I have dignity to spare, and not nearly enought great times.
Must go back ASAP and practice fighting them off.
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So, I met a guy from here for dinner. When I arrived at the restaurant, he was waiting by the front door. I'm not sure if it was because he was being polite, or because he needed me to open the door for him. as he was in a (previously unmentioned) wheelchair.
Turns out he can no longer walk due to a back injury.
THAT is not a problem. D/s is in the mind. Cock is easy to find. And pain doesn't turn me on.
What IS a problem is the fact that he never mentioned it. Depite the fact that my profile makes it fairly clear that I am into outdoor adventure.
What is a HUGE PROBLEM is the mind set behind not mentioning it. It must run something like this: "I will be so charming she will never notice the wheelchair." Or maybe "Once I hit her with the full force of my domly personality, the fact that I lied by omission will be irrelevant."
Too much denial for me to deal with. I'm drowning in my own, thank you very much. |
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I am not REAL. I am fake. In fact, I am inflatable, with life-like skin, and run off batteries. If you are REAL you want to avoid me at all costs, as the only REAL thing about me is my REALLY bad attitude.
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I've decided to give vanilla another try. There has been much snickering and eye-rolling in response to this announcement by my friends, since submission IS me.
Understandably. My last attempt was a mess ... complete with freaked out man telling me I had "hormonal problems" as he ran out of the house.
But that was me trying to convert vanilla. This time, I will focus on converting myself.
Why? Glad you asked. Over the weekend I worked on a little consulting job. My clients were all men, and all of them charming, funny, healthy, smart.
I don't think I have EVER been to a BDSM gathering where the majority, or even a sizable minority, of the men were any of those things.
Much more common are descriptors like: fat, inappropriately dressed, underemployed, smokers, erectile dysfunction
To top it off, not ONCE did I hear:
you exist for MY pleasure
it's all about me
don't try topping from the bottom
you are not being submissive
you will worship me
your pleasure comes from serving me
are you worthy to be my slave
Holy smokes! I actually had intelligent, challenging, interesting conversations. I flirted. I fluttered my eyelashes. I preened. I didn't have to bite my lip, refrain from rolling my eyes, or stifle my inward groans.
It was wonderful.
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I have a quirk or two. Yep. Hard to believe, but I do. One of my quirks is that I correlate dominance and decisiveness. If you decide you are interested in me, then I assume you will want to meet fairly quickly. If the time before the first meeting drags on too long ... over a couple of weeks ...I assume you are: 1) not all that interested, 2) playing some kind of cyber wanker game, 3) married and having a hard time with your schedule, or 4) scared. None of those are attractive options. |
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Computer program redux: taught, trained, guided, MY pleasure |
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Before they get to a human being, many resumes are now screened by computer programs that look for keywords. If I had such a program for CollarMe, it would automatically delete profiles that include:
Sir, Master, Lord, slaves (notice the s), true, real, discrete, married, kind and gentle, alpha sub, chat, and any form of whining about "they don't answer my email" |
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Important information:
I do not want to chat.
I am not interested in dating a switch.
I prefer younger men (although it is not written in stone; it is more about attitude, general health, and sexual enthusiasm than age).
If you are athletic, adventurous, in good health, and constantly horny, your age is irrelevant.
And I think the W/we D/do T/this S/slashy S/stuff is S/silly. And Gor? Oh dear.
And if you write me to tell me I am too demanding, not submissive enough, or have unrealistic expectations, I will chuckle, and wonder why I am so important to you. Don't embarrass yourself. |
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I took a break from this site for a couple of months; I felt like I was getting too cynical.
Restored and refreshed, I am trying again.
Couple of things I should point out: 1) I am VERY athletic and seek a partner who is as well. 2) I have no desire to chat with strangers. Email me. If we click, let's talk on the phone. 3) Unless you live more than 1000 miles away, I expect to meet within 2 weeks. I'm not looking for a penpal or cyber fantasy. 4) if you refer to yourself in the third person, or do T/this S/slashy thing ... don't. |
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I had a perfect day.
For the first time ever, Thanksgiving dinner was at my son's house. I did all my crying about "My baby is gone!" "He's all grown up!" long before this, so I wasn't too sad. Instead I focused on all the cool stuff: No cleaning. No cooking. No dishes. No stress.
