If Master isn't Happy...

We are edging our way toward four years together in June. It will feel , in some ways perhaps, more like an achievement than the years before it were. We've felt this year to be more intensely challenging on so many more levels -- physically certainly, but emotionally and relationally as well I suspect. The pressures have seemed relentless, and there have been long stretches where we have seemed to be unable to do more than simply put one foot in front of the other and hang on.

I know I've read others in the circle of online journals that I wander through, who have struggled with doubts and questions lately. To be sure, I've shared a good deal of my own anxieties and uncertainties here in the last months. I find it interesting to gather inklings of the "solutions" that others who are engaged in power exchange dynamics come up with when things get rocky and the relational weather turns stormy. All of that gives me much to ponder.

Still, when it all comes down to it, for me it becomes pretty simple. When Master isn't happy, nobody around here is going to be happy. Fixing that circumstance becomes my focus and my charge. Whatever I might conceive of as my list of wants, needs, wishes, or desires in the moment, the priorities shift radically when it becomes clear that He is not getting whatever it is that He wants and needs -- the thing or things that would work to make Him happy.

I might believe, intellectually, that the demands placed by that prioritization might be unfair. I may feel stressed and frustrated by the constraints that are placed on my time and my ability to make other choices because of that. In fact, there is not really any "might" to it; I DO feel stressed and frustrated by it sometimes. I am not stupid or unaware, and I know that there are times when the balance is unbalanced: when He has leisure I'll never have, choices I'll never enjoy, options I'll never get to exercise BECAUSE of our power exchange. I know that He takes for granted all the many, many places in each day where His way is eased because T and I simply make things happen in His world without His least awareness of it, and I know that He expects that to continue -- would be annoyed if it did not. I can sometimes sense momentary flashes of anger and resentment that flare up in me around that knowledge -- when I am tired or bored or feeling pushed in some way... Perhaps there are slaves that never go to those places. I am not one of them.

There is the nasty, dark, untold secret of power exchange relationships: they are unequal. Once you agree to move beyond the realm of carefully negotiated, scene-limited, slap and tickle, "we do this because it spices up the sex," things shift and somebody gets to hold the power. That means that there is going to be at least the potential for perceived "unfairness." For those of us who come up in a society that teaches us to value our "rights," I believe that it is quite natural to respond to perceived uneveness in privledge with a sense of unease (at the very least). For me, it can get much more intense than unease. I can get quite seriously bent about it.

That is the reality. It doesn't matter that I know I made this choice consciously, voluntarily, deliberately, freely, and all the rest of it. In the moment, I can still feel the heat rise in my cheeks, and still hear the internal monologue start, and the chatter in my head that drives me to distraction: "It's not fair!" And the indignant sixteen year old, stands there; hands on hips, chin thrust out, determined to stand her ground until somebody gets the message that the whole damned business is just plain unjust and outrageous on the face of it.

Yeah. Right.

Gut level, knee jerk response.

Until the slave voice begins to speak more calmly in the sort of patient, measured tones that work to calm me down, and remind me of who I am and what matters to me.

The truth is that I chose once. I don't expect equality or even fairness. Those are constructs from a different sort of relating. I know that I am safe and deeply cared for. That is what matters to me. I know that, when things seem out of balance to me, I can lay that at Master's feet. He will do with that information what He will. I know that it is not my place to requrie anything from Him in that regard.

It is sometimes interesting and instructive to observe my own impatience and fussiness about it all. I can watch myself grow and change and learn. Slaves are not born whole. There is a process to this becoming.

When I first came to Him, I was so new and so naive and so hungry. The first months, I was unquenchable -- like a desert when the rains come after a long, long dry and dusty time. He often reminds me that it was I who came to Him. How often that sounds like rebuke in my ears. Like accusation. Fault. Failing or flaw in some dark sense. So, recently, I asked Him if it was a bad thing for me to have done. Did He regret me having done that.

No.

OK.

Still, there is understanding between us that things have changed. I've changed. No longer so naive, I am perhaps less starved than I was. Less starved, but no less hungry ultimately. Paradox and contradictions seem to abound. I yearn, and then I struggle. I want what only He can give and then rage at Him when it is given. My dreams are filled with terrifyingly strict bonds that hold me in place for the pain that I dread at His hand. I want and do not want and want even more. All fueled by the frustrations of knowing that, most often, what pleasures will come from the pain I crave will be found only in knowing that He has enjoyed it all, for it remains a rare thing for me to find any physical release. This is a new and added dynamic with which I have found little peace.

Yet it remains my priority to be "His."

These last few days have been dreadfully stressful. Work has been difficult to say the least. The illness that has befallen His father has added an additional layer of worry. I've scrambled to catch up and keep up after our time away. Haven't managed very well with things like laundry and ironing in the face of schedules that have kept us all away from home until late at night each day as we scramble to fulfill our work obligations, visit at the hospital, keep tabs on His mother, and snatch a bit of sleep here and there.

