Letting My Hair Down:)

I've avoided putting images of me on the Web, feeling concerned about publicizing my visage and being identified in my vanilla life. I've decided that I look different enough with my hair down from my usual pony-tailed presentation to the world, that I bet no one who knows me in my professional life (who would likely never be here anyway), would identify me. So I thought I'd put this up.

Today I found on the Web a picture of my erstwhile poly paramour from last fall. She has devolved or evolved, as your perception might vary, having left her career and her husband and home, to travel North America with a poly biker family, or some such, it seems. Seeing her pic on her Blog was a surprise in light of her previous paranoia regarding her private identity. I once posted her first name on our Blog and she became insane with angst thinking no one in the universe shared her (extremely common) first name. I can only assume that her recent unemployment has made her willing to surface in the community.

Sue has taught me some about Native American spirituality. Western Native American lore ubiquitously includes the tradition of "Hungry Ghosts." Hungry Ghosts are broken people who live off the energy of others. They are broken due to horrible abuses in their childhoods. They are unable to create any energy of their own. My love last fall was one of these. She took from me all she could until nothing remained, and then left as suddenly as she'd arrived. It appears that in the interim she's abandoned her husband, and moved on to others who can provide her a "fix" as long as they can suffice. Hungry Ghosts live in the form of human beings until they finally have no more energy to vampirize. Then they "die" and finally find peace. I wish all her future hosts peace, and that her peace, once she runs out of energy to exploit, is profound and, above all, permanent.

This is me as I appear in "the scene." It is remarkably different than my everyday appearance.

We've had the greatest weekend and I feel refreshed and reenergized totally for the first time since the Hungry Ghost had at me last fall. I pray for her latest victims an early release and a quick rejuvenation.

All the best:)

Tom

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

Guily as Charged

MasterABD commented as follows on the last post --

"If you are aware you own nothing including the Sir to whom the greeting was intended, then you should also realize being it is not your computer, the person on the other end of yahoo is going to be thinking "hey yahoo is password protected". As such there is no reason to assume it would be anyone except the intended recipient. Perhaps turning yahoo off would be the answer.

By the way, what makes her a BIMBO? It would seem a bit of jealousy is in place!"

Sometimes comments come along that are just comments. Sometimes comments come along that generate further comment. Sometimes comments come along that trigger whole streams of thought -- that are more complex than can be easily or simply addressed in the comment format. This is one of those.

I'll begin with the end of this comment, that perhaps there may be some jealousy at play here.

I am.

Jealousy is not, as many tend to assume, a failing or a character flaw. It is an emotion that arises to a greater or lesser degree in a given situation for each individual. It may also be evoked by different stimuli. There are those who believe that those of us who practice polyamory do not deal with jealousy as an emotional reaction. That is not the case. We simply learn to approach it openly and with honesty.

Further, I understand fully that I am in the care of one of the very best, brightest, most talented, most gifted Dominant men around. I am jealous of His time, His energy, His health, and His emotional well-being. He is generous and giving to a fault. Not only does He give of Himself within the lifestyle, He does this in His professional life as well. Many, many people depend on Him for their very survival. His willingness to give, to extend Himself, to expend His time, talent, and energy for others is amazing, admirable, awe-inspiring -- but not always wise from a perspective of self-care. He can, by times, be almost innocent in His willingness to trust. So, I am jealous. I am also protective.

It is easy, within the lifestyle to believe in the "evil, predatory, sadistic Top." It is harder to imagine that there are also, "evil, predatory, masochistic, bottoms." They exist however. This lesson was learned here within the last year, and it was devastating.

It may be, that in time, the BIMBO may get what she is so desperately fishing for -- the opportunity to meet "Sir." If that happens, I'll play whatever role is designated for me in the event. AND I will watch carefully, because she has already demonstrated a lack of basic good judgement and sensitivity. She has proceded with no awareness of the territory into which she has entered. She lacks vision of anyone but herself. Perhaps she is simply without imagination. Or perhaps she is something more insidious... He will play. I will protect.

So. I am watchful. For those without any sense of manners; without grace; without breeding; without class; without appropriate boundaries. I defend the edges. I do not own, but I do patrol the borders. It does not take wealth to behave with integrity. It does not take great education to learn the common courtesies. It is not difficult to understand that one who claims the title of "Master" might at least introduce oneself before presuming to judge or correct. To do less than this is simply Appallingly Bad Deportment.

swan

Swan Nest

A cursory bit of Googling will get you the bare facts:

Female swans will aggressively defend their nests from any threat. Swan wings have a very hard front edge that can be used to hit predators. If the predator is killed, the swan will not eat it.

