Talking to "Normal" People

Sometimes I chat with people on the Loving More Chat site. Not often. I quite often find the place deadly quiet or else just plain dull, but sometimes I pop in there and find one or two interesting folks talking about something besides meeting up to get it on (it is after all a chat room for people into polyamory, however people define that)...

Last evening, I encountered a man there who seemed well educated and interesting. We started off talking about his "second career" endeavors into spiritual healing and the work of McFetridge. He told me about a book by this author called "Peak States of Consciousness" and detailed his studies in this field and his hopes to become a healer.

As we talked, a woman entered the room for just a few minutes. She was there just long enough to catch on to our conversation, engage just a little bit, and then pose a question of her own: "what did we know about hierarchy in poly relationships?" I told her I wasn't sure exactly how she was using the word and asked her to describe her own relationship so I could better understand what she meant. She replied that she was wife 2 and secondary; that wife number 1 was primary and also had the power to decide whether their husband would take on additional wives whether she liked it or not. At that point, she said she had been requested to go get food for the family and had to leave. The man I'd been chatting with told her it seemed to him that she was uncomfortable in her home, and she replied that that was true, and she was gone...

The two of us were left pondering for a moment, and I commented that it seemed the lady might be involved in some sort of power exchange relationship, and that she did not seem entirely at ease with it. He agreed, and said that, although he was always reluctant to encourage people to leave relationships, he felt that egalitarian relationships were the only kind that could be healthy.

I found his comment a bit extreme, and explained that I was in a power exchange relationship, and believed that it was indeed healthy and strong. We proceeded to discuss the nature of the relationship between Master and I, both in practical terms, and from my perspective of that life choice as "transformative."

I explained to him that our M/s relationship is founded on an acknowledgment and response by both of us of our inherent sexual/erotic orientations. I explained to him that I'd lived many years in what the society views as a "normal" sexual relationship, and that doing that required me to deny and suppress and hide my true nature and self in ways that were demeaning and damaging, that it is THIS relationship that allows me to express who I really am without hiding, deceit, or shame. I also described to him that, in my view, all relationships engage in power exchange (even those that seem very mundane). It is simply that we choose to handle our power exchange consciously and deliberately and with intent. This, I told him is about my "identity."

I also told him that M/s relies on openness and integrity and transparency. It eliminates the sort of game playing that is so often a common feature of relationships in the "normal" realm. Because all of who I am is given to my partner, I am obliged to give Him all of my responses, all my reactions, all of my feelings, needs, fears, desires. What He chooses to do about these things is His part of the equation. Mine is the giving.

I explained that part of the path for me is about remaining "humble." That submitting to the will of another is an exercise in remaining aware of who I am. The collar I wear, the services I provide, the choices I am given or not given are all ways of reminding me that I have given my control and my power to another, and done so willingly.

Finally, I tried to explain to him about being obedient. I told him that, whatever I do, the measure of my success or failure comes down to the question of "did I obey?" It is the keystone of our M/s relationship. The basic agreement is that He can command/ask/order, and I have only to obey as best I am able. Beyond that effort, I might not make a success of it, but the attempt to obey is my measurement criteria.

The fellow was fine (well, mostly fine) until we got to that obey thing. On that bit, I could tell he was really stuck. Could I give him examples? I talked about simple things like what I eat and the chores I do. He was unconvinced. His wife does these things as he would do for her, and any sensible adult eats a healthy diet. I stepped up a notch. He understood the SM -- weird but OK. So I spoke to the nature of our polyamory; that while it might be that Master would find a partner to play with and not necessarily seek my "approval," I most assuredly would not make a relational pairing without His permission and approval. It is the nature of our dynamic.

That really did it.

He was immediately, aggressively hostile. He declared that he understood exactly what was going on here: We are engaged in a parent-child model where I have chosen to stay locked in a child-like state of codependency. Master has assumed the parental role and is enabling me to remain pathologically dependent on Him for decisions that no healthy adult would allow another to make for them. We all develop at different rates, but when people reach an age and have still not achieved independent and mature developmental adult status on their own, it is time to seek out professional help...

Shazzam!!!

I thanked him very much for his diagnosis. He quickly apologized for offending me. I told him that I was not offended; that I'd met narrow-minded, frightened people who were unwilling to learn anything beyond what their pre-conceived assumptions told them before this. I explained to him that those of us who practice BDSM were removed from the list of "pathologies" years ago, and that I'd fought long and hard to find personal acceptance for my sexuality and my orientation -- too long and too hard to be crammed back into that box by an arrogant, self-proclaimed "healer" who was too ignorant to recognize a teacher when one appeared in his life.

Then I thanked him for his time, wished him a lovely evening, expressed good wishes for his future endeavors, and logged off.

I may be pathological and co-dependent and locked in a childish relationship, but I do know my manners. Blech!!!!

swan

State of Mind

Paul commented on the last post: "I wonder at your state of mind."

It seems I have shown more of my "self" than I've believed. Those of you who read here regularly "read" what I don't even write...

The state of my mind, like the state of my body is shaken, weakened. I am not feeling strong, and that frightens me.

I am not finding it easy to define the way I am feeling these days. If I could put simple words to the sense of unsettledness and malaise, then I think it would be much simpler to address it. For me and for my family. As it is, I am finding myself not fitting with myself, and that is an "itchy" sort of feeling.

At the core of all of this is the question of who? I identify as "slave." It is not just something I do. It is who I am. What I am. I know that I am slave in the very depth of my being. Will be that as long as I draw breath. More than that I am His slave. The first is inherent. The last is gift and joy and honor. The one cannot be changed. The other could be wiped out in a breath.

I know, in my truest mind, that I've been difficult, fussy, hurt, self-absorbed, pissy, bitchy, bitter, angry, resentful, mistrustful, uncertain... A whole raft of ugly emotions these last weeks. Demanding that the promises made show up somehow, somewhere that I can see them. Give me some proof, that what everyone tells me is going to be an improvement in my life is not so much CRAP -- because I'm getting pretty damn tired of holding on to the hope that everyone wasn't just stringing me along with some sort of cruel joke. Mostly, Master has been patient and gentle with that insanity... Mostly. Insane slaves are just insane. What are you going to do? Beat them as you can and hope they get better quick.

I've gone to what I know. Identify. Wear my collar. Remember the things that remind me who I am. Serve as I can. Pour out my doubts as clearly as I can, and then try to really listen and believe Him when He tells me it will be better in time. Try and keep my mind quiet. Hold on. Read the things that calm me. Go deep inside to the times and practices that I know. Try and keep the voices that make me most crazy quiet.

I know I am not strong. I know how to be still, though. Sometimes, still can substitute for strong. If I can wait long enough, my strength will grow and I'll remember who I am again.

Ultimately, I know that I know how to hear the answers. I know I can do this. I know I don't have to be afraid. I know that I am doing the work of my slavery in these days, even if it looks shaky to me. I just have to keep on the path and not cut and run like the scared rabbit that I so feel like just now.