When the shirt He wants isn't pressed and in His closet when He wants it; when there aren't fresh apples in the refrigerator for His breakfast; when I don't manage to somehow wrestle His unconscious, exhausted form into the CPAP in the middle of the night, leaving Him feeling crummy in the morning -- I can sense His irritation, and know that I have fallen short of the mark. Logically, I can come up with a thousand perfectly sensible explanations for all those "misses," but the fact is that my calling and my goal is to make His life good and smooth and easy. Those are my priorities.

I often wish this were sexier; that I were "getting more" out of the kind of BDSM we do. There is a wicked little voice that gets into my head that taunts me with the barb that an awful lot of slavery is "SLAVERY," and it is the simple truth. There are times when I just love the fact that I know the meals that are prepared in my kitchen are contributing to His health and longevity; times when I take great satisfaction in knowing that my efforts to iron His shirts build His confidence in His public life; moments when I crawl into our warm, comfortable bed, and relish the knowledge that I've created a place of serenity and security for our love from my efforts and labor... Still it is work and endless routine, and there are days when I feel the burden for the weight it really is and wish it might lie more easily than it does. How envious I am of the fantasy of endless rounds of sexual service and happy spanking "porn" giddiness."

Ah Vacation Lost

We are home

We are glad

We are exhausted

For the most part, our trip was wonderful. It rained, and that is ok for us Aquarians who like sitting on the porch watching the lightning rip thru' the mountains BELOW us. We were able to recharge and regroup and just enjoy each other.

We got into town about 6pm on Thursday night and the main drag thru' Pidgeon Forge was lined with antique and historical cars. They were having a show/parade/meet, and I kid you not, there had to be over 2000 vehicles of various ancient-age alllllllll over the place. We all were able to find our various childhood and teenage cars. We oooed and ahhhhed over most of them and laughed over a few. Little did we know how this bunch of car nuts would drive (pun intended) us insane.

We hit the map and drove to the back of beyond. We were on the very top peak of a mountain ridge and most of the entire region was below us. The poor Kia Cadillac was very tired by the time we engaged the emergency brake to keep from rolling back down the ravine! We unloaded, unpacked, sacrificed beef to the "Grill-Gods" and called it a night.

For the next 2 days we didn't leave the cabin. We just hunkered in and enjoyed the hot tub, the swing on the porch, and each other. It rained the entire time. A warrior-kitty came to mooch a meal of turkey and fat-free half & half Friday evening. She stayed for a little affection and disappeared into the night.

Saturday afternoon we decided we wanted to wander and headed down the mountain to the Gatlinburg shopping area. We found Him a leather vest, a lovely picture, and sunglasses. It was His birthday weekend, after all. Swan and I giggled over the CRAP that was for sale in all the nooks and crannies of all the stores. Who in their right mind would be see with a black and purple lace corset purse that was pre-formed with bullet bosoms??? I almost HAD to buy it for Swan for Thunder.....giggle!

After an average Mexican dinner at "No Way Jose's" we headed back to the cabin....remember the car thingie??? ACK!!!!!!!!!! It took us 2.5 hours to go 1 mile. The place was packed. The roads were clogged. And every manor of "person" was either in a pickup truck riding down the road or sitting along the curb in folding chairs watching the traffic jam! Swan decided to get out and walk to the grocery because HE needed more soft drinks and meet us at the turn to the cabin. She walked 2 VERY LONG blocks, got the beverages, used the restroom, walked back to the corner, and waited almost 30 minutes for us to drive 1.5 blocks. It is times like these that strangers should be glad we do not travel with "toys" for short trips. I sure could have used a good bullwhip or crop a time or two!

But finally we got our Swan and made it back to the top of our mountain just before the sun died for the day. Only to have to pack it all up and be on the road by 11am on Sunday. And you just KNOW what that means don't you??? Everyone else was also packed up and on the road by 11am on Sunday, too! Traffic sucked, we finally got to the AppleBarn to get our year's supply of Big S Farm's Salsa-the bestest ever! and then.....insert a shiver here......we headed to Master's Heaven......

The Knife Cathedral. The Shrine of the Holies. Smoky Mountain Knife Works.....and please remember to watch for the men who are prone on prayer rugs in the parking lot as you attempt to enter! It is pathetic when they enter this place. All these men enter the door and you can see them shiver and their skin ripple as they behold the glories of the showroom. I try not to roll my eyes too fast, HE might hear them. Swan and I just carry the ticket and trail along behind Him mentally ringing the cash register as He selects His new toys. We usually figure on 1-2 hours and several paper towels for the drooling. And when we leave, I will have to drive, so He can caress His latest acquisitions and I can watch Swan in the rear view mirror memorize what they all look like so she can track them all down when HE misplaces one at 2am and absolutely HAS TO HAVE that SPECIFIC one IMMEDIATELY and she crawls out of bed and tears the house apart and sets all the car alarms off in the neighborhood just to please MASTER. Oh yea....you all KNOW what I mean....