Information that may be of interest to the person who keeps popping up on Yahoo Messenger on the home computer everytime I sit down to do my school work. That sappy "Hello, Sir," greeting is going to get the predatory, wannabe submissive person "not eaten."

I understand that it isn't "my" computer. I know that I don't OWN anything including the Sir to whom the greeting is ostensibly being directed. I'm perfectly clear about my place and my status, but that does not change the simple fact that there is the simple matter of courtesy involved here. If this BIMBO doesn't have the common good sense and pure decency to ascertain who might be sitting in front of the computer she's sending her fishing messages to, then she deserves whatever might happen to her.

Walking blindly into a swan's nest is just plain stupid. This one qualifies. Grrrrrrrrr.

swan

There's Hope

Yesterday afternoon I had an appointment with a specialist at The Women's Sexual Health Foundation . Finally -- someone who offers hope!

The appointment was so much different than what I have encountered up until now as I have struggled with the aftermath impacts of the hysterectomy. This doctor is not a gynecologist, but specializes in sexual functioning issues for women. He was very affirming that I am not alone in the situation that I find myself in. He was both pleased and quite reinforcing of the fact that Master was there with me for the appointment, and assured us both that the fact that we were clearly working on the issues together was a great plus in this battle. He gathered a great deal of data, and gave us some initial things to try while he gets results back of lab tests, etc. In a month, we will most likely begin making adjustments to the hormones. As I have come to suspect, the prescription that I've been given is not probably the "best" approach to this problem. There are very few gynecologists that specialize in this area, and even fewer FDA approved solutions. It seems that most of what will be available to treat me will be "off label," not-approved, and quite possibly not paid for by insurance. That said, it felt good to finally have someone offer understanding, knowledge, and hope.

swan

I Don't Recommend It

Pay attention, boys and girls. I am going to do my grumpy old lady bit... You have been warned, so if you don't want to listen to it, just click off right now.

There are people who read what we write about our lives, and get the impression, for whatever reason, that we recommend "poly" as a lifestyle. It just isn't the case.

Living in a fulltime, committed, poly relationship is challenging, and while we make it work, and find it tremendously satisfying and fulfilling for the three of us, I don't recommend it to folks -- and I'm not sure Master or T do either.

First, some definitions: I am not a subscriber to the theory that "poly" means that it is OK to fuck everything that moves and takes your fancy as long as you tell your partners about it. I don't care that you scraped together the cash to buy "The Ethical Slut." I don't even care that you actually read it. That isn't it. It also isn't about who is or is not straight, gay, or bi. Likewise, the geometry of the relational descriptors does not particularly interest me ("quad", "tri-", "V", "web", etc.). Neither does the geography of the sleeping arrangements. All of that is the stuff of the mouth breathers, and the "outside-looking-in" monogamous world that still defines relationships like Noah did: two by two by two...

There are all kinds of working poly relationships out there. They aren't all (or sometimes even mostly) about sex. They are about how people live together -- caring for and with each other. That takes many different forms depending on the situation. Working poly relationships can form with people that live in the same home, as we all do. Or in any of a variety of other living configurations. Some do it with children in the home. Others do it with great extended tapestries of relationships that look like aunts and cousins and who knows whatall. What is germane is how adults come to care for each other at tremendously intimate levels.

With the growing awareness of the IDEA of poly, some have come to use the notion to support what I think is more truthfully described as "polyfuckery." That's OK with me. Maybe even a good thing at a certain point in one's life -- run and play and cavort like healthy young animals. No harm and no foul. Don't promise anybody anything and don't expect anything from anyone. Play safe but play. Get that part of life out of the way.

Save the hard, serious, determined, focused, hang on for dear life, I'm going to love you no matter what, relationship building work of coupling or poly or whatever for afterwards. It's not that there's no romance left for the "adult" years. Plenty to go around. Not that there's no spark, no juice, no life left to live. There is that, but there's a settledness that comes with a few years that simply isn't there when you are younger. Sorry. It's the fact. I was there once. Now I have children who are there. Stages.

But there's a time for everything. I'm old enough. I know this. I can still appreciate the sweet young things that come back through my world a few years after they leave the 8th grade. Grown to almost manhood -- all buff and cocky and strutting: a thing of beauty is a joy forever. Delectable to be sure, but I know enough to know they aren't ready to do anything with in terms of serious life work. Toys. Pure and simple. So says an old enough old woman.