That is the "state of my mind," Paul.

swan

Slavery is for the Brave

Most of the last years of my formal religious association were with Quakers (Religious Society of Friends). There are factions to friends, but I spent my time with what unprogrammed Friends meetings, where the form of worship is nominally "silent," and where there is no formal or paid clergy.

I came to know, over my years with Friends, many amazing, good, dedicated people, who had lived their lives pursuing many worthy causes. Many of them do their work with great zeal and much good intent and good will.

As one who came to understand that I would forever strive and aspire to live up to the ideals that were embodied in the Quaker testimonies that I learned as I studied the faith and practices of Friends, I became, over the years I spent with them, a keen observer of Quaker culture. One phenomenon that I came to notice with fair regularity was that many lifelong Quakers lived their lives with one eye on their "memorial" service.

As with all other unprogrammed Friends worship services, Friends celebrate the end of life with a Meeting for Worship. This service is held, as are all other worship services, in 'silence." Typically, this means that the gathering comes together at the appointed hour and settles in quietly and with no apparent worship leader. There is no "order of service," and no music, no readings, no liturgy of any sort. Friends gather together to meditate and pray in silence. The belief is that such a gathering will be led by the Spirit, and that whatever "truth" arises from spirit will be spoken, spontaneously, by those in attendance. As Friends are moved to speak, they simply rise to their feet and speak whatever message they feel they have been given to speak to the assembled gathering. Usually, in memorial Meetings for Worship, the messages have to do with remembrances of the deceased... A good memorial meeting typically is far from "silent" as packed Meeting rooms of Friends and non-(F)friends pour forth their best memories of the departed.

I've been pondering that sort of ending here lately as I think about how my life has come to be. Interesting to contemplate that sort of focusing out into some future where a hypothetical gathering might come together to "remember."

The reality is that there is likely not going to be much of a gathering when it comes down to the end of my days. Choosing to focus as intently on a single point, as I have, means something very specific. Much of my life is internal. Much of who I am is hidden. Even where my "life" is lived out in the world, it remains largely invisible to those with whom I work. I keep myself away from my students and my colleagues. I do not socialize except at very minimal levels. I do not share about my private life. I have no social context. I have pared away my connections to friends, to family, to outside. I am slave. I am owned. Should that reality become fully revealed, my life would be destroyed -- our lives would be destroyed. It cannot be known, must not be known. Those who were my past, have mostly gone away. Those who would be my present are strictly limited and constrained by my reality. Those who might be my future are viewed with care and deep suspicion. There is no great gathering of those who know me...

I am dedicated inside my life. It is the path I have chosen and which continues to be chosen for me and by me.

There are some who believe that this is a path that is about sex. There are those who believe that this is a game or a pose or something light and fun and simply a facade that is put on like a costume that one dons for a party or a special event. Some play at this and find it amusing. I read around, and see those who play at power exchange because they think it is exciting and adds a little interest to their relationship. Sometimes people ask what it is that powers this for those of us who do this, why we put up with it, or even why we write about it. Many people fail to see what it is that makes this any different than those in vanilla relationships who iron and cook and treat each other nicely everyday. That is foolishness. This is not for those who are not willing to walk mostly alone. And to finish alone.

Slavery is for the brave.

swan

Dr. Visit Update

Went and saw the doctor today as scheduled.

Things are coming along fine. I am healing but not healed. There are still stiches on the inside, and it is still way more tender than I expected. I was really not prepared for that. So another ten days before there can be any sexual intercourse. Major disappointment.

I am also still significantly anemic. Even though I've been taking additional iron supplements right along. That was an issue before the surgery, and the doctor says that it is common for patients to drop two points because of the surgery. I was 10.3 before surgery (normal is 12). Todays I measured 9.6. Not fabulous. No wonder I'm so tired. I have to go back in a month to do some more blood work. It is clear that she is starting to be more than just a little worried about that part of life...

She did release me to go back to work in another week. If I restrict my time on my feet -- sit down about half the time and don't do anything other than the teaching day. No extra activities. She really would have preferred another week off, but we compromised.

I did have the FISTING talk with her, and she was very good with me. Never batted an eye. She assures me that there is still just as much room as there was before, and that once things have finally healed, in two to four months, we can try that again as long as we go very slowly and carefully. So that was a relief. The part I was most worried about turned out fine.

It was just all the other stuff, that I thought would be a piece of cake that isn't as good as I thought it would be...

I'm not sure how I feel. Relieved for the long run and disappointed for the short term. Oh well, I'm sure that it will all be fine eventually. It is all going to be "fabulous" someday. That's what I keep hearing. I'm trying to keep on believing.

Right now, I'm just trying to keep believing in Feb. 6. That's 10 days. The day after my birthday. We'll maybe get to see if this sucker actually still works worth a damn.

swan

Oh Boy! Oh Boy! Oh Boy!

I am almost afraid to let the excitement start to take hold of me. It is still months away. There are plenty of ways that this could fall apart. Even talking about it seems risky -- the merest whisper seems like a really good way to jinx it.

BUT ... I am so excited, and this is so much something good to look forward to after a really long tough year of struggling and slogging and sometimes just working hard to get through to tomorrow for our family...

We have plans to go to THUNDER IN THE MOUNTAINS (http://www.thunderinthemountains.com/) this summer!!!

For us, that is simply a wonderful, fabulous, amazing treat on so many levels:

• Always we love the chance to attend leather, BDSM events. There is something freeing about being with other BDSM lifestylers in a setting where WE are the majority. For that small space of time, the locale becomes "liberated" territory, and our way of being and thinking becomes the norm. The vanilla world drops away, and for just a little while, we can drop our masks and our sense of being "other" and simply be who we most truly are. For us, who live most of our lives in hiding out of necessity, it is sheer luxury to be able to be so open and so relaxed with others who share our view of life in some degree.
• This kind of event offers the chance to learn and to share and to teach with practitioners of the arts of the life (from ritual cutting, to tieing a rope harness, to swinging a singletail, to writing a will for a poly household). It is one thing to read about what it is we do. It is something altogether different to actually see and touch and listen and talk with real people who really do this. There is simply no substitute for real-time face to face talk with those who know their craft.
• Did I mention playing in the dungeon? Scary, thrilling, exhilarating, challenging... all at once...
• This is an opportunity to reconnect with some in the scene that we only get to see at "events." Thank goodness there are events that bring our still fairly small community together periodically.
• Always there exists the possibility that we'll meet some friends who, until now, we've only known on-line. Wouldn't that be fabulous? Hint, Hint, Hint.
• We will have the time to travel together for a real, extended family vacation. This will be the first time we've done that (for more than a long weekend) ever. Master and I traveled to Thunder two years ago, but T wasn't able to go with us. Having been the single-handed schlepper of His stuff for 10 days on the road that time, I am more than glad that there will be two of us to load and unload the caravan each day. Have I mentioned that Sir does not travel lightly?
• For me, Denver is "old stomping ground territory." A visit there means I might even get to connect with at least one of my grown children, see some of the sights that are dear to my heart, share some old favorite eateries with my dear loves...

