It was that zero to sixty in no time at all phenomenon.
I walked in the door at the end of the week from hell... Dropped all the crap that I haul home every week so I can plan for the next week. Watched Him for a few minutes while He seemed to lose Himself in the new spanking stories book that He'd ordered from Amazon... Figured that He was not the least bit interested in me, so nevermind that it had been a long, difficult, stretch -- whatever I was hoping for of time to decompress or snuggle or connect was obviously going to have to wait.
Suddenly, it was as if He woke up, saw me, and the world tipped. He grabbed me. And, before I could shift my thinking, gather my wits, get myself back from the place where I'd sent my needs and wants earlier... I was ass-up getting paddled and strapped (and none too gently). No warning, no warmup, no transition, no words, no time.
I didn't do the paddling very well, but I sort of survived it. Then He offered me the choice of the paddle or the strap for a last set. I was strung out and miserable and shaken. I couldn't think. I tried to duck the choosing, but of course, the choice was forced. I asked for the strap. When it came, it seemed particularly harsh, particularly mean, especially fierce.
I went straight to rage. The blood roared in my ears and I came up swinging. Curses and flailing. No more! Somehow I got hold of the paddle and pounded it on the bed and on another paddle that was laying there. It split in two pieces. That ended the overt wildness, although my mind flashed to what a great murder weapon the split piece would make.
Eventually I calmed down some, and we worked through it without a major blow up or blow out. This morning, we found our way through the tentativeness and talked around the feelings. He is certain that I am back into the depression, and I cannot argue the facts. I am frozen in fear and doubt and anger on too many fronts to put up much of a defense. I hate the thought of where I have to go with all of that, but also know that all my strength has not been sufficient to ward off the demons.
I have got to face the consequences for the interrupted strapping, for the disrespect, for the broken paddle. I am ashamed. I am hurt. I am way out of line. I am still His.
swan
3/31/2007
3/27/2007
Differences
We don't do role play. We just aren't good at it. Neither of us is "into" it. It doesn't get either of us "off."
AND...
He IS into disciplinary-style spanking. It is one thing that seriously rocks His boat.
I, on the other hand, HATE punishment; am destroyed by it; will absolutely do anything within my power to avoid having to go there.
My beginnings in BDSM were on the Domestic Discipline (DD) end of things. It was what I found first when I typed "spanking" into a search engine, and it was what I managed to convince the "vanilla" spouse to try with me. We followed the typical pattern of making up a list of rules and penalties with the understanding that violations of the rules would result in me getting spanked.
The problem with DD for me is this: if you tell me that I am supposed to not do something, or that I AM supposed to do something -- that is the way I behave. I follow rules. I am well behaved and pretty much self-disciplined. Once I figured out that it was "spanking" that was my thing, I learned to ask for the spanking, and skip all the silly bullshit games around the DD nonsense.
Once out of the vanilla marriage situation, and into the relationship with Master, the issue of punishment took on a whole different flavor. Punishment became significantly more intense, and the emotional load ratcheted up to a point where I simply could not bear the thought of incurring punishment from Him. Anything that even hints of punishment is enough to bring me to the point of a sobbing, incoherent wreck. I've earned punishments on a few occasions, but it is not something that He and I take lightly or that we play with.
So, where does that leave the two of us when THAT is a major turn on for Him?
He looks for others to discipline. I know this. I understand it. I don't especially like it, and yet I love His reasons for doing it.
Right now, I can see the hunger on Him. I know He needs to find some silly twit who cannot keep it together -- who drinks or drives too fast or spends too much or is lazy or doesn't manage their diet or has some other inappropriate behavior that they don't handle like an adult. All the signs are there -- He has that predatory twitch, and I cannot fulfill the need in Him. I know that He could take me and beat the living daylights out of me -- as does He, and I also know that even if He did that, the hunger would remain. Simply put, there is not the reality to that scenario that He is craving... He'd hurt me in ways that would damage what is His, and to no benefit that He sees for His own pleasure. It wouldn't be REAL discipline but only "pretend."
So.
I am hanging on to what I know. Believing in Him and believing in us. Choosing to trust that we are alright just as we are, and that continuing to be "good" will be good enough even if, in some strange way, it takes me out of the running for this one thing that He needs and wants.
If there was one thing I never, ever promised Him, this would be it ... never promised that I'd be good at being a silly twit who couldn't follow the rules.
swan
AND...
He IS into disciplinary-style spanking. It is one thing that seriously rocks His boat.
I, on the other hand, HATE punishment; am destroyed by it; will absolutely do anything within my power to avoid having to go there.