So where am I heading with all of this? I don't recommend poly relating in young adulthood. Actually, I don't recommend marriage or any other serious kind of partnering in young adulthood. Make friends. Try lots of things. Lots of people. Stay open. Recognize that there are way more people who talk about wanting poly than actually do it. Understand that the number of successful poly relationships is miniscule compared to the number of failed attempts. Look around at the statistics that point to the astronomical difficulty of making plain old, garden variety "couple-style" relating go, and then calculate the much more intense levels of difficulty associated with multiples. Go slowly. Not just in the poly-cliched sense of going more slowly than the slowest one, but in the sense of going slowly enough to really know your own insides; your own wants and needs. Figure out what it is that you bring to the table in a relationship (any relationship), and then maybe you can be a worthy partner in building a sturdy and healthy partnership with another sturdy and healthy human or two or more.

I am pretty seriously convinced that this fashion that I see developing of chalking up "poly" relationships like notches on a belt -- of poly "counting coup," is some sort of modern alternative lifestyle status thing that is both sad and harmful. We've gone from a good, affirming push to assert that our sexuality and our identities were deserving of a place right out there alongside all the rest of the so-called "normal" folks in the world, to a kind of locker room scoring system that is decidedly not good or affirming of anyone.

And I don't think that, now that it has begun to go "mainstream" that there is nearly enough good, sound, sensible help out there for people trying to figure out how to do it in any sort of practical terms. We walk around spouting crap like, "Go slow," and "Communicate, communicate, communicate," while folks are smashing on the rocks all around us. The reality is that there is only so far that a set of people can go slow. At some point, you have to take the leap, and leaping is never SLOW! It does no good at all to tell people to "communicate" unless we can guide them in the how's and why's and what's of that communication. The ugly truth is that when someone is in LUST, they are unlikely to go slow, and most probably unwilling to communicate very much unless that communication is leading them directly to where they want to go anyway. We need experts who can guide in REAL and practical ways. What's out there is of very little use -- especially in so far as it makes it all sound simple, happy, easy, and carefree. Horsefeathers!

I don't recommend poly to anyone. I am always bemused by people that tell me they are looking for poly partners or poly relationships. Poly is hard. Damned hard. But then, I think relationships are damned hard. I think people are tricky and unreliable and undependable and unpredictable. Staying in relationship is the most demanding thing a person can set themselves to doing. Not for the faint of heart. Not for sissies or wimps. Not for the self-centered, the self-serving, the whiney, the demanding. Not for children or adolescents or probably even youn adults. Grow up. Get over yourself. Then, if you are still nuts enough to think you want to try this kind of stuff, if you think you can find one or two or even more competent, decent, stout-hearted grown ups, have a go at it -- but don't say I didn't warn you.

How's that for grumpy?

swan

I Asked for It...

We got off to sort of a rough start on Saturday morning. Let's face it -- I am not "easy" these days.

So, we'd begun well enough with a lusty fuck -- which isn't our usual "menu," but here lately, when things come up, we figure we better jump on it. Not to put too fine a point on it... I was only too happy to oblige, and did my thing; glad for the success of my efforts.

Then things went south, as He patted my belly, clicked the TV on, and padded off to pee... Dismissed...

I tried not to cry, but felt pretty let down. So, I got up, went on out to the kitchen and started the coffee, and began unloading the dishwasher. So much for fantasies of some sort of long, slow, luxurious scene... Ahhh well...

He called out from the bedroom that He loved me, and I guess He heard my muttering, because it didn't take long for me to get the command: "Get back in here."

Major fussiness... Not a good place to begin from. I eventually got it out -- giving Him a sense of how let down and how hurt I felt. How dismissed I'd been made to feel in that instant. How much I needed Him. The prescription of course -- a spanking.

I managed to talk my way into being allowed to keep my jammie bottoms on. I cannot even tell you how rare that is. Never, ever happens. Except this once. Spanked and paddled through my pajamas until there was not agony, but pleasant warmth and connectedness again.

And then, as He held me, and rocked me, and crooned to me, I asked for it. "Could we please try the viper?" Whispered. Because the viper is a strap that bites. Because I haven't asked for anything in play for a very long time. Because I haven't WANTED anything in play for a very long time...

He was surprised, but only too happy to oblige me. This time without the pajamas, at my instigation. I wanted the leather's bite on my skin.

It was good.

swan

Guarding My Heart

A very long time ago, when we hardly knew each other, an exchange got going on a listserve that we all participated in. Things got a little intense and a little personal and when it was all over and done with, the focus came to be pretty negatively directed at Himself. He ended up getting pretty slammed.

I remember that day when I signed on and read the message He'd sent that said, "I have a real life; important work to do. I don't need this. I won't be back." My heart sank. I picked up my phone and dialed. T picked it up, and I asked her if He was alright. She told me that He was just sitting in the chair -- not talking -- just staring into space.

She handed Him the phone, and for the next I don't know how long I mostly listened, and tried to talk Him back into Himself. I promised Him that day that I'd always come after Him, always come and find Him no matter how lost and alone He might feel.