Dare I say that my heart is bouncing? Got to heal, got to get registered, got to make plans... Can't wait!!!

Anyone want to meet up / join us there?

swan

Practicing

I see my doctor on Friday. It will be four weeks. I wish I could say that I feel ready to go full speed again, but I know that is not the truth. I am clear that I am really not ready to go back to school. I just don't have the energy yet. Unless something miraculous happens in the next two days, I am just not going to be ready. I'm going to need another week, and much as I hate it, I'm going to have to have the integrity to say so. Damn!

That's the easy part.

Most likely, there will be some verdict rendered on whether or not we can resume normal, garden-variety, "vanilla" sexual relating. Good old fashioned, "Hop on Pop" style sex. I have all my fingers and toes crossed for an affirmative on that one. I am way beyond hungry, horny, ready to go... Could we get a "start your engines" please?

More easy stuff. Inscrutable, Chinese doctor Lady has been getting the sex question from me since before the surgery, and at every opportunity since. Nothing too tough with that one.

Here's where it gets a little heavier, from my perspective... This is the doctor/patient conversation that I am anticipating, mulling over in my head, scripting, practicing, and hyperventilating over:

"I am embarrassed about asking this.

But I need to know and I don't know who else to ask that I can trust.

My partner and I used to really enjoy vaginal fisting. We were really careful about it, and it was something that gave us both great pleasure and joy and intimacy.

In the last year, I came to be unable to tolerate it because the fibroids just made it too painful to tolerate. I've missed it terribly.

Now, I don't know if I will ever be able to tolerate it again. I don't know, with this surgery, what I can expect. I don't know how my insides are arranged any more, what sort of capacity or structure there is.

I don't want to do harm, and I am so uncertain.

Please, help me to know what I can do to return to full sexual functioning? What can we enjoy again as a couple? Will we ever be able to engage in fisting again?"

If I live through that and come out the other side still breathing, it will be nothing short of miraculous if I can hear what she tells me. I wish I had an old fashioned tape recorder. Honestly, I feel like a 12 year old just dealing with my first menstrual period. This is crazy.

It isn't like this business of fisting is something I've never shared with anyone. I've been fisted in public for goodness sake, and more than once! I'm not really that shy about the actual act. I think that it is the notion of talking about it with someone who is "official" and "mainstream" and has the potential of judging. For me, the experience of fisting has always been not only enormously intimate, but also something that has been very closely connected with the part of my life that is NOT "vanilla." I am terrified that it may forever be gone as an option, and that the final removal of that part of my life may come with a scintilla of judgment that will make that even more painful. I am anticipating the loss accompanied by that psychological slap...

I so hope I am wrong...

Practicing my little speech... Trying to be ready. Trying to calm my mind, so that I can do this and get the information that I need to have. I just need to get to and through Friday. And in my head, all I can hear is a steady drumming of "Please, please, please, please..."

swan

Days of Learning

These have been a difficult couple of days. The reasons are not important. Suffice it to say that I've encountered some challenges to my submission that have left me shaken and feeling uncertain of myself.

Control issues are sometimes tricky things. I got hurt, and I reacted in a fashion that turned passive aggressive -- remaining outwardly polite and compliant, but becoming personally cold, and unavailable -- withdrawing emotionally. That response masked an inward turmoil as I weighed the reality that is slavery when it turns hard: the lack of options, the utter absence of outs or choices at the point when the "self" most desperately wants out. I've thought to run away, to try and disappear inside, to hurt myself, to do worse... I've battered myself against the bars of my mind until I've literally worn myself to a shred. I've talked myself round and round and round in the circles that go absolutely nowhere -- about choices and no choices, about what does and does not matter, about what I should and should not care about or focus on, about who does and does not get to control any of this, about feelings that amount to so much smoke on the wind, about being worthy of the name, "slave," about living up to what I say, about keeping my commitments and my word... Until I am completely, utterly, totally exhausted. And ashamed. And no closer than I was when I began. Broken. Lost.

He met my recalcitrance with anger. Called me on my foolishness. Dropped me to my knees. Challenged me to either live the truth of the slavery I claim or stop pretending. Refused to be swirled into my game. Heard my hurt, and left it squarely in my lap. Mine. Alone. I have so much still to learn, so far to go. So much still to give up if I am to ever "get" this. Nevermind what has already been accomplished, learned, given, paid. If this path demands more, then that will be required as well. Nothing behind me, and nothing ahead of me -- only this and nothing more. Slaves cannot expect anything. Learn.

Grow as you are meant to be. Like the vision that shapes the bonsai... No more battering against the boundaries. Roots will be trimmed close to keep the tree growing strong and healthy in the image that is seen in the mind of the One who sees the final product. There is no "away" and there is no "outside" and there is no "more."

Perhaps that is the lesson of these days. If I can lose the cage that my mind sees, I can maybe put down my roots and grow like the lovely bonsai. Whatever, I need to stop making excuses for these events that throw me into such a spin. He doesn't want to hear it. He wants my heart in full accord with Him. The rest is silly foolishness, and He'll have none of that. That much is clear.

swan

His...

He moved decisively along the path toward reasserting some control of things last night, and reassured me a good bit in the process.

It has been difficult for Him, I think, to balance guarding my well-being with the desire we both share for the more physical relating that is so integrally woven through our M/s dynamic. Without it, we maintain the routines, the courtesies, the daily patterns, but the fire burns down to mere coals and we begin to shiver. I know He has avoided doing the things with me that would, in some ways bring us small pleasures, but then also increase the torment of the waiting for release to full sexual functioning again. Too, we have been cautious about spanking and paddling and any sort of heavy play, as we have waited for me to heal. So, we have lived more like friends than lovers. That reality has, to a degree, fed my growing fear that my sexual functioning and attractiveness was removed along with the "parts" in the surgery. While I've been quiet about that worry, the noise in my head has risen significantly in the last days...

Last night, He decided that enough was enough. Perhaps, with the eyes that seem to see what only Masters see, He knew the truth I'd been keeping in my heart. From the moment He arrived home from work, He badgered me about needing a spanking. I was wordless in the face of that "accusation." The need and my fear have been battling in my head for days now, and the light bits of play that we've managed have only fed the fire. I have known that, sooner or later, there was going to need to be the actual date with real paddles and something more akin to a "real" spanking that actually challenged me to stay put...

Eventually, the evening ran its course: dinner and dishes and all the various "stuff." We arrived, finally at the moment when it was time to decide: ready or not? I could think of no real reason not to try except for my fears, and those were not getting better with the passing days. I knew He'd hold me and care for me and watch my every response. He knows I never WANT those damn paddles. Its a dance we've done a thousand times. I only asked for a pillow to hold tightly to my still sort of tender middle. Granted, of course.

And it began. With the very lightest of the paddle arsenal. After the obligatory kissing of the hated paddle and the "please paddle me, Sir" request which is our custom.

It did not take long for the strokes to elicit all the pent up words and tears and fears and demons. Rushing forth in a torrent -- anger and frustration and despair. My pain and loss and grief and lack of belief in my remaining womanhood -- my fear at losing my place with Him with "us" now that there feels so little left of "me." I poured out my utter darkness, and sobbed that I just wanted to be allowed to die, to not have to do this anymore, not like this...