We finally got home at 8:20pm. Unloaded the car. All is good. We are home. All 3 cats are alive and well and fed treats. Laundry is running and the phone rings and Tom's 87 yr. old Dad is on his way to the emergency room. Soooooo Tom leaves us to finish and He spends the rest of the evening in the emergency room with his sick Dad until they get him to a room at 2am. Then He got to come home.

Well....this family's last vacation was over 2 years ago. Not so sure that after Sunday this rates as a vacation either.....but those mountains?.......magnificent!

T

Vacation

The Heron Clan is on vacation. This is where we will be for the next few days -- enjoying the mountain air, grilling out, sleeping late, spanking and fucking, lazing about in the hot tub on the deck, taking in the view, recharging our "batteries," maybe even venturing into town to partake of the amenities... who knows? We will be away from "civilization" for the duration. In the meantime, we will celebrate the anniversary of Master's birth with appropriate merriment. Be well. We will be back soon.

swan

Tickle

It is probably a silly game. The sort of dilemma that gets set up in power exchange relationships for "fun." There is no "win" choice really. Depending on your point of view. I know this.

He'd taken me off for a bit of a snuggle. Claimed He was sleepy. I'd rubbed His back, scratched Him, massaged the tight muscles in His neck and shoulders. He seemed all happy and content.

It began pleasantly enough. Just stroking my skin. Sensations that I seem hungry for these days. Yearning for touch that reminds me that I am still alive; still woman.

Then He found a spot that tickled, and the game was on. Tickling me. Over and over and on and on as I squirmed and squealed. Always there is a simple bargain that He offers: "You can stop the tickling anytime you want. All you have to do is say, Please paddle me, Sir."

Almost always, I give up eventually and ask for the dreaded paddling. I simply can't bear the tickling after awhile. Yesterday, though, I was feeling horny and felt determined to hang on, to avoid the paddle, and maybe get through it without destroying my chance for hanging onto the sexy mood...

So, He tickled and tickled and tickled and tickled and tickled -- until He wore Himself out, and I was a gasping heap. I had no thought at all at that point; not triumph, not of accomplishment, not anything. Just breathe.

And then He grabbed the paddle and started in on me. I wailed in protest, and begged. "Why?"

"Whose are you?" Came back the reply. "When? and How?"

Even through my tears, even through the screaming, frustrated, foot-stomping, pouting demons in my mind that wanted to insist that it simply wasn't fair, I replied with the expected answers: "Yours. Always. All ways."

swan

OMG -- ORGASM!!!

I am not going to be subtle here.

This is the greatest news to hit this space in a DAMN long time (at least as far as I am concerned), so if you do not want to know all the squishy, oogy, nasty, self-absorbed little details, just move right on along.

Now, in case you just stumbled in here and have not been reading along with my pity party, I had a total hysterectomy on December 29. The surgery was my decision. I'd been struggling for several years with uterine fibroids and extremely heavy bleeding which was interfering with my life on a variety of levels. What I did not know going into the surgery (but which became very clear afterwards) was that I had become very anemic. The surgery went easily. The recovery was fairly simple. The anemia was a bit tougher. I healed. Then I was smacked with the complete and total loss of all sexual response along with a host of other issues related to the loss of my ovaries and the cessation of hormone production. It has been an ugly ride.

I have not been "a happy camper." To put it mildly.

Last Thursday, I started Hormone Replacement Therapy using a prescription product called Estratest. It contains both estrogen and testosterone. There are mixed reviews as to its efficacy to treat the symptoms I've been having, and there are some potential side effects, of course. At this point, I am highly skeptical. But I'm desperate. The doctor said it would probably be two weeks before things would improve. Dr. "Two Weeks."

Yesterday morning, I noticed that my breasts were tender. One of the promised "side effects." At least, I thought to myself, I know the darn pills are doing something.

He and I made love when we first woke up, and I thought that maybe I was able to notice more sensation than I'd been feeling there lately. Maybe? Not a lot, and maybe I was just wishing that were true. I've been working very consciously to focus; trying to keep my mind quiet so that I can follow the butterfly flutterings of feeling that are left, and learn what I need to do to make this work for us nowadays. So it is hard to tell if there is more there, or if I' am only more aware. Still. The way things have been going, I am willing to fall on any scrap.

Of course, yesterday was also Easter Monday, and He has been completely fascinated with this business of pomlazka. Nevermind that the tradition is widely questioned and the subject of great controversy in its home countries, Master has simply been captured by the whole idea. Mercifully, I was not required to go out and cut willow twigs and weave them into some sort of whip with ribbons as the tradition would have demanded. He settled for an Easter Monday spanking yesterday afternoon. Also mercifully, He left me in my jeans, cuffing my hands and strapping my legs together.