I loaded up the dogs, put the top down on the car, started the new Stones CD, and headed down the road. It was an amazing day; the weather was beautiful, the sky was clear blue, the sun was shining but the air still had a nip.
When I got to his house, my parents were there, the food was ready, the house was clean, the table was set. I was so proud of him, and of me. I DID do this mothering thing pretty damn well.
I looked around the room and thought that all the people I love the most (yes, that includes the dogs) are here. For this moment in time, I have everything I need and everything I want. What a sense of peace and contentment.
I had a perfect day. |
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Went out to dinner last night with a girl friend who is in a lot of pain. Nothing like being with someone who has a real crisis to make you feel ashamed about wallowing in your imaginary ones.
I had been in a mope yesterday; had to deal with some problems at work that involved confrontation (eeck).
GREAT problems to have. Once again, getting out of self to help others is the cure for what ails me.
What if a demon were to creep after you one night, in your loneliest loneliness, and say, 'This life which you live must be lived by you once again and innumerable times more; and every pain and joy and thought and sigh must come again to you, all in the same sequence. The eternal hourglass will again and again be turned and you with it, dust of the dust!' Would you throw yourself down and gnash your teeth and curse that demon? Or would you answer, 'Never have I heard anything more divine'? (Nietzsche)
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A fierce storm woke me up last night.. The wind was howling and the rain was lashing against the windows so hard the windows were rattling. I was in my warm bed, with a furry dog body curled up on each side of me. I didn't want to go back to sleep; I was so content I wanted to stay awake to savor it. So I did.
Not feeling so great this morning, but the memory was worth the tiredness.
Speaking of tiredness, sometimes I get lonely or scared or just plain tired, and it is tempting to go back into old patterns; they are familiar and comforting. Especially old relationships and old ways of thinking. But as a friend of mine told me last night, "How is the universe supposed to take your desire for peace and joy seriously, if you allow insanity in your life?"
She is right. What I want in my life are things like: the joy of a warm dry bed on a cold rainy night; a houseful of family for Thanksgiving; the anticipation of a kayak trip this coming weekend; the challenge of teaching myself something new; and the ability to be content.
Drama and suffering are addicting. They provide such a chemical high, such intensity, such a rush. They allow us to control our experience; don't like what you are feeling? Hey! Have some pain to take your mind off it!
I have worked so hard to break the addiction to suffering. Relapse is not an option.
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I am getting things ready for Thanksgiving; cooking, cleaning, polishing silver. I love the holidays. I love having my family all here, being together, knowing the center holds.
I am also done with my "word of the week" exercise, and am moving on the the next step; visualizing my desires. One of the things I like to keep in mind is that my desires are mine, and not the same as everyone else's. That doesn't mean other people's are wrong, inferior, or "fake" ... just different. I see so many profiles ranting about "fakes" and "game players." Part of that comes from thinking that your way is the only way ... that will lead to some incredible frustration. If you keep in mind that we all search, but not necessarily for the same thing, acceptance is easier. And acceptance is the bedrock of peace.
Something that has puzzled me: shouldn't dominance inside the bedroom be somehow correlated with dominance outside the bedroom? I run into a lot of dominants who actually seem to be compensating for their lack of dominance in the real world by role playing dominance behind closed doors.
I actually want a dominant who is dominant nonsexually as well.
But maybe that is unfair? I am only submissive behind closed doors, and I know in part my submission is a way of compensating for my dominance. Maybe I should not expect dominance in both areas, any more than I can provide submission in both.
If so, I could be in big trouble. I like power. All kinds. Fast cars, fighter planes, intense spitituality, prestigious jobs, physical strength, astonishing beauty, biting wit, shining intelligence. Mediocrity doesn't turn me on. (LOL. No ...I don't expect anyone to have ALL of those. One would do)
I would love some input on this. Maybe I read too many romance novels as a child? Maybe I am being unrealistic? Maybe this really all is just roleplay, and I am taking it all too seriously? |
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Daddy Doms. Purrrrrr. I want a Master who is a Monster in the bedroom, and a Daddy outside it. Strict, controlling, loving in day-to-day life, and my worst nightmare in bed. |
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BDSM is tied to sex for me. I guess I assumed it was for everyone, so I never thought to clarify that. Once again, I was wrong. Sheesh. Being wrong happens a lot; you would think I would get used to it.