He heard it all. Gathered me up. Held me close and rocked me and stroked me and mopped the tears and snot. Crooned and soothed and sung low nonsense syllables of reassurance into my darkness until the storm subsided. Made it clear, as He grasped my hair and held my face to His that I was all woman, His woman, purely woman. Made me listen to the words until the calm rhythms penetrated the panic.

Finally, gradually, I somehow rolled back onto my pillow. He asked, "what are you doing back in position?"

I replied, "Because I'm supposed to."

"Why are you supposed to?" He asked me.

"Because I'm yours."

"Always and all ways?" He queried.

"Always and all ways." I responded.

I think it was at this point that He gave me a choice of finishing with the paddle or switching to the rubber whip. I'm not sure. I know that whenever that choice came up, I struggled with the decision. I must have ultimately chosen the whip rather than more of the paddle. I remember that He used the whip on me, starting lightly but moving to some fair intensity.

Then as He finished, as I was lying there face down, in my head, feeling sorry for myself that there was only pain and nothing good to feel from all of that, He began stroking my back and my ass and my legs. It isn't something that He is prone to do after a session. I was entranced and simply floated away on the sensation. I was drinking it in like one who has been too long in the desert.

Suddenly, unexpectedly, His hand was between my legs, rubbing my labia. He had me clamped tight to His chest and I was pulled into His embrace while my hungry body responded to His insistent fingers. Unable to move or think about it much, I simply went with the sensations He was evoking and rode His strong hands to a wavy sort of flowing orgasm that left me gasping, amazed and wondering, in His arms.

He gave me a bit of a pep talk about that being just the beginning, about how things would get better and better -- all whispered into my fuzzy, addled brain. He rolled me over and paddled me just a bit more, and sent me off to sleep: the first night I've slept well since the CPAP arrived on the scene.

I did dream: I was riding somewhere in some sort of bus like vehicle. I was in the back in a space that was like the back end of a station wagon. The space was padded and cushioned and I had staked it out as mine -- comfy and cozy and suitable for sleeping and resting. Suddenly, some old, white-haired, wizened old lady came crawling over the bench ahead of my space and tried to crawl in with me. I fought like the very devil, kicking and punching and biting and scratching and clawing to keep that old lady out of my space. Finally she just evaporated into thin air, and I was able to settle down and enjoy the ride in comfort and peace.

Do you suppose that my old lady on the bus is the vision I've had of myself these last days and weeks? If so, last night's session went a very good long way to helping run her off...

Thank you, Sir.

swan

Writing and Privacy

It is a funny thing when you write about your life in a forum like this. By definition, the writing is an invitation to strangers to look into your personal dealings, your intimate affairs, your hidden moments. Whatever other motivations there might be for the regular pouring out of words at the keyboard, the simple reality is that there is an audience for this kind of journal. Acknowledged or not, bidden or not, catered to or not, the mere presence of those readers changes the experience of this writing in unavoidable ways.

It is an interesting activity. For me, there are days when the effort to come and find the integrity to say anything honest at all is enormous. There are days when I seriously question what I can say, and why I should bother to say it. I continually fight the demons that drive me to compare myself and my life with others, and find both wanting, and then sink into despair. Over and over again, I come back to the simple artifice of writing whatever comes off the ends of my fingers when I sit at the keyboard, and then resisting the urge to edit it or gild it or embellish it. What shows up here is my and our life pretty much the way it gets lived, which is why so much of it is so darned plain.

And then there are the times when someone will come along and demand more. Insist on the answers to questions asked. Point fingers at perceived faults and failings and short-comings. Require explanations beyond what is offered. Times like that don't happen often, but when they do, I sometimes pull the curtain, close the door, and simply say, "No. Sorry. That is off limits and private. Past this point, you may not go."

Most of the people who read here regularly, who have come to feel like friends and companions, don't ever push that boundary in the first place, but in any event, they always seem to understand the drawing of that line. It almost always seems like it is the casual visitor, or the nameless ones, who are the most likely to get huffy over that refusal to "bare all" for their amusement or edification. People who don't bring anything to the table, from a relational standpoint, seem to always be the first to yell about how miserly I am with the juicy details. How very odd...

I know it may seem strange to say it in this context, but I am a private person. What I give of myself here is drawn forth with effort. What I reserve to myself is held back with care and for a reason. I believe that I do that with integrity.

This last minor scuffle over "privacy" has reminded me of my days long ago when I competed as a high school student in Lincoln-Douglas Debate. LD Debate is one-man debate, as opposed to the more common Cross-examination, two-person style. It is fast-paced, and demanding precisely because you have no partner to help you formulate arguments or rebuttals in the heat of the event.

I remember one match very clearly. The proposition that season was, "Resolved that an absolute right to privacy is fundamental." I was pitted with the affirmative argument against a young man who was very accomplished and had gone unbeaten that year when he was arguing the negative case. He gave all the standard arguments that honest, decent people with nothing to hide should not need a guarantee of privacy to protect themselves from their own government, etc. I had plenty of evidence to the contrary: case law, and anecdotes of one sort and another. My case was carefully constructed, but I was clearly going to lose. Finally, in desperation, I looked (with all the innocence I could muster) at this handsome, athletic, obviously popular, virile young guy, who had already established that he considered himself to be the sort of honest, decent, upstanding sort that had nothing to hide, and asked a simple question: "Do you masturbate, and if so how often?"

He turned fifteen shades of red. The judge sprayed coffee out his nose. I won all the points for the round -- except for those for "ethics." I lost every one of those, and so lost the round, but it was worth it. Because, I knew the answer the dude should have given me. It would have screwed his argument, but it would have saved his dignity: "That's private. I won't discuss it with you."

I write a personal weblog. I talk about a lot of personal stuff. Some of it emotionally charged. Some of it kinky. Some of it sexy. Some of it about as mundane and everyday as the day is long. I love to get comments and questions. If something that a reader says or asks sparks a discussion or another line of thought, so much the better. But if something crosses over into territory that is private, for whatever reason, I am old enough and secure enough to say so, and stick by it -- no matter how frustrated it might make folks.

That's my story and I'm sticking with it.

swan

I'm Not Going to Answer That Question, But...

Alright. An anonymous commenter on the last post asked the question that comes up every now and then when people wonder about our poly lifestyle. I actually suspect that it is one of the first questions that people think, but one that most people are too polite (generally) to actually ask:

"I was wondering who does your Master sleep in your bed each night? Or does the
days of the week dictate if your master sleeps in your bed or T's bed?"

It isn't a question that I'm going to answer. That's private.

I will, however, share some information about some of what we do and do not do about sleeping, cuddling, and sexual relating -- and the "real estate" arrangements that go with all of that, because I think that it is useful for those who are trying to think about living in poly households. I know that, when we were first contemplating living together fulltime, there were many of these questions that we had, and precious little practical information. So, with that in mind, here are some practical realities of our lives in the "bedroom" arena...