I admit, that for whatever reason, I was taken by surprise. I simply did not expect it. I felt myself washing away into the darkness that has been swirling me down of late, and consciously began to quiet my mind and regulate my breathing. I wanted to not roar my way through this encounter. He spoke to me of the coming of springtime. He told me that it was a time to begin fresh; to let go of all the old "crap" from the winter, and make way for new life. He told me that He loved me. I could not respond. I was certain that if I let go of my focus, I'd wash down into the depths of despair and rage and hurt. So I kept my eyes tightly closed, watched a tiny, orange, glowing spot in the darkness; and I listened to my own breath in my ears.

I am not sure what He used for His Easter Monday Spanking. I think there was the rattan cane. I would imagine He used a paddle, although I do not know which. I think I remember that He had a strap. Maybe it was the Leatherthorn? I breathed. As I could. Held my collar and breathed. The anger did not capture me.

When He was done, when He had released my bonds, He wondered if I would make love. Always, when that is posed as a question, I am amazed. I look back in memory and consider if there has ever been a "NO." Still, sometimes, He asks. Imprinting. Scars born of His own dark past.

I climbed, still shaking, still questing, atop Him, and began to seek the rhythm which I am now learning anew. I closed my eyes, sought the quiet, sought the pathways where the fluttering bids me follow if I can, and rode after the mystery that joins Him and me.

I cannot do it if I think much about it. Mind impedes the doing. I must simply follow the signals that the body sends (which has been what has been so hard about this recent loss of sensation). So, it is that I fuck in an almost trancelike, mindless, following of the rhythms that flow between us. That is how I got surprised.

The orgasm came upon me from out of nowhere. It has been so long. I was so intently focused on following the path. So carefully not thinking; not planning; not striving -- simply being. It crashed into me and took me completely unaware and unprepared. As if for the first time.

I screamed my surprise. My delight. My utter and complete joy and awe. Purely animal roaring at the wonderfulness of it.

He says I got quite red in the face. And then the tears as the realization dawned. As I fell gasping onto His chest and held on, rocking through the waves. That would be me -- demure, delicate, calm and subtle swan.

I think I scared Him. He was not sure what was happening. I did not have any time to give Him any warning. Not sure if I was in a good place or a bad place. I was not entirely communicative...

He, of course, has taken full credit for this development. It was the Easter Monday spanking. The hormones have not had time yet to have worked. For my part, I do not personally give a flying fuck... Flying fuck? Did someone say fuck?

swan

Confusion

I am confused.
He is confused.
We are confusing each other.
Most of the time.

I am a walking well of rage and frustration. This does not help anything. Without the ability to achieve any sort of sexual pleasure or release, I am finding that most of the rest of my life has devolved to a series of disappointments and dead end repetitions. I am simply furious that all the sexiness and connectedness that once came from our SM play has evaporated. Missing that joyful joining has turned the pain into "just pain." So, if I can, I try and get through it (or get out of it), try and find enough genital sensation to help Him achieve His orgasm, and then set off to my daily round of chores.

Confronted with my fury and my obvious pain and misery, He has fallen into His own set of quandries. What does a Dominant do with a slave who hates everything? He keeps reminiscing about the beginnings of our time together, when I liked to be spanked without needing to "get" anything out of that... At least that's what He is remembering...

What makes it worse is that, true to form, I am beginning to have the sort of dark and lurid fantasies that haunt me whenever our SM play falls off. What I dream, in the dark, alone, is the sort of intensive, unbending Dominance that will not back off; that will bind me, hold me, gag me if need be, and simply take me through and beyond the rage and fury to the point of submission to His will. In my dreams and in my fantasies, I come to know and feel that I really am His because He takes me to that place without the hesitation that we are both feeling in our real life. But fantasy is not reality.

Last night, late, He decided that He would try and bring me to orgasm with His hand. It scared me terribly, and I reacted badly. He insisted and persisted, and I ultimately calmed down and what He did with me felt good, although I didn't succeed in achieving an orgasm even though He rubbed me raw and wore out His arm... He claims that I am somehow controlling that -- that it is within my power to make that happen. Sigh. He promises that He is taking control of this; rehabilitating this, and that, together, we are going to regain that part of our lives together. That eventually, we will fist, and that I will have orgasms that will destroy me... I want to believe Him.

That, too, is part of the problem. I want to believe Him, but I'm not sure I really do. Believe Him. Or believe in Him anymore. About any of this. I love Him, but He can't fix this. He would if He could. Will He insist on slavery that discounts my anger? Do I want Him to go there? Would I feel somehow safer, better, easier if He did?

There is a part of me that answers, "yes" to that set of questions. I am hurt by the current arrangement. I feel like a failure on top of everything else. I feel threatened in the very core of my being. The out of control fury that is consuming me, that is pouring over my life, and which I feel so powerless to do anything about, looms over my future like a storm. I know that there is no way that this can go on indefinitely. Talk about confusion. I want what I know I will hate. How crazy is that?