I see D/s as 24/7. I like control and discipline and degradation as a part of my daily life. But I also find all of it erotic, which means that sex is a component of it for me.
What I am trying to say - ever so politely - is that the thrill of moping your floor is probably not going to be enough for me. And if you are one of those Doms who thinks my needs and desires don't matter? NEWSFLASH: Mother Theresa is dead, and I am not her. |
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I've been thinking about 'service' and being 'service-oriented.'
There is a theory of social interaction that suggests there are two kinds of norms; communal and exchange.
Exchange norms are what most of us have with each other. I give, you give. Probably the most simple example of this is Christmas cards. We tend to send cards to people who send them to us, and don't send cards to people who never reciprocate.
Communal norms exist when one gives without any thought of getting in return. Parent/child relationships tend to be like that. One gives, with no expectations of the other person giving anything back. The pleasure, the gratification, comes from the giving.
When I adore someone, I want to give; pleasing them is my reward. It is a communal norm in operation. If I hardly know you, then, frankly, pleasing you is not all that thrilling. Think "exchange." So, please don't assume that I squirm with delight at the thought of service until such a point where you have become my God.
At this point in the game, it is an exchange relationship. I expect to give ... and get. If I don't get, I won't be back. If you are unreliable, self-centered, or unpredictable at this point in the dance (when one assumes you are on your best behavior), what will you be like later? Yikes! |
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"Abundance" was this week's word, and it was easy. Abundance was evident everywhere in my life, all I had to do was stop and look. |
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Cough. I hate being mean. But I am looking for a Master. A Master ... and the edge. Psychological reshaping, not a spanking. Slavery, not kink. And 24/7, not a "slut on the side."
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Marx said: Man makes religion, religion does not make man. Religion is, indeed, the self-consciousness and self-esteem of man who has either not yet won through to himself, or has already lost himself again.
Religious suffering is, at one and the same time, the expression of real suffering and a protest against real suffering. Religion is the sigh of the oppressed creature, the heart of a heartless world, and the soul of soulless conditions. It is the opium of the people. |
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From the essay On Probability and Possibility from the book The Liife of the Cell:
Statistically, the probability of any one of us being here is so small that you'd think the mere fact of existing would keep us all in a contented dazzlement of surprise. We are alive against the stupendous odds of genetics, infinitely outnumbered by all the alternates who might, except for luck, be in our places.
Even more astounding is our statistical improbability in physical terms. The normal, predictable state of matter throughout the universe is randomness, a relaxed sort of equilibrium, with atoms and their particles scattered around in an amorphous muddle. We, in brilliant contrast, are completely organized structures, squirming with information at every covalent bond. We make our living by catching electrons at the moment of their excitement by solar photons, swiping the energy released at the instant of each jump and storing it up in intricate loops for ourselves. We violate probability, by our nature. To be able to do this systemically, and in such wild varieties of form, from viruses to whales, is extremely unlikely; to have sustained the effort successfully for the several billion years of our existence, without drifting back into randomness, was nearly a mathematical impossibility.
Add to this the biological improbability that makes each member of our own species unique. Everyone is one in 3 billion at the moment, which describes the odds. Each of us is a self-contained, free-standing individual, labeled by specific protein configurations at the surfaces of cells, identifiable by whorls of fingertip skin, maybe even by special medleys of fragrance. You'd think we'd never stop dancing. |
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The First Law of Thermodynamics says you cannot win. The Second Law says you can't change the rules. The Third Law says you have to play.
The game is rigged. Might as well sit back, relax, and enjoy the ride. |
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My body is talking to me. Not sure what it is saying, but I seem to hear the word "blood" ...