That's been my committment: to be there, to pay attention, to listen intently, to wait, to soothe, to hold, to try (in the best way I know) to make it right. It is, when it comes down to it, what slaves do: to simply be present.

But I've fallen short of that promise and committment in a thousand large and small ways in the last weeks and months. I've withdrawn, not physically, but emotionally; pulled my heart away.

There are, I suppose, explanations for it -- but no valid excuses. I've chosen to protect myself rather than to risk and trust. I've felt distance, and in response, I've created even more. I've wanted Him to "come in after me," and somehow find a way to bring me back to the safety that I once felt. Wanting that, I keep catching myself setting up checks and tests; wondering if He will see this or that, and react, notice, respond. It is a foolish, childish, peevish sort of game.

I need to set the tests for myself -- find ways to create not guardedness but openess; not distance but presence, not wanting from but wanting to...

I want my 'slave heart' back.

swan

THUNK!

THUNK!

I'm a city kid. Born and bred. I've never actually lived where a person would have to draw water from a well with a bucket, but I imagine that, "THUNK," is the sound that a wooden bucket might make when it hits the bottom in a well run dry.

Here in the midwest, it might not ever really get to be much of an issue because it tends to rain regularly and intensely, and the rivers and streams stay pretty full most of the year. It seems likely to me that wells dug in this part of the world probably don't often run dry. In the more arid western U.S. that I'm still far more familiar with, the notion of a well running dry is just not that far fetched. Water is a valuable and precious commodity there. People grow up knowing that there is just only so much of the stuff, and that it is indeed possible to use it all up.

It is that "well run dry" image that has been in my mind these last days as I have gone about the business of trying to keep myself "in" my slave self, and hold onto some sense of hopefulness about this life of mine and ours. I've felt myself hauling the bucket of my own personal, internal, sprit up from the depths -- and finding it dry as dust. That dryness has been disturbing and frightening.

Power exchange is a unique sort of relational "economy." Those who are unfamiliar with it; who do not understand it well, or who see it only from the outside/fictionalized point of view are inclined to perceive that the benefit in this lifestyle accrues only (or mostly) to the Top/Dominant/Master side of things. It is easy to understand how that is the way things look. The "reverse" side of the exchange is more difficult to see in terms of the "positives" that are gained by the one that particpates in that fashion. The reality is that, when this works, both parties "win," and get their needs met in equal measure within a relationship dynamic that is, by definition, "not equal."

That said, there is the need to "give" from the depths of the spirit in this type of relationship. Long-term, committed power exchange relationships demand an intensity that requires partners to "go to the well" of personal integrity, personal discipline, personal courage, personal committment, and personal honesty day after day after day regardless of the apparent rewards. Master or slave, it doesn't matter, you can't play this game based on some sort of accounting system that keeps score. It just doesn't work that way. You have to be willing to give what you say you will give; what is asked; what is required; what is demanded without making mental tally marks and keeping some sort of balance sheet in your head.

However, there is no such thing as a bottomless well. All springs need a source, and all rivers need the replenishment of the rains of springtime. It is possible to go to the well, and go to the well, and go to the well -- until finally the bucket hits the bottom and makes that thunking sound that reverberates back to us of utter and complete exhaustion and desolation.

I think I've been there -- or nearly there these last weeks:

• Desolate with the loss of any meaningful sexuality
• Powerless in the face of a medical establishment that seems careless and frankly unconcerned about an "old, used up woman, past her prime"
• Frightened of my inability to see any alternative path to a solution
• Angry with Master for letting it all happen, and for taking His pleasure just the same while it has happened
• Unsure of my footing, my identity, my rootedness -- not clear where I belong
• Lost and out of control and flailing in the currents
• Stunned that He has let me be so wild, so pissy, so completely without a rudder

To be fair, I think He's been frightened too. Doing His own grieving. Carrying His own load of doubt and guilt. I remember reading somewhere that when loss strikes in a family, one of the great dangers is that they cannot support each other, because they are each grieving, and so unless they figure out how to lean together, they are in danger of falling apart. We have been in that kind of risky time.

Late last week, though, something inside of me started to shift. I had called the doctor back to ask about an alternative to the HRT which was not accomplishing any noticeable change in my sexual response. When her nurse called me back and told me that Dr. Yadayada wanted me to keep on taking it for another month and see what happened because sometimes it takes awhile for the hormones to build up in the system, I snapped!

"ANOTHER MONTH! ANOTHER MONTH! EXCUSE ME? NO! THAT IS NOT OK! IT HAS ALREADY BEEN FIVE MONTHS! THIS IS NOT ACCEPTABLE! DOES DR. YADAYADA "GET" THAT THERE IS NOTHING HAPPENING?!?!?!?!"