Such is the nature of the internal monologue that is going on in my head in the darkness every night...

swan

Update

Not much that I actually want to talk about here. So, just an update.

It is spring break. I have a week off from school. When we get back we'll be near the end with only five weeks to go. Those five weeks will be remarkably difficult I suspect, but they will be the last five weeks. So.

I have started hormone replacement therapy. Perhaps that will make a difference. As it stands now it feels as if the hysterectomy was a success but I "died" as far as being female. The doctor says it will take two weeks to see improvement. It has been three days.

Scheduled "events" --

1) I bought two new dresses. Actually they are both this dress:
one is pink checked and the other is blue checked. Around here, the rule is that all my new "stuff" gets "broken in." That translates as paddled for the uninitiated.

2) There will be that pomlazka thing. Monday I guess.

3) We are traveling to Gatlinburg, Tennessee for a few days next week. We have rented a cabin in the Smoky Mountains. It will be nice to get away. I am slated for a switching.

4) April 23 is Master's birthday. Someone will likely get spanked.

Oh yeah -- and it is tax day.

swan

Easter Spanking

I find myself frequently thinking that the spanking-repressive nature of our society has limited us from enjoying what clearly is a wonderful expression of fun, connection, excitement and eroticism that so many of us enjoy. For the most part if you find a committed spanko in the U. S. (or it seems most of western civilization) you will find a "closeted" person who likely has spent much of his life feeling guilty about his "PERVERSION." OR..............you could go to the Czech Republic where an old pagan custom..........Easter spanking..........or more likely spring solstice flogging is still practiced as a national holiday and as a significant part of their national and ethnic cultural heritage. What am I talking about? Click the link below:
Pomlazka

I think this should be the new initiative for the lovers of spring everywhere to make this custom become as wide spread here as it is in the Czech Republic. Or if nothing else, we could at least all make it a practice in our own homes next Monday as a sign of diplomatic outreach to our friends in the Balkans.

I think I hear the gentle refrains of "Hands across the waters"

All the best:)

Tom

Go confidently in the direction of your dreams. Live the life you've imagined.

Who Cares?

Someone named john made this comment to Master's post (Recent Troubling Issues) about the disclosures of dishonesty on another Blog : "Isn't it the great work that only counts. And not a couple of stupid people giving money she didn't even wanted ?Who cares ?"

I guess the point of that comment is that there really isn't any reason to hold someone accountable for behavior online; no grounds for expecting people who write in this vein to hold themselves to any standards, and really no basis for us as a "community" to have any kind of ethical code by which we measure ourselves or each other.

I find that sort of thinking to be sad at the very least and dangerous for our "corporate" well-being in general.

My thinking about this falls into a number of different categories. Let me see if I can break it down...

As a first principle, it is my belief that what we put forward publicly here has impact beyond our own lives. This medium takes our words beyond what mere private journaling might do, and sends them out into the public realm. Whatever disclaimers we might make, we all write, at some level, for a public audience. I don't believe public speech ought to be censored by outside entities. I do think that it ought to be understood that it carries with it certain responsibilities. When we speak in public, we are responsible for what it is we say, and we ought to consider the ramifications of that on those who will "hear" what it is that we communicate.

I remember very vividly my own first tentative steps into the arena of BDSM. When I began tryng to find the answers to the basic questions about what this was and who I was in relationship to it, I had no models and no measures by which to gague any of the information I was able to gather. I found some good advisors and informants, and I found a few terrible crackpots. Often they looked a lot alike. The latter crowd, with their foolishness and fantasy, made my journey toward self-discovery very much more difficult than it needed to be as they diverted me into side streets and byways that I need not have traveled.

Always, when I sit down to write of my own experiences, I try to remember that at any given moment, there may be someone who is reading my words and trying to use what I have written to construct a map of their own for their own first journey into unknown territory. That is an awesome responsibility. I can't imagine that what I have to offer is of any use to anyone, but at least I believe that what I put out is as truthful as I can make it. Pick it up and carry it off at your peril, but know that it is the real thing.

Too, I am convinced that each of us, in our personal conduct, reflects on our relationships. How we comport ourselves shows who we are and how we are. My conduct in this part of my life, as in all my other interactions, reflects not only on me, but on the One who owns me. For me to put less than my very best out here dishonors us both. What I write here is at His command. It is my own truth. If there are to be stories of any sort here, then they will be clearly labeled as such, and I'd hope I'd do that well enough to entertain you and honor Him in the doing.

Then there is the business of how we are perceived in the wider community, and how we view ourselves. Are we people of honor? Integrity? Honesty? Can we be trusted? Do we keep our word? Are we good, open, straightforward folks that can be relied upon? There are enough biases about kinky people already. I don't think we need to lay on a patina of dishonesty and subterfuge over the top of that already skewed view. If we are, as a group of people with alternative lifestyle orientations, ever to gain places of acceptance and tolerance in the wider society, we need to understand that we have some responsibility for identifying and correcting errors in our own ranks. To mislead and defraud others for whatever personal motivations is simply wrong, and we ought to have the guts to say so. Likewise, we ought to have the grace to then back off and allow for whatever "rehabilitation" there might be for the culprit.