My beginnings in BDSM were on the Domestic Discipline (DD) end of things. It was what I found first when I typed "spanking" into a search engine, and it was what I managed to convince the "vanilla" spouse to try with me. We followed the typical pattern of making up a list of rules and penalties with the understanding that violations of the rules would result in me getting spanked.
The problem with DD for me is this: if you tell me that I am supposed to not do something, or that I AM supposed to do something -- that is the way I behave. I follow rules. I am well behaved and pretty much self-disciplined. Once I figured out that it was "spanking" that was my thing, I learned to ask for the spanking, and skip all the silly bullshit games around the DD nonsense.
Once out of the vanilla marriage situation, and into the relationship with Master, the issue of punishment took on a whole different flavor. Punishment became significantly more intense, and the emotional load ratcheted up to a point where I simply could not bear the thought of incurring punishment from Him. Anything that even hints of punishment is enough to bring me to the point of a sobbing, incoherent wreck. I've earned punishments on a few occasions, but it is not something that He and I take lightly or that we play with.
So, where does that leave the two of us when THAT is a major turn on for Him?
He looks for others to discipline. I know this. I understand it. I don't especially like it, and yet I love His reasons for doing it.
Right now, I can see the hunger on Him. I know He needs to find some silly twit who cannot keep it together -- who drinks or drives too fast or spends too much or is lazy or doesn't manage their diet or has some other inappropriate behavior that they don't handle like an adult. All the signs are there -- He has that predatory twitch, and I cannot fulfill the need in Him. I know that He could take me and beat the living daylights out of me -- as does He, and I also know that even if He did that, the hunger would remain. Simply put, there is not the reality to that scenario that He is craving... He'd hurt me in ways that would damage what is His, and to no benefit that He sees for His own pleasure. It wouldn't be REAL discipline but only "pretend."
So.
I am hanging on to what I know. Believing in Him and believing in us. Choosing to trust that we are alright just as we are, and that continuing to be "good" will be good enough even if, in some strange way, it takes me out of the running for this one thing that He needs and wants.
If there was one thing I never, ever promised Him, this would be it ... never promised that I'd be good at being a silly twit who couldn't follow the rules.
swan
3/26/2007
Nothing
So much of the way life goes from day to day seems ordinary.
It is easy to fall into thinking patterns that are like ordinary patterns.
Easy to start thinking like an ordinary person with an ordinary life.
A person who has power.
A person who has control.
A person who has choices.
A person who owns.
A person who can say I want this or need that or wish it were that way.
And be able to shape the world in those ways.
And it really isn't like that -- not at all.
Not underneath the facade that we maintain.
The reality is this --
The power is not in my hands.
Nor the choices.
Not the control.
Not the ownership.
All of it is at the pleasure of Master.
Because I chose once and no longer.
I can be happy in the outcome or I can be unhappy.
In the present circumstances, it really matters very little.
I can put my hands on my hips, stick out my lower lip, pout, and stomp my foot -- declare that it is terribly unfair.
Matters very little.
He looks at me and simply says, "you are stuck."
Part of me shudders in despair, while part of me sighs in vast relief.
Slaves watch and sense the wind and gather bits and pieces of information from nuance and shadow and tone.
Masters have no idea how closely we learn to read their faces and their eyes and their every muscle shift.
The language of the all and all -- the only.
The coded words that conceal nothing.
Convey everything.
In the darkness, as sleep eludes me, I scramble for some answer to the puzzle.
Some escape from the inevitable.
Ultimate.
Impossible.
Final.
Submit.
Settle.
Stop.
Relinquish the control.
Give. Give up. Give over. Give in.
Trust is not a gift.
Not earned or given.
It is a decision.
An investment.
Taken from today's stores and put into an endeavor that one believes in.
Forget shrieking. Forgo fantasy. Stop flailing.
Not calm.
Not easy.
Not graceful.
Not peaceful.
Nothing.
swan
It is easy to fall into thinking patterns that are like ordinary patterns.
Easy to start thinking like an ordinary person with an ordinary life.
A person who has power.
A person who has control.
A person who has choices.
A person who owns.
A person who can say I want this or need that or wish it were that way.
And be able to shape the world in those ways.
And it really isn't like that -- not at all.
Not underneath the facade that we maintain.
The reality is this --
The power is not in my hands.
Nor the choices.
Not the control.
Not the ownership.
All of it is at the pleasure of Master.
Because I chose once and no longer.
I can be happy in the outcome or I can be unhappy.
In the present circumstances, it really matters very little.
I can put my hands on my hips, stick out my lower lip, pout, and stomp my foot -- declare that it is terribly unfair.
Matters very little.
He looks at me and simply says, "you are stuck."
Part of me shudders in despair, while part of me sighs in vast relief.
Slaves watch and sense the wind and gather bits and pieces of information from nuance and shadow and tone.