Now, I suspect that health care staff people are not accustomed to patients going off in outraged tones about the inability to fuck satisfactorily. I am beginning to think that most gynecologists assume that most women my age are more than happy to be done with sex, and that if having a hysterectomy gives them and excuse for that to happen, then well and good. The somewhat stunned nurse person asked if I'd like the doctor to call me... I told her, "Yes!"

When the doctor called back just a few minutes later, she was not particularly warm. She, too, wanted to tell me that I needed to work with her because sometimes these things just took awhile. I went through my whole frustrated, angry discourse with her, and finished by telling her that I was really feeling that I'd been given the runaround, and that what I wanted was some honest information: "how long was "awhile?" -- what could I honestly expect? After all, she was the one who had told me before the surgery that I'd likely not experience any significant diminishment in my sexual enjoyment." At that point, she told me that I was being very negative, and that it was my negative attitude that was impacting my progress. Oh please!

Our conversation deteriorated significantly at that point. In the end, she agreed to increase the dosage and the frequency on the HRT, and we hung up on less than cordial terms.

I was furious, but feeling empowered for the first time in many, many weeks. I knew that:

• I needed to find another doctor
• I needed to track down a source for the Damiana that blue recommended
• I had to figure out what was going to feed my spirit
• I needed to stop waiting to be rescued and save myself

So... I did find the Damiana over the weekend. The doctor has called in a prescription for a higher dosage of the HRT. I've found another medical professional (not a gynecologist) who treats women with female sexual dysfunction related to hysterectomy, and I'll be seeing him next week -- and I'm very excited about his credentials (and hopeful). I've had faint but recognizable stirrings of desire in the past couple of days. That has not happened in many, many days. I think there may be hope.

For the first time in an awfully long time, I am not exhausted; I am not angry; I am not desolate; I am not suicidal. I feel as if I have awakened from a very long sleep.

Perhaps the spring has finally come. Perhaps there is healing and hope. Maybe I will let down the bucket and find fresh, clear, cool water -- and not dust at last...

swan

Mother's Day

Tomorrow will be Mother's Day.

I've never liked mother's day particularly. Really has always seemed a contrived sort of deal. Either Mom knows you love her or she doesn't. You tell her or you don't. More importantly, you demonstrate it... Or you don't. Buying flowers, a cheesy card, and a meal once a year just isn't it. Really.

In my situation, Mother's Day puts me up against the way my life is, and to tell the truth, that is a reality check that I just don't need.

I find myself, as Mother's Day is upon me again, pondering the Lakota Sioux prayer I learned from one of the "teachers" life sent my way so many years ago -- "mitakyasi." It means "all my relations," and is meant to remind us that we are entirely part of all there is. By "all my relations," the Lakota mean, quite literally ALL things and all beings. Our "relations" are not just parents and siblings, grandparents and aunts and uncles. Our relations are our neighbors and our surroundings, our pathways and our communities. "Mitakyasi," means I am part, I am responsible, I belong, I make this, this makes me... It is all and all. A prayer that is simultaneously of humility and glory.

And so, I cannot help but inventory "all my relations:"

Master. The One who brought me to this place with His command; who loves me; who drives me higher and farther and deeper than I ever imagined. He is my love, and my owner, and my friend, and my confidant. He aggravates me, and makes me laugh, and makes me safe, and makes me weep. He is my heart, and my soul. The destiny I was meant to find.

T. My sister-heart -- the one that I grew up longing for in a life filled with brothers. She is the one who is forever on the lookout for goodies, for presents, for the things that will make me smile. She is the one who opened her heart, her home, her whole world -- to make space for me. Whatever happens, no matter how tired, or weird, or crazy it might get, I know my sister will be right there, right beside me.

Mother. The woman who bore me into this world. She has always been the one I have looked at with longing -- wishing that someday she would look back and see me, and just want me. Just once. She is the meanest human I have ever known: simply incapable of giving or connecting with anyone not herself. Still.

My son, Rick. My first born. He came into my life at a time when I was so awfully young, and so terribly naive and unformed. I held him in my arms and promised to raise a man that I could be proud of. He is that. Throughout his childhood, he watched me battle my way through the minefields of the corporate culture that I inhabited in those days. Watched it consume my time, my energy, my health. Too, he watched, with his serious, quiet child's eyes, the silent war that ensued between his father and I. Both things shaped him in profound ways. He is today a good, decent, kind, thoughtful, open, honest and caring man. He works for far less than he might because he will not be captured as I was. He is approaching his wedding in September with the woman he has been with for 10 years. No rush to commitment for my sweet boy... ever cautious.