Finally, part of the reason for doing this, at least for some of us -- at least for me, is the need to create connection with other like minded people. This is a vehicle for making social network. I come to rely on some of the people that I encounter in this exercise to be "friends." Perhaps I will never meet any of my readers and correspondents in real life, but I value the linkages just the same. I don't maintain a vast list of contacts, but the ones I do keep in touch with are important to me. I want to believe that those that have presented themselves in this way are at least to some degree what they say they are. If we cannot believe in and trust one another at some intrinsic level, then the fabric of our relatedness is fundamentally jeopardized, and the whole basis for this sort of interaction begins to fray. For those of us who must, necessarily, live rather hidden lives, that is a great loss. To say that deliberate dishonesty on the part of some does no harm, is simply not true.

So... I will not pile on. I made my judgement about the Blog in question long ago, and elected not to join in the throng that worshipped at that altar. I'll not deny the great talent in the writing and the art that pours forth there. I'll simply deny that the inherent dishonesty is a thing that has effected no harm. That is not reality. We will never be able to measure the extent to which the lies and subterfuge have damaged the net that links us all... I care about that. I care a very great deal.

swan

Perfect?

One of the authors I love best is Kathleen Norris. She is poet, Christian contemplative, Benedictine oblate, farmer, preacher, and all around fascinating voice. Her path is an interesting, twisty one. She was raised on mainstream Protestantism and, like many of my generation, fell into "unbelief" in her twenties. Finding her way back to church late in life, she has chronicled that journey with some amazing honesty and absolutely stunning writing. I have come to value her books, "Cloister Walk," and "Amazing Grace" as treasuries of jewel words that nourish my heart and my spirit.

"Amazing Grace" takes the scary vocabulary of church, scripture, and liturgy and tries to reclaim it by delving deep into its roots and meaning. Although I don't live in the religious world that Norris writes about, I find her work with language enthralling. There are riches to be gathered in her singing phrases.

One of the essays that seems particularly pertinent to my life has to do with Perfectionism. She writes that, "Perfectionism is a marked characteristic of contemporary American culture, a serious psychological affliction that makes people too timid to take necessary risks and causes them to suffer when, although they've done the best they can, their efforts fall short of some imaginary, and usually unattainable, standard...The word that has been translated as 'perfect' in the New Testament does not actually mean, 'to set forth after an impossible goal,' but rather is taken from a Latin word meaning 'complete, entire, or full-grown.' Nowadays it would most likely mean 'mature.' ... To mature is to lose our adolescent self-consciousness so as to be able to make a gift of ourselves"

Now it seems to me that this is a definition of perfection that those of us who aspire to the slave path can use. To be perfected in this sense is obtainable and worth pursuing -- seeking after maturity, growth, and completion so that one might be able to make a gift of the self. Is this not what it is that we are about?

For me, when I struggle to attach a value to my older female selfhood in a realm that seems overrun with the oh-so-gloriously nubile, it is comforting to apprehend that there may be some worth in maturity that might even be characterized as "perfection."

I know that I have many times been told that I am "brave" to have pursued this life in the face of great obstacles, and at some cost. Perhaps it is only the maturing that allows such risk taking; an understanding that comes with that loss of "adolescent self-consciousness" and permits the wider vision of a certain age.

I've written before that my work causes me to weekly attend worship at the Catholic school where I teach. Although it is not my faith tradition, I can appreciate the ritual in some of its particulars. At this season of the year (Lent) there is a hymn that gets sung regularly, with a lyric that goes, "We offer you our failings. We offer you attempts: the gifts not fully given, the dreams not fully dreamt. " I like the notion that there is something almost sinful in not giving our gifts with our whole hearts, and not living out our dreams with our full lives. I have spent plenty of time being frightened and uncertain of this path. I am not always graceful or even particularly happy in my choices about all of this. Still, I have chosen openly and honestly with my whole heart and all my being. I have made the gift with perfect intent.

There have been times along the way, when I have, with just a bit of wicked orneriness, referred to some of the denizens of this corner of the Blogosphere as "The Sweaterset Crowd." They are the ones who are generally squicked by my life and my angst and my sometimes messy fussing. They are quick to opine that my way is not their way, and then equally quick to judge me and mine while claiming to offer comfort and "support." I've generally found them trite, shallow, and annoyingly self-absorbed. Perhaps it is this bit of interpretive language that I lacked, and which would have allowed me to rest easier in the face of those fresh-faced young-uns knowing how far from "perfection" they might yet be...

swan

Product Endorsement

OK. I don't know if I've ever done a full on product endorsement here, but this is just too good not to pass on...