Masters have no idea how closely we learn to read their faces and their eyes and their every muscle shift.
The language of the all and all -- the only.
The coded words that conceal nothing.
Convey everything.
In the darkness, as sleep eludes me, I scramble for some answer to the puzzle.
Some escape from the inevitable.
Ultimate.
Impossible.
Final.
Submit.
Settle.
Stop.
Relinquish the control.
Give. Give up. Give over. Give in.
Trust is not a gift.
Not earned or given.
It is a decision.
An investment.
Taken from today's stores and put into an endeavor that one believes in.
Forget shrieking. Forgo fantasy. Stop flailing.
Not calm.
Not easy.
Not graceful.
Not peaceful.
Nothing.
swan
3/23/2007
Power
All intimate relationships have internal power dynamics. Many never recognize or acknowlege that reality. To take the power structure and make it clearly manifest can simplify some things; eliminate (or reduce) game playing; remove a range of choices and decisions; define positions, responsibilities and roles.
Over the years, I've discussed power in relationships with lots of different people with a lot of different points of view.
Some of those people have been folks who have plain, old, garden-variety, boy-meets-girl relationships, complete with marriage licensces (or not). They almost always swear to me that they are "equals," and that there are no power dynamics in their relationships. Of course, if the conversations goes on for very long, I'll hear about how someone spends too much, or never arrives on time to appointments, or always gets drunk at family gatherings, or undermines the other in disciplining the children, or collects speeding tickets like they were baseball cards, or... But there are NO power issues.
Poly people who don't do BDSM will often make that same "we're all equals" claim. Of course, if you have more partners, you just mathematically complicate the permutations in the power equation, and it isn't a simple multiplication problem either. Neither should a person be fooled by that ubiquitous and noble sounding claim to openess and honesty that poly folks make ... human animals can be cads when there is sex afoot, and when there is lots of sex afoot the cad factor escalates.
So, WE handle power consciously and deliberately and with intent. All well and good. We talk about trust and contracts and communication and openess and transparency. We at least have some understanding of what it is that we are about.
And we are human. We fuck it up on a regular basis.
We can be caught fussing and arguing continually on how much power is being exchanged / traded / given / taken / forfeited... Whatever! Put three or more of us together and get us started with talk of labels and definitions and dynamics and it won't be long before we are tearing each others' eyes out and pulling hair and scratching over who is doing it "right," and who is more "real."
Left to our own devices for very long, we can't help but get into the cloying sonata to "submission as a gift" and the "cherished property" serenade. I've spent far too much of my life digesting all the words that have been poured out about whether submissives or Dominants have the real power in these relationships and exactly who controls things and what the exact proportions are in each case.
Here's what I think. We are people. We do it the way people do it -- imperfectly, and uniquely to our own tastes. We make a hash of it whenever we get together and do it with each other (which seems to me to be the only sensible way to do it in the first place). Submissive natured folks may have some inherent strength and courage, but we are also needy at very deep levels. Dominant natured people may have some inherent strength and courage as well, but can be arrogant and selfish as often as not. All of us, because we are animals first, work to get our own needs met. Get over it. None of us are the best we maybe could be, and life sucks way more than most of us would like. I don't entirely trust anyone anymore -- not like I used to (I've been lied to too damned often). Most especially I don't trust myself. Oh well. It is still better than the alternative.
I am slave. Those three words define a reality that is not nearly as simple as they appear when they are written. There are complexities to that far beyond what I contemplated in the beginning. Surprise. Good times. Not so good times. Go on.
swan
Over the years, I've discussed power in relationships with lots of different people with a lot of different points of view.
Some of those people have been folks who have plain, old, garden-variety, boy-meets-girl relationships, complete with marriage licensces (or not). They almost always swear to me that they are "equals," and that there are no power dynamics in their relationships. Of course, if the conversations goes on for very long, I'll hear about how someone spends too much, or never arrives on time to appointments, or always gets drunk at family gatherings, or undermines the other in disciplining the children, or collects speeding tickets like they were baseball cards, or... But there are NO power issues.
Poly people who don't do BDSM will often make that same "we're all equals" claim. Of course, if you have more partners, you just mathematically complicate the permutations in the power equation, and it isn't a simple multiplication problem either. Neither should a person be fooled by that ubiquitous and noble sounding claim to openess and honesty that poly folks make ... human animals can be cads when there is sex afoot, and when there is lots of sex afoot the cad factor escalates.
So, WE handle power consciously and deliberately and with intent. All well and good. We talk about trust and contracts and communication and openess and transparency. We at least have some understanding of what it is that we are about.
And we are human. We fuck it up on a regular basis.
We can be caught fussing and arguing continually on how much power is being exchanged / traded