Found a nice quote today: There is a great deal of pain in life and perhaps the only pain that can be avoided is the pain that comes from trying to avoid pain. -- R.D. Laing
My book order came in. Just started a book by Gurdjieff; "Beelzebub's Tales to His Grandson: An Objectively Impartial Criticism of the Life of Man"; it is making me cranky. Ordered a book on Tantric Sex and it finally arrived. They tell me the wait will make the book even better. {smirk}
I am loving this journal. My best friend said, "What are you trying to do with it? Run them off?" I said "Yes." That isn't really true, though. Just trying to make the mesh on the filter a little finer. |
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The best predictor of future behavior is past behavior. The way you treat me during your pursuit of me is the only data I have to make predictions about your future behavior as my Master. If you don't have the time or inclination to seduce me, than you won't have the time or inclination to keep me. If you don't follow through now, you certainly won't later. If you are going to be my God, I need to choose wisely. It is in my best interests that you be at least a somewhat considerate God. |
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This week's word is "abundance." Abundance is much easier than hope. I resonnate with abundance :)
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I am very submissive, which can be wonderful, but can also cause problems. One of the ways that I protect myself is the following: I only take orders from my Master. Please do not write me and send me commands. I will not comply, and I probably won't answer you. Both of those will make me feel bad. The same holds true for chat requests. If I answered all the chat requests I would spend my life on the computer. That isn't a good life choice for me (or anyone else). |
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Thank you to everyone who wrote encouraging words regarding hope ... by doing so you gave me lots! |
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Not doing so good at practicing hope. *cough* That is actually an understatement; I am wallowing in self-pity today. |
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This week's word is "hope." Yech. I struggle with that one. How to put hope into action? Having a profile on here is practicing hope. I am sending out resumes; I guess that reflects hope. I keep on trucking ... despite the fact that it sometimes is a very strange trip. Hope. |
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Staying in the moment is hard. The imaginary future, the revised past; both are better drugs. Reminds me od some lines from a song by A3: For whatever reason you refuse to feel this space we're in, to know its insanity; whatever your anesthetic is, that you hold onto so desperate (the thing that makes you think you know who you are); whatever that thing is you allow to keep you sane, your ace in the hole, the psyche that keeps you trying to guess what your pimp has in store for you; whatever keeps you from screaming out at this very moment in absolute and sheer horror; whatever you fuck your brain with; whatever that is — It's a lie. |
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Celebration. That's my word for the week. Celebrating the joy, love, and goodness in my life. And yours. Hope you are having a GREAT life ... I suspect it is the only one you get.
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Been feeling really good. I do a lot of spiritual/meditation work, and found a new instructor about a month ago. Have felt such a sense of joy for the last couple weeks, such an awareness of how absolutely wonderful it is to be alive, how grateful I am that my path is mine.
I have met a couple of cool people on here as well (which adds to the joy ... I am a slut-pig, after all). No idea if any of them are going to be "the one" but am pretty darn sure they are going to be good friends. |
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A sense of wonder, the ability to be astonished at the daily miracles, the willingness to celebrate the moment ... all are characteristics that I treasure and strive to hang onto. Sometimes it is hard .. it is so much easier to become cynical. But cynicism is for the cowardly, and I don't like cowardice in myself or in others. Einstein said "We have two choices: to live as if everything is a miracle or as if nothing is." I chose the miracle. (At least today ... grin) |
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From an essay by Kingsolver: If you ask me, when something extraordinary shows up in your life in the middle of the night, you give it a name and make it the best home you can.
Nothing extraordinary has shown up in my life recently, except joy. That's enough. |
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I love being allowed to be submissive. I love it when life allows me to put down the mask of aggressive competence and be my gentle/sweet self. It's even better when someone's dominance calls my submission out to play by providing a place where submission is honored (and dominance adored) |
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Spent the weekend with a bunch of friends from South Florida who came up to indulge in some electricity. The trust, the ability to be vulnerable, the faith that I share with these friends is so precious. I cannot imagine any kind of relationship - D/s or not - that doesn't have those as its foundation. |
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I am very interested in being honorable, in living with integrity and courage, and in persuing a well-examined life. You should be, too.
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Sending me an email that says "How are we supposed to get to know each other if you won't chat?" tells me a lot about you. Primarily, it tells me I am not interested, because you have already managed to bore me. |
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I am into D/s. Kinky sex and bondage are fun, but I am looking for control. Very strict control.
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I REALLY do not want to chat until I know a little about you. Please don't ask, or don't get offended if I don't respond. |
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I really like emails. They tell me a lot about a man:
Can he ask intelligent questions that spark discussion?
Does he know how to seduce with words? Does he have the basics of grammar and spelling?
Can he be erotic without being offensive?
That's why I don't do chat until I've developed some interest in you.
If writing an email is too much work, then you probably don't have the time and energy for me, anyway.
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| Age: 30 |
| Kansas City,
Missouri |
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