• Sleeping is an activity to be distinguished from cuddling which is different from more actively sexual activities. The terms should not be interchanged in thinking about the uses of "bedroom real estate" or the time that people spend there.
• As a practical matter, all the beds in our household are "Master's." He sleeps where He chooses, when He chooses, with whomever He chooses.
• We purchased, early on, a king-size bed because we thought we would all sleep together. We quickly learned that our diverse sleep styles do not lend themselves to our comfortably, or restfully doing that. We very seldom all sleep together for any length of time that is more extensive than a nap.
• We do not divide our time "in bed" with one another up by means of a calendar or a clock. Nor do we make anyone into a bedroom "nomad," forcing the continual wandering from one bed to another. We find that we are all more comfortable with more or less settled sleeping arrangements (dictated largely by "sleeping style" and schedules), and the use of bedroom spaces for cuddling and more sexual activities when and as we choose to employ them in that fashion.
• We find that when one of us wants or needs "bedroom" time with a partner, it is just simplest to ask for what is wanted. This is, for us, much easier than the establishment of calendars and schedules.

There. Not difficult. Three grown ups living and caring for one another in a poly/power exchange household. It might be tougher if there were children -- maybe. But we haven't got that issue to worry about. For us, the biggest quandary is which of the neighbors is likely to catch which one of us traipsing back and forth in our PJ's on any given morning. Keeps them guessing, but as long as we are OK, the wagging heads are not our concern.

swan

New Master in the House

I've got another Master here.

Actually He's Master's new buddy. He brought Him home a couple days ago. He's been flirting with doing this for a couple months now -- staying away nights -- stuff like that. It's His new fascination with breath play. Now it's official. This beast is here to stay. Living with us. And so, I'll be learning to serve and care for a whole new set of demands... Call this fellow C Pap.

Already I've learned about the morning bath ritual that C requires. All His delicate parts must be carefully washed and rinsed and dried. Seems He's prone to acquiring "bugs" in His -- well... in His tubing. Quite an elaborate and painstaking activity. I'm sure I'll get better at it with practice.

Bedtime, too, is a bit more challenging with C around. He only drinks distilled water at bedtime. Nothing else. That whole tube thing, you know? He also needs to be warmed up before He can do anything else. For 10 minutes. Exactly. If it takes more than 10 minutes, everything shuts down and the whole process has to be repeated. Tricky business.

I'm also finding that I have to do some negotiating to get Master and C to settle down with each other at bedtime. Even though this whole thing wasn't really MY idea, it does seem that Master is a little "testy" about the guy. When it gets right down to it, He fidgets and fusses and fumes. I've got to do some real serious sweet talking to even get Him into the same place with His good buddy. By the time I get all the details worked out, I'm worn to a frazzle, and all nerved up.

Then there's the whole business of learning to sleep with the two of them. Wrestle and fuss and wrangle and tussle. Master threw C out on the floor twice last night. Good grief! Save me, somebody!

I'm sure glad I'm not working just now. I think I would surely collapse from exhaustion. I'm betting this will all settle down eventually... I do hope.

swan

Thinking about Definitions and "Us"

I've been thinking a lot about "us." Thinking, in the sense of "definition." Definition, as in the sort of careful descriptive kind of characterization that an old fashioned botanist might have done in the days of Darwin or Thoreau.

I think we've done that. I think we know about those outlines and boundaries and characteristics and details. I think we understand the "ins" and "outs" of our relationships and dynamics, and I think we've gotten pretty good at making those things clear to ourselves and to those outside our family boundaries with whom we choose to share the details. Usually, we use the word "poly," or "polyamory" to describe our relationship, but I've started wondering about whether using that umbrella expression makes things clearer -- or less clear.

And then, kaylem at Once Bitten wrote a "book report" about the sort of classic, everybody knows it and reads it, "Bible" of the polyamory world -- "The Ethical Slut," by Dossie Easton: http://keeperandkept.blogspot.com/2006/01/book-review-ethical-slut.html

I remember reading the book, when I was first learning about poly as an idea. I remember digesting the information there, stretching to encompass the language, and internalize the ideas. I wasn't "here" yet, in my current relationship when I read it, but I was considering, and thinking and moving and growing in my thinking and trying to understand.

But "poly" as the community uses the language, covers a lot of territory. What I've found is that there are relatively few who do what our family does. Very few who combine power exchange with poly in a relatively closed and somewhat fidelitous, heterosexual model. It is a construct that requires a fair amount of balance and a good bit of energy. Frankly, we don't find much support for it in the alternative community -- anymore than we do in the mainstream community. Lots of people don't see us as poly precisely because of the heterosexual factor, and/or because of the fidelitous choice that we make in most cases. We are the "poly" configuration that makes everybody in the community uncomfotable.

We're not closed. We have some selective openess. Those of you who follow us here have seen us open up, and stretch the boundaries, but that is not an every weekend event. That is not an event that devolves because any one of us is out at any given moment seeking to create new relationships. We are a stable relational family. Each of us have the limits and boundaries defined by our proclivities and our dynamic. Some find that difficult to understand or comprehend. It is what it is. We have a power exchange dynamic. He is more free than I am (or than T is). It is what it is.

What is odd, though, is how frequently, we find strangers who come to us and hear us say, "this is who we are," and then try with great effort to make us into something else. Happens with regularity. Always it is something that we shake our heads over, say well we aren't really like that, we are like this. Always the folks, say, "oh I know, but..." Same song, over and over. Inevitably, we end up saying, "come, visit. We like to meet new people. We are glad to teach and share and make friends." No subterfuge. No promises to be other than or different than or changed from what is advertised. We're much too old to transform. What you see really is what you get.

Still, I think, people do that old trick of hearing hoof beats and imagining zebras, when in fact it is just horses. Always. Plain, old, garden-variety horses.

Maybe it is "us." Maybe we need to be more definite. More cautious. More suspicious and less open. We know who and what we are. When we find those who are curious, open, willing to relate, maybe we need to be more careful about saying -- don't come here if you have any scintilla of expectation of us. Nothing is available from us for you. Because it really does seem like no matter how clear we are about who we are, people persist in wanting to project onto our family some sort of shimmery possibility that we will match up with an imagined "magic" kingdom that can take in and embrace all comers. If it doesn't happen, it is inevitably seen as our failure. That doesn't seem fair.

You Can't Always Get What You Want...

...But if you beg really sweetly, you might just get what you need.

Woke up this morning, after a really, really long, difficult night. More about that later, maybe. There've been a couple of tough days here, emotionally. Physical well-being is one thing, emotional health is something else again. I'm simply starving for some sort of sensation that tells me that I'm alive in some way that makes being alive worth the trouble. Trapped in a body that doesn't FEEL anything much is a kind of torture that is sending me around the bend in a very fast hurry.

So, my request, made as sweetly as I could possibly make it this morning, was for "just a little spanking, please..." I figured if I held on really tight, and He just spanked me a little bit with His hand, it maybe wouldn't be too hard and we couldn't do much harm and I'd at least feel something... something, please! Please!