If you've been reading this Blog for any time at all, you've probably heard more than you wanted to know about my fragile butt epidermis. Our enthusiastic spanko behavior has left me with a number of spots that break open and bleed whenever we play, and the level of intensity that it takes to create breakage has decreased radically in recent months. Anymore, even hand spanking can bring about bleeding.

It has become cause for concern.

I maintain a dietary regimen of vitamin supplementation that should, in theory, support good skin health, but still the problem persists. I've tried all kinds of creams and lotions and salves and potions. Nothing has seemed to make the least difference.

Finally, just a few weeks after my hysterectomy, I went to the local Wild Oats and gave them some story about how my skin had become very dry and fragile in the wake of my surgery... True to form, the sales person directed me to some high end product with some typical sort of mumbo jumbo, hocus pocus. I have learned to handle the Wild Oats sales technique by smiling blandly, nodding sweetly, and, when they wander off, moving over and down to whatever they DID NOT recommend... There I found this stuff -- Avalon Organics. This moisturizing body lotion has made a miracle!!!

I've been rubbing the unscented Aloe version on my backside twice a day for about three weeks now, and the most remarkable transformation has occured. The skin has become far more supple and much sturdier. I have in the last week or so, experienced almost no skin breaks. It is simply amazing.

So there you go... A first. If you are into the sort of spanko stuff that we are, then this is a product that you ought to hunt down and use. I wish I'd had it before I got into the state I did. I imagine I might have saved a lot of grief, but now I intend to never be without it.

swan

Making Peace with Reality

It is mid-April, and spring is coming to our part of the world. After a long, dark winter, during which we worried a good deal about apparently unidentifiable issues with Master's health, He seems to be improving daily -- regaining strength and vitality with the lengthening of the days. It is almost as if the turning of the season is restoring His health and wellbeing. This is a very good thing, indeed. One of the impacts of the long uncertainty that He faced about His health was a necessary hiatus in exercise that resulted in some significant weight gain, and a concomitant loss of muscle mass and physical stamina. As His health has improved, so too has His ability to sustain vigorous exercise. This has led to a number of noticeable changes. He feels better, looks better, and to be blunt, performs better.

Therein lies the rub.

In the earliest part of my surgical recovery, there was very little issue with resumption of sexual activity because, to be honest, Master's weight gain meant that His "reach" had been minimized. At the time, that turned out to be "a good thing." Because of His arthritic knees, our preferred sexual position is with me on top, and so we humped away quite happily, and never disturbed the actual incision site in the slightest.

However, lately, He's been working out on the treadmill like a lunatic, and the inches have been falling off Him rather quickly. It is the "Dr. Longerdick" exercise regimen. Suddenly, to my surprise, He is bumping up against the end of what's left of my vagina and the still fairly new scar that must be there. It is FREAKING TENDER!

Damn!

And that's not the half of it. He's horny all the time. Wakes up rarin' to go. Fair enough. Master gets what Master wants, and I'm happy to oblige. Except there's just one small minor disappointment on my part... I don't seem to have any "GO" buttons anymore. The doctor seems to have removed those along with all the rest of the "stuff." I can DO IT just fine, but nothing seems to work to get me hot. No orgasms. Nothing feels sexy. The parts that are left feel like parts, and I can do what's needed to achieve His desired outcome, but there isn't any juice... That surely sucks out loud with a straw.

I remember, back in the days when this old lady was part of the "women's consciousness movement," when we were all telling each other to "get in touch" with our anatomy. We'd sit down with our hand mirrors and explore; do the masturbation thing -- all that jazz. Problem now is, that when I explore the anatomy, it is foreign territory. Doesn't feel like me anymore. More like a sock sewn closed at the top. Kind of creepy.

I'm horny. My mind still "wants." I'd like to feel turned on. I'd like to have hugely erotic feelings about my life, our life. I long desperately for my body and my mind to respond in ways that I remember. It is just that nothing is the same. I seem to have lost all my erotic orienting sense. I don't know how to make this body that I am in work, and I am completely freaked out about it, and utterly bereft. I find myself lying awake in the darkest hours of the night, when it is quiet enough that there is only the sound of my own heartbeat, letting the grief of it wash over me -- mourning.

I am so glad that I've been left with the ability to still give Master pleasure. At least that remains, and makes my heart sing. I'm trying to find my way to some sort of peace with the other. I know there were no choices about the medical route I took to this place. In time, I imagine, I will forget what was before, and this will become the norm for me. Then this will seem less desolate. In the meantime, I am working at celebrating what is good about what I do have -- trying to look ahead more than back.

swan

Of Scam and Reality on the Spanko Blogosphere

This Blog began at my directive to swan to post her thoughts, feelings, and experiences so that she would no longer feel isolated in her polyamorous, SM, slavery. She did it less than enthusiastically at first, but it wasn't long before she warmed to this task, and what with her beautiful written expression, created an enthralling journal of her life which developed a small following. In that her goal had never been to receive acclaim or disciples, but rather to get her thoughts out, and to find some sense of community, that was fine. She felt insecurity as well. She was approaching the passage into her 50th year and was experiencing women's health issues. She began comparing herself to the younger women she saw on the Internet, and to other Bloggers who were intent on being spankopile guru's. Early on she wrote a post about the absurdity of the Blog accounts in which everyone always had perfect sex, and in which spankings always resulted in blissful eroticism by bottoms who loved being whipped, paddled, strapped, and switched to whatever degree of excruciating severity, without ever having the slightest reaction of resentment or anger. She was sure that they were fantasies written by "wanna be's."