My daughter, Sarah. My lovely, violet eyed, strawberry-blonde baby. Bright and damaged from the very start. I knew, almost immediately that Sarah was not like other children. For years and years, I sought the answers that would tell me what it was that made her different, but so many years ago, no one had said, "Asperger's," and it was rare that bipolar illness was diagnosed in young teens. Always, I'd be told that she was merely "bright." When things began to fall apart in her 5th grade year, there were no answers outside of the juvenile justice system, and a poor excuse for mental health care that was really just a way to milk whatever insurance coverage we had at the time. In time, things devolved to increasing levels of criminal behavior until Sarah found herself on an endless cycle of rounds that took her in and out of the prison system. Mostly, I don't blame myself. Mostly.

Brothers. I had three. Hank, Gregg, Kurt. All younger. Kurt never calls and I don't call him. Long story. A lot of years between us age wise. Too much difference in experience, I suppose. No one's fault. We just don't really know each other. Gregg died of HIV AIDS 14 years ago. I miss him terribly. Hank lives far away. Doesn't understand. Tries to be "tolerant," but we haven't got much space to stand together on, and he aligns with mother most of the time. A choice.

My kids. In my classes. They come and go every year. I've learned to love them passionately and deeply, and then let them go. They don't belong to me. They are the world's children. They come into my life, take what I can give them and then journey on. Sometimes they look back as they head off to their lives, but not often. Sometimes they come back around. Doesn't matter. They are the work of my hands and my heart. Seeds planted in rows that I don't look back at.

Co-workers and colleagues. This year we will be scattering. The school will close. In a matter of weeks. All of us will go different ways. And it will all be like a dream. All the work, the shared efforts, the successes and the failures, and the stories. Gone. In the mist. New places and new stories. But "we" will be gone. Odd that.

The man who was my husband for so many years. He marries again. Soon, so my son tells me. That chapter ended finally. I wish him and them well. Odd sensation. More single still.

And the earth beneath my feet? Less strange seeming than it was. I am growing accustomed to the rhythms of this place. The way the springtime comes. The way the winter bites. The weight of the summer's heat. Not really mine yet. The place doesn't make my heart sing usually, but I can find joy in some of the places I see. It is where I live. It isn't where my roots are, still.

And you. Because you have come here, so many of you, and shared and read and returned, you too, are "all my relations."

Mitakyasi.

swan

The Razor

More silliness...

Not long after the adventures with THE CAMERA, there was Friday morning. He was chairing a meeting out of town. This time, it was T that got the frantic phone call at work -- It seems that He'd done His usual thing of puttering and poking about getting ready to go until He was way late leaving, and decided to take His portable electric razor with Him in the car and shave on the road. Now mind you, this is the razor that retails for a pretty penny($$$), and which T (brilliant bargain shopper that she is) located for about half price last Christmas. The thing is (well -- was) less than five months old...

So picture if you will, friends: The Master of our Domain, who never performs any of the functions of personal hygiene in any of the locations that one would expect such operations to occur, is driving along the road with His practically brand new, expensive electric razor, and decides that it needs to be divested of the whiskers that have accumulated in the head. Thinking quickly, He opens the car window, sticks the thing out the window pushes the button, flips the head, and the whole top flips off onto the road, as He drives along. TAH DAH!!! Insert assorted expletives here. He did go back and retrieve the parts and pieces, but I probably do not need to explain to you that the wonderful Christmas razor has passed from this world... So, He calls T (at work), and gives her the whole long story, and winds her all up about what is He going to do now until He can get another razor, and on and on and on... She told me that when He first called and started in, she really thought that He had crashed the car, He sounded so frantic. High drama. We have had discussion, in our nominally DD household, about this business. It is understood that He WILL wander the household while He gets ready to go. We just know that part of life is that we trail behind Him and retrieve His toothbrush and toothpaste and dental floss and combs and brushes and whatnot. HOWEVER -- the question has been asked (lightly but with arched brows and a bit of a "teacher" voice) whether it seems prudent to take the morning hygiene routine on the road in the future... Do ya' think? Mistress Trixie seems rather convinced that Master needs a spanking...

swan

Not That Picture?

Time for some silliness.

Oftentimes, it seems, to me at least, that when things really hit the levels of major comedy, it is because "Himself" has, in His usual headlong charge through life, neglected the minor details, and so set into motion a series of minor catastrophes that cascade into full on "Three Stooges" level calamity. There was last week on Wednesday, for instance. It was about mid-morning. Because of some oddities, I had a fairly light schedule at school with some gaps in my teaching day.

Thank goodness.