Well.

You can't always get what you want. Hand spanking might be too thuddy. Cause too much jarring. Maybe hurt something inside. Nothing doing.

But the cane. Light and whippy. No thud at all. All sting. Oh. And the rubber whip. Even lighter. Plenty of sensation. Not a single jarring impact. Exactly. Exactly what I needed. Even a few marks. And tears of relief and release and connection and earth-bound reality again. And pure, simple, animal gratitude.

swan

Good News. Bad News.

Friday was my first post-operative check up. All the medical news is good. I'm healing well, according to the doctor. Most of the pain is gone, or barely noticeable. I've graduated to "normal" activities and my weight restrictions (in terms of what I can lift) have been raised to twenty pounds. I can now drive again as long as I don't relapse and need pain medications. Still no firm date as far as a return to work or a resumption of sexual intercourse until the next appointment on January 27th (if then -- we'll talk...). Still, on the face of it, the signs are all good. Inscrutable, Chinese Doctor Lady says that I'm a good healer.

I managed to take a walk around the neighborhood on Thursday. It's about a half a mile. I didn't go fast, but I thought I might die by the time I got home. Oh Dear. No stamina. Same with the effort required to shave my legs... someone call 911, please... This is just crazy. Friday, after the appointment, I needed to go into school because it was a "record day" -- this is a day when we take time to put grades on report cards. No kids. Just me and a computer, entering the few grades that have been gathered while I've been off since the first of the year, and attendance, and some comments, etc. I was there from about noon until about 3:00. And then I was wiped out for the rest of the evening and all the next day. Sigh. I'm a mess.

Oh. Yeah. The other BIG milestone. I've achieved orgasm. By myself, with my trusty vibrator, very carefully at first, and then with some increasing confidence as I've discovered my insides are not going to fall out. No danger of rupturing anything and not going to cause any nasty infections or anything. This should be good news. Except for one small detail -- the orgasms I'm managing are sad, pale, pallid, shadows. They lie there and squirm a little and then die away with a gasp as if expiring from some wasting disease. This is like being promised a wonderful Italian meal and then being served Franco American. It bears a faint resemblance, but is so far from the actual entity that it is supposed to represent that the mockery is almost painful.

I am trying not to cry. And not being very successful. I am looking down the long tunnel of the years and trying to comprehend what lies ahead. What I gave up to be free of the "terrorist uterus." I know that the need was to be free of a pathology that was causing debilitation. I know that, overall, I will be healthier without the terrorist. Healthier.

But, DAMN! I am NOT happy at what was lost. NOT HAPPY.

swan

Rock Collections

I have been an inveterate "rock hound" since childhood. From the moment I was gifted with my very first boxed rock collection, I've loved the feel and color and texture and story of stones of all sorts. My home, wherever it has been, through all my many travels and struggles, has always been "graced" with the presence of stones gathered from here and there.

Rocks, in their many forms and shapes and permutations, seem to have some sort of pull on my heart and my mind.

My first studies, at college, were in Geological Engineering -- until I came to the realization that I would forever be too much of a homebody for the gypsy life that Geology demands. Still, I love the curious bits and pieces that the Earth throws at my feet. They don't even have to be spectacularly beautiful, in the usual sense, to delight me. I have jars, and bowls, and baskets of them here and there. Have given loads of them away, over the years, have acquired others...

But then there is this odd, small, unique collection with which I have been gifted. For these particular stones, I am most amazingly grateful. Such a collection, I find, grows slowly. I suspect that Mother Earth gives these fellows up jealously --
















And why not? I've found them in the oddest places. Hiking in Montana. Digging in my backyard garden. One, given to me by a friend who figured that the poor fellow belonged with the other two...

Over the years, I've used them just as you might imagine any healthy, red-blooded female person with any sense would, and I suspect I'm not the first. I'd be using them still, but I live with a fellow who, left to His own devices scrubs potatoes with anti-bacterial soap!!! So they're relegated to decorative duty at present. Sigh. Ahhh well, they're durable little devils.

Nowadays, they share their realm with this irresistible stony bodypart companion --
How fabulous! If I had a million lifetimes to collect stones I'd have organs to construct who knows what sort of stone critter!


swan

Chicken

I've been mulling all sorts of things that I could write this morning. Very "heady," intellectual sort of pieces about things that don't get close to anything very important to me...

I've also been cruising around reading at various blogs, making comments, and commiserating about how many of us seem to share some commonality of experience at one level or another.

Avoidance behavior. I'm not writing what is really on my mind.

Because I'm scared. Again. Or maybe still. Or something that's a combination of the two of those for which I don't really have a word.

Friday is my post-operative checkup with the doctor. I'll get the stitches removed, and I'll get the first "official" report on how things are on the inside. The way I understand this, I should get cleared to resume my "normal" activities. That probably doesn't include intercourse, and I'll still have restrictions about lifting anything above a certain weight, but I should be able to drive again, and I should be able to get back to a more or less regular set of activities. I think I remember the doctor saying that the time frame for intercourse was something like six weeks...

So.

Scared.

Because, "normal activities," around here includes of course, SM. And I'm hungry, even starving for that part of our life, and scared about beginning again with this new body. Because I have visions of scaffolding up around the insides, of things hanging from baling wire and duct tape, of lose pieces only tenuously attached... I just don't feel very secure about the physical integrity of my "self," and that makes the idea of IMPACT very scary. I can't shake the image of cutoff, open pipes kind of just sticking out into the darkness, waiting to kind of come away from their moorings and start spraying every which way, like some bad cartoon...

I know I'm supposed to trust. I know that I need to remember that I'm His, and then turn it all over to Him. I know that I'm supposed to give Him what He needs in order to take care of me, and then let the rest go. I just don't know how to know what it is I need to know about this so that I can tell Him what He needs to know.

I don't think it is prudent to ask the doctor if "normal activities" really does include spanking, paddling, caning, strapping, and whipping. I know there are people in the community who have health care professionals who are Kink Aware and/or Kink Friendly, but for the most part, I think most doctors have obligations to report such activities as potential or suspected abuse. That's a risk I'm not willing to take, and a compromising position I'm not willing to put my doctor in.

So. He'll decide. Based on what I tell Him, of how I'm feeling. He'll proceed as He sees fit. He'll take care of me. I know this. And I am hungry. And I am scared. Really.

swan

Dreaming Where I Can't Go

My sleeping mind is taking care of what my body cannot currently do, screaming out the longing, arranging it all quite neatly...

When He reached for me on Sunday morning, I was right in the middle of this -- dreaming where I can't go...

He'd piled pillows on the leather ottoman, to cushion and pad my still tender abdomen, and then tied me down so tightly that there was no chance at all that I was going to jerk or twist or twitch or pull -- Arms, legs, chest; from front to back and side to side, I was utterly secure and immobile, unable to move a muscle save to breathe.

This first venture back into pain was ahead of my medical release for intercourse, so there would be no need to worry about untying me quickly when we were done -- no concern that we might miss the opportunity for fucking afterwards. Spankable, but not fuckable -- opens doors for bondage that we seldom go through because pain is most often foreplay for us...