This lead her to write a post in which she compared the reality of our SM poly M/s life to the too good to be true accounts on Blogs like "A Creative Spanked Wife" which may be read through this link:
Time

The reference to "A Creative Spanked Wife" in her post lead that Blog's author, Patty, to write a particularly acerbic resentful comment on how swan had disrespected her "lifestyle," which she later came back and deleted from our Blog.

Imagine our wonderment when we learned Friday that it turns out "A Creative Spanked Wife" has been at best a several year long fantasy story sold to the world as reality and, at worst, perhaps a fraudulent scam. I'm sure the law enforcement folks who are apparently involved will sort out which of those are more appropriate as descriptions of what occurred there (if law enforcement is involved.....one would have to base their knowledge of what is now happening from that Blog, that is already discredited as a source of accurate factual information..............so who knows.)

We still have no desire to develop a following here........well, or perhaps more accurately, we do not write to attempt to "market" to a following. We appreciate very much that people read here and that some have become friends to varying degrees of intimacy. I can say that everything that has been written here has been honest. None of it has been fantasy (unless it was in fact the occasional description of a fantasy and, of course, was represented as such.) None of it ever has been or will be "made up." It is not mostly about spanking in that (unfortunately:) most of our life is not able to be about spanking. When it is about something more erotic or D/s oriented, it is because that was our recent experience.

I want to send my condolences to the spanko's who were taken in by this extended fantasy, and to those who lost money in the process. We know what it feels like to be strung along and to have your emotions played with for the experimental entertainment and edification of others, having fallen prey to that ourselves R/t in recent months. This will pass and you will learn and grow from it. I know it hurts. It will get better.

To patty at Creative Spanked Wife: Girl, you can write fantastically, your art work is truly professional, and I am sure it will be treasured as adult spanking erotica for decades into the future. It is hard to go forward when one has made horrible and hurtful errors. You are not the first human to have erred, nor will you be the last. Hang on. Get support where you can. I hope your future is not sacrificed in this. You like all of us have gifts to give the community.

"Real life is stranger than fiction," is not simply an adage. It is truth.

All the best everyone:)

Tom

Go confidently in the direction of your dreams. Live the life you've imagined.

PMS?

OK. Math lesson. Take 51 and subtract 13. Multiply by 365.25. Then divide by 28. If you do that, you will come up with about 459 menstrual cycles over the course of my lifetime. All those bouts of PMS. Somethings, if you do them often enough, long enough, regularly enough... well, a body remembers.

Now, ladies and gentlemen, I have no earthly reason to be having PMS anymore. But you couldn't have proved it by me this weekend: lower backache; tender boobs, and pissiness that would have gotten someone killed if I'd had a gun handy. Lucky damn thing that I tend toward the pacifist side of things!!! Maybe it is that there are still tendrils of estrogen floating through the system. Maybe the endocrine system is more widely proactive than we thought, and refuses to give it up just because some lunatic with a knife yanks a few errant organs. Maybe it really is cellular memory that just simply KNOWS that it is THAT TIME of the month, and surgical interventions be DAMNED!!!

At any rate, there wasn't very much that didn't hack me off this weekend. I was "bent" over pretty much the whole state of the universe. Feeling crappy didn't help. The sweeter than syrup cooking chicky on T's cooking channel made me want to murder someone with a spoon. The fact that there were "family" festivities to partake in did not make me feel all warm and fuzzy. That the whole bloomin city was abuzz with joy and excitement because our esteemed President was coming to town to throw out the first pitch at today's opening day game for the Cincinnati Reds baseball team just made my hackles rise. That Master found some perky chick doing a podcast on poly that He insisted on playing the whole time I flew around like a wild woman, trying to get everything crammed into entirely too little time yesterday afternoon made me want to cram His laptop into some anatomically improbable places. Well, you get the picture...

Added to the fact that I ran smack into some new territory on my road to post-hysterectomy sexual functioning that I wasn't prepared for and wasn't expecting on Saturday morning (maybe another post -- maybe), and I was dropped right back into wondering why I ever agreed to the damn surgery in the first place. Nevermind that there really were no options. And yes, I know that the medical realities were that I was way more medically compromised than I knew or realized at the time. Still, it sucks and I'm pissed and not happy and scared and freaked out and wishing it would all just get magically fixed like right now.

There.
Done.
Pout.

swan