I was working at my desk when I got an IM from Master asking if I knew where the digital camera was. He needed it to give to one of His staff members so that some photos could be taken of an event that He was hosting with a local political figure. I responded that, "Yes, it was sitting on top of the television cabinet..." This is the digital camera that T and I purchased for His birthday two years ago because He simply "HAD TO HAVE ONE," and is the selfsame camera which He has hardly touched since -- save maybe one time which was a large part of His problem. I wished Him a good afternoon, told Him I loved Him, etc., and went back to work.

In a very few minutes, He was back, wondering if I knew if there were any pictures already on the camera.

Hmmm. "Well, yes, there were the photos taken outside, over the weekend, of the neighbors' guests parked illegally all over the street, blocking our driveways..."

"Anything else?" came back the words on my screen.

I thought for a moment, and then it dawned on me: "The butt picture!" He'd snapped a shot of my bright pink ass, after a session a few weeks ago, and then not done anything with it. It was still in the camera. This picture...

That sent Him into a panic. "I can't hand that to my staff! What if they see that?"

"Maybe they won't," I offered.

"I'M LOOKING RIGHT AT IT!" Came back the obviously freaked out words.

I understood that He knew that if He could find it, with His limited expertise with the camera, so could anyone else with a mere push of the button. "Are you on the PC?" I asked Him. When He told me He was, I suggested that He just download the pictures to the computer. It was then that He told me that He had 28 minutes to shower, dress, and get to the restaurant to meet His 1:00 appointment. AND He had no idea HOW to download pictures to the computer...

Deep breath. "Sir... what would you like to do? Download those pictures or take the camera with them still on there? I'll help you." No response. "Sir... Look for the grey cable at the back of the desk on the right. It will just be laying there loose."

"I can't find it!!!" Imagine what hyperventilation sounds like over IM.

"Look again. It is probably under a paper or something..."

"Got it!"

"Good. Now, there is a cover on the side of the camera. It is sort of rubbery. It just pulls to the side. (thinking that this all sounds sort of obscene...) Open it and you will see where the cable plugs in. Once, you've done that, turn the power on for the camera, and the dialog box for off-loading the pictures will come up automatically."

We got it done eventually. It took us a couple of tries to hit all the right cues to actually delete the photos. I think He probably was late to His 1:00 appointment, but He is chronically late to most things. He regularly reminds me that He does not need to be on time because 'He is not a peon.' It is a philosophical thing with Him... I think He was glad that He didn't have to worry about "bad" pictures on the camera... That is a guess of course because I never actually heard. Slaves don't need to hear that sort of thing. Glad to help, Sir... Giggle.

Although the idea of the "butt" picture showing up in the politician's face does help to lift the doldrums in some sort of evil perverse way. What the heck, there is precious little that is making this girl smile these days...

swan

Depression

I am depressed.

The hormone replacement therapy is not working. I've lost all sexual functioning. No orgasm. Very little sensation. Very little urge. I have memories. From before the surgery in December that resulted in my sexual mutilation.

I still fulfill my duties. Still take care of the cooking and laundry and other chores. Still get spanked and am still able to give Him sexual pleasure.

I am aware that He continues to seek connection to other partners. That makes me sad and angry. Knowing that I shouldn't feel that way just makes everything worse because, after all, here I am. So how hypocritical is that? Besides, even if I were free to pursue that (and I'm not), even if I could find another partner, even if I wanted another partner -- what on earth would I do with such a person now that I have no sexuality left to me. Damn! I read about all those who are in the prime of their sexual prowess and it makes me want to scream. It seems so unfair that I spent almost all the good years tied to a man who didn't really want much of that, and now, when it had just come to be so good... So I've pretty much quit reading everywhere because it just hurts.

I have no desire to live like this. I have suicidal thoughts. There is no joy. I've lost my belief in everything. I have no faith. I am dead although I am still up walking around. The women in my line live well into their 90's. I just keep imagining all those years, and trying to keep from getting swallowed up by the blackness.

swan

Negotiating and Consent

"It is rare indeed for a person to give consent and enter into a solemn agreement with anything but the vaguest notion of where that consent will lead. Marriage is an agreement that regularly devolves into pain and conflict and is not the least bit what the bride and groom foresaw when they made their vows. Even if they learn to accommodate and enjoy a “successful” marriage they can, in the end, wind up in a 24/7 nursemaid obligation. (When they talked so bravely about “in sickness and health” the had no idea….)My particular interest is in Corporal Punishment as a rout to self-realisation and reformation... One may agree to such an arrangement and the punishment can then be considered “consensual” but, if the punishment is to have any effect at all it is bound to reach a point where the person who is about to be on the receiving end wants to withdraw that consent. Can the consent in a disciplinary situation be unilaterally withdrawn?I think the point I wish to make is that we all enter into agreements and want desperately to withdraw our consent at one time or another."