Careful not to jar or jostle my still tender insides, He chose only the lightest implements. No paddles this time. Canes. And wicked, narrow straps that raised bright thin welts. And cries. And sweat. And blood. And released the pent up frustrations of so many weeks.

Sigh.

I curled, sleepily into His arms, and told Him of my dream, tears of sadness falling onto His chest.

swan
Link

Can't Dance...Don't Ask Me!

This morning I was listening to the "Today" show while I was showering. Often it is some stupid crap about Katie's latest shoe shopping binge or "Where in the HELL is Matt Lauer?" but today they did a thingie about how women are attacted to men who can dance. And I practically fell to the shower floor hysterically nekked! The gist of the theory is that women, not unlike goonie birds and the like, are attracted to the dance of their mate. Ok...I get that. We are all ANIMALS, after all. Pretty plumes, glittery gems, a man who can trot like Travolta...

Now let's backtrack a few years... It is time for my "ahem" 25th Reunion. Tom galantly says he will suffer thru' the dinner/dance (see where this is heading, doncha?) as the wonderful fiancee he was. We went. We drank. I hated it. He talked and entertained himself with the other "dates". And THEN..... MUSIC! Not just your basic listening music...not just the kind of music that you can ignore in the background....oh, noooooo.... (shiver) DANCE MUSIC! The kind that starts the tooties-a-tappin'. The kind that brings out the primal "Oh Baby, wanna see you shake yer wild thang" instincts. And of course, having never danced with my beloved, I smiled sweetly (as all petite delicate flower of submissiveness are wont to do) and said "of course, my darling dearest man." We clasped hands.... walked to the dance floor... took our places... I started to dance...and looked up to see Tom go into convulsions! I am sure it was convulsions. I cannot imagine that anyone would subject their body to such painful contortions unless they were epileptic or had a debilitating muscular disease. I covered my mouth with both hands, laughing and cried.....hysterical tears. He had to take me off the dance floor. I think this was one of those time I knew I loved him. He can't dance. But he suffered thru' that sucky dinner with strangers for me. And I still laughed at him....OUT LOUD...in front of those strangers. And then we left and went out for beers at a nice micro-brewery..... that didn't allow dancing.

So there are must be women out there who are attracted to the mating dance. I always thought that Fred and Gene were pretty spiffy. But give me a man with a great heart and a sexy scar any day.

I saw that scar from across the room and just HAD to say "Hi!".

T

Just a Little Power Exchange?

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Remembering and Looking Forward

"We must be willing to get rid of the life we've planned, so as to have the life that is waiting for us.

Joseph Campbell"

I've got lots of time on my hands. Time to sit and think and look at life. I've been looking at where I am, where I've come from, how I got here. To me, it seems so clear that the life I'm living has come about largely because, at some point, I became willing to take a chance on "possibility."

There really was nothing about me, growing up, that would have told anyone that I'd take this road. At least, it seems to me, as I look back at the child I was, I don't see it. I was quiet and serious, bright and skeptical, looking at the world through eyes that saw and questioned. As the oldest, I took on responsibilities beyond my years in a household that was "Better Homes and Gardens" perfect on the outside, and chaotic behind the closed doors. I parented the younger ones and tried to protect and defend my brothers from the depredations of parents who were too often lost in alcoholic rages to guide and order their world for them. Junior high and High school brought the torments of adolescence to one too tall and too thin, too shy and too damned smart. I didn't date, didn't party, didn't dance, didn't smoke, didn't drink, didn't kiss, neck, pet, or hang out with a gang of friends. I was the quintessential "ugly girl at seventeen." I could factor a polynomial, but couldn't make small talk to save my life. I kept my head down and my grades up, and headed off to engineering college with a scholarship and an intact hymen...

When I met the "husband to be" in my freshman year at college, he seemed nice. He also seemed like a ticket out of the family from hell. My parents raised a fuss, but once I managed to turn up pregnant, that put an end to most of the objections. They wouldn't pay for anything having to do with the wedding, wouldn't allow my brothers to attend, and my dad wouldn't walk with me at the ceremony, but other than that... Two babies by the time I was 23 years old, and I was back in line with what I'd always been told I was supposed to be doing: married, mommy-ing, working that brain of mine doing surveying/drafting/computer programming, making a life for myself. Nevermind that the "husband" who had seemed so nice had turned out to be a bit of a disappointment on a number of fronts. I'd been well schooled -- love, honor, obey, 'til death do us part, etc., etc., etc. I was big on keeping promises.

And then there was that voice that whispered in my mind about being controlled, about being taken, about being hurt. Dark and insistent and exciting and scary. I knew that voice was bad and wrong and needed to be vanquished. And the "husband" was more than happy to reassure me that I was right about that -- bad and sick and perverse...

Twenty plus years, I worked and raised my kids and kept the "husband" in line and finished my college education and clawed my way up the corporate structures of the oil and gas industry, playing corporate games with the "good old boys" of the oil patch. The voice in my head kept after me, and I steadfastly sang the la la song with my hands over my ears.

And then the kids were raised. Grown. As best as I could, they were launched on their own paths. For better or worse, they are the people they will be. Not perfect, but done. I'll stand by the work I did in the mommy leagues. Not a doctor or lawyer in the pair, but at least one is good and decent and honest. The other is a mess, but Dear Lord, I did what I could... and she is alive.

The "husband?" There too, I did what I could. For a really long time. As honestly as I could. It never, ever made an ounce of difference. The mistake I made at the very beginning, remained always and forever a mistake. I didn't know, on the day I met him, who I was, and so I couldn't tell him the truth and he bought a relationship that he couldn't possibly live with or keep up with in the long haul. In the end, it came to a point where it was finished.

We have language that says that marriages that end "fail." Ours couldn't succeed. It had nothing to stand on from the beginning. We were too badly paired. Like trying to hitch a giraffe and an alligator in tandem. We should have cut each other lose long before.

Before it was done though, there was THIS. This new life. This amazing POSSIBILITY. There was a single moment when a connection was made and the glimmer of the possible happened. Master and T came into my life, entirely by chance, it seemed, although I don't believe that for a moment. I know, in my soul, that we were supposed to be here together. What was chancy was the "whether" of any of us being willing to reach for that connection, being willing to seize the possibility of it.

I will never forget the whirlwind of coming together. Of the conversation over IM when I said to Him, "it will probably take a couple of years for us to work all the details out and actually move to Cincinnati." He was adamant. It foreshadowed my life. He simply said, "Do you think we are getting younger? Get here next summer." And so began the three month race to sell the house and pack the household goods and quit the jobs and say goodbye to incredulous family and friends and move to the One who pulled me inexorably to "get rid of the life I'd planned so that I could have the life that was waiting for me."

I am here, now, fussing over this waiting time again, but remembering THAT waiting time. I know that waiting comes to an end and life begins again in glorious whirling joy.

I am glad for this life that has come to me because I was willing to let go of the planned and take a chance on the possible.

swan

Playing Dress Up

Some of these pictures are really awful. I was messing around trying to figure out how the self timer on the camera works. And trying to amuse myself, since I am not allowed to do anything much at all... Certainly nothing useful or fun.

So spent some time playing dress up and goofing with the camera, but of course you never know when the darn thing is going to snap the picture -- and I never was the most photogenic critter...

Anyway, here I am in my pretty, new, after surgery nighty... Thanks family!



This is one of those little, summer short skirts that are fun to wear. Light and comfortable and sure to get some looks out and around conservative Cincinnati... Nevermind the dumb look -- that is a camera thing.








I bought this dress for Christmas last year. It was pure indulgence and an absolute thrill when I realized I could actually get my body into this size 10 column of red velvet!!! Now the number of places that a person can practically speaking wear such a get up are essentially zero, but I've got it should the occasion arise!







And yes, this is me in my "biker babe" leathers. They are mine and they are leather and I have actually worn them on the back of a bike (although that was in another life). And no, even though I look stoned in this picture, I'm not. That is another camera stupidness. Pay no attention to the face. This is a dress up thing, remember?

Figure the whole thing is a silly, girly, therapeutic shot at feeling better.

That's what happens when you leave me here all alone, unsupervised and bored half out of my mind. Good grief, three more weeks of this? I will likely run away and join the circus!!!

swan

Day 5 Sucks

I've got some good friends who "DO" this Red Hatter business. More power to them. I always sort of liked the poem -- until the Red Hat societies started springing up everywhere, taking advantage of the loneliness of lonely women everywhere, and subjecting them to self-imposed public humiliation play... I'm sorry, but having survived as female in this culture to a certain age shouldn't mean that you are automatically a candidate for social insanity, and this is just too crazy for words. As far as I can tell, none of these women have dominants requiring this sort of exposure to public embarassment. They do it to themselves, in large groups, at considerable personal expense. No thanks. And, yes, I am old enough to be a full-fledged Red Hat Lady -- not just a Lavender Princess. Just in case you were wondering, young whippersnapper!!!

Today, though, I'm feeling lousy. I hurt. Inside. Where there is nothing left to hurt anymore. Just the spaces. Bruised and empty. Aching. And I am afraid. Of the nothingness. Of the long weeks ahead and the questions that lurk where I don't want to look. And can't help looking anyway.

I am now living in a body that I don't know anymore. And I am afraid of knowing what it will end up meaning. I am horny already and afraid of that horniness. I can't go anywhere with that response. Can't do anything with it. No sex. No SM. Can't know what will be there when I can... Every move, every breath aches. I am cold and shivery and sad.

No longer maiden. No longer mother. Crone. Officially.

And guess what? If you go look up "crone" on line, there are Crone Counsels! Just like Red Hat societies, only a little less flamboyant. No shit! There they are. Right there in the picture. All hanging out together in the picture, smiling for the camera. More public humiliation play. You can go online and get directions for how to do Croning Ceremonies, airy-fairy, new-agey bullshit, with candles and chants and a nice dessert for afterwards and whoopie zing!!!

Makes me want to scream. Or throw things. Or punch holes in the walls. How's that for wise woman behavior?

That's how it is here on day 5.

swan

The Night of the Buckwheat Hulls in the Fur

It seems innocent enough. Just a simple travel pillow, like you might carry in the car for a long road trip, or even take with you if you were going on an airline flight. You can buy these particular ones in Cracker Barrel restaurants. They are filled with buckwheat hulls, and covered with soft fabrics. Master likes to sleep with one.

Last night, just as we were finally settling down to sleep, lights off and all quiet, He gave the little pillow a final tug and a twist, and disaster happened... The diabolical, Trojan horse of a thing burst! The buckwheat hull army poured forth from its hiding place inside the innocuous looking plaid fabric and took over the entire bed. It all happened in the blink of an eye. In less time than a sleepy, naked slave can say, "EEEEKKKK!" The little statically charged, buckwheat hull invaders had crawled out of hiding, run all over the fur covered body of Master and completely immobilized Him. He was afraid to move for fear of spreading the chaos even further, and His extensive knife arsenal was rendered utterly useless. I sat there blinking in the seemingly mercilessly bright (on again) lights wondering what the hell I ought to do now.

Remaining calm under the onslaught, He suggested the vacuum cleaner. So I went to fetch the vacuum cleaner and a trash bag to try and capture the remains of the pillow and the remaining hoardes. When I arrived back in the bedroom with the vacuum, He looked at me, from His Gulliverian spot in the bed, and demanded, "are you allowed to carry that?" I looked around me in the darkness and, seeing no options, just looked back at him and tried to avoid the obvious, "DUH, Sir?" Instead, I assured Him that I had only dragged it on its wheels and not lifted or carried it...

I plugged it in, hooked up the attachments, and proceeded to engage in vacuum cleaner play with Master in the middle of the night. Of course, powerful personality that He is, about halfway through the process, we blew the circuit breakers. Luckily, by that point, I had Him cleaned up enough that He could go and restore power to the household and I could finish cleaning up the mess. Talk about suck!

See -- power exchange proceeds apace. No matter the obstacles, Dear readers.

swan

Viking Funerals

Years ago, only months after the birth of the wild child, the husband and father to my two children had a vasectomy, and I stopped thinking about birth control. At gynecologist appointments in the years that followed, I answered the inevitable question about my birth control method by stating that my husband had a vasectomy. One physician commented, wryly, that that kept him from becoming a father, but others simply made a chart note and went on. I occasionally noted to myself that the vasectomy choice kept me faithful, but had my hands full with survival and so did not let my thinking dwell in that realm in those years.

When life shifted and our poly relationship began to evolve, I was, for the first time in over 20 years, confronted with the issue of managing the question of preventing unwanted pregnancy as a result of engaging in adult sexual intimacy. Our sexual dynamic developed slowly and with a good deal of starting and stopping, but eventually, it became clear that there was a need to address the potential for conception to occur if we were to continue on as we were. I needed to make an active birth control choice. I made an appointment with my doctor.

That encounter was interesting. I was not a young woman, even then, and I was clear about what I did and did not want in the way of contraceptive methodologies. I'd done my homework, was a committed and responsible and determined adult, and when I talked with my doctor, I told him that I wanted a good, old-fashioned diaphragm that I'd have control of and that would not be screwing with my already tenuous hormonal balance. He was a little taken aback, and as it turned out, did not have a currently viable kit for fitting such an "archaic" device. We had to wait while he ordered a new kit. Good grief. Eventually, the "raincoat" as we've come to refer to the little devil was duly fitted and delivered and we've used it to good effect, making sure that no unexpected additions to Clan Heron have come about (at least in that way).

Now, obviously, there is no need for the "raincoat" any longer... I am still recuperating. Not feeling fabulous, but doing better each day. The weather here is unseasonably warm and the pond behind our home beckons...

I simply cannot stop seeing in my mind's eye the vision of the diaphragm, floating away on the pond in the dark, tealight candle burning brightly in the night, Norse music drifting off to the stars as the smoke carries the brave little warrior off to its final resting place...

swan