This comment of Jack's to the previous post, set me to thinking about "negotiation" and "consent." He speaks to the committments made in the relationship of marriage, and compares them in some sense to the sort of committments (and struggles) that I've copped to here. He notes that often, in marriage at least, the bride and groom make the promises that are intended to bind them for a lifetime with only the vaguest notion of what they are getting themselves into.

Is the question, then this: Can consent be given when we cannot know?

I married, when I married, quite young. I'd been sheltered, by some standards, kept away from the world, isolated in a family that prevented me from knowing how others lived and thought. Conversely, I was damaged by a family dynamic that was abusive and neglectful, and marriage seemed to me a road out of a very bad situation. I did not "negotiate" well on my own behalf in that event. To have done so, I would have had to have known who I was and what I had to bring to the table. I would have needed some realistic sense of my own value -- my strengths, my desires, my wants and needs as well as my deficiencies. I had none of that information. I was working blind. In retrospect, I don't think he had a clue either. None of the adults who proposed to "advise" us were much use as it turns out when I look back from this vantage point either. That transaction was made in desperation -- it was equivalent to trying to get out of a forest fire by closing your eyes, running as fast as you can, and hoping that you don't run into anything. The end result was probably predictable.

Through all the years that I worked in corporate settings, I had the opportunity to see masterful negotiations: I learned by observing what it meant to come to a situation prepared to demand full status at the bargaining table; aware of what was at stake. To be prepared to give and take from a position of knowing what you have to offer and what you require in exchange is fundamental to effective negotiating and true "consent."

During the time that I had access to the public scene, I was lucky to be in proximity to one very carefully negotiated scene between an experienced Top and a fairly new bottom. It was a fascinatingly intricate exploration of the details of the what and how and why of their proposed interaction. The two of them spent far more time discussing the scene they were contemplating than the actual event itself would likely end up requiring. Before it was all over with, I'd overheard more about their backgrounds and communication styles and various likes and dislikes than I could have even imagined. Far more than I'd ever shared with my own partner (who was my husband), and more than I've probably ever discussed with Master if the truth were told. I imagine that when the point of "consent" was reached between the two of them on that evening, there was very little doubt as to what it actually included or meant.

Entering into M/s, I sense that we grew into it rather than ever actually discussing it or formally "negotiating" it. It simply became, over time, an acknowledged fact between us. Complicated by distance and time and poly, our relationship is that complex tangle of power exchange and love that is not uncommon in the BDSM community, and so there are maze-like layers of connection and interwoven emotions for us to navigate. We plunged together into the deep waters of intense relating, and then, little by little, over many weeks and months, did the work of discovering the finer details of who we each were. Careful negotiating steps were almost certainly skipped in our headlong rush. Had we, either one of us, approached this with any sort of cool-headed logic or reason, the consent stage would have probably looked significantly different.

Not that it matters at this juncture. It happened. But we were not considered about it. Not at all.

Whatever. However much more carefully the negotiations might have been conducted; however much more technically perfect and contractually specific the consent might have been made to seem, real life, real time, day to day, week to week, long-term relating brings with it something far more nebulous most of the time. As Jack points out, it is nearly impossible to predict or project the realities for which we are consenting at the beginning of a "long-haul" relationship whether that be a deliberate sort of power exchange dynamic, or something more traditionally structured like a marriage.

We come into these things with certain personal "capital" to bring to the bargain, hopeful to make whatever deal can bring us close to the fulfillment we envision at the outset. If we are people of any sort of wisdom, any degree of maturity, any level of experience, we may have some knowledge from which to negotiate the details of the bargain that we make at the beginning. Hopefully, we know going in something of who we really are at that point, and can enter into the consent with some kind of personal integrity. Once we "sign on the dotted line" however, all bets are off. The ride takes us where it will, and the best that we can hope for is that we are good enough, strong enough, wise enough to see it through.

"Change, adjust, adapt." This is the advice I often give my junior high age students who are prone to bristle when the routines shift and things aren't quite the same today as they were yesterday. Relationships evolve because the people who are in those relationships grow and change. It is the nature of being alive. For those of us who choose power exchange relating, that reality is an added challenge. Choosing once, the consent is given, yet change remains a constant and evolution occurs. Growth continues because life continues. To stop growing and changing is to stop being alive.

How then does one who has promised to remain constant do that in a sea of change? How can the focus be maintained when there is not solid ground on which to stand? Can we, should we affirm that of which we do not yet conceive? Can we face without fear an unimagined future?

These are the promises made. This is our bond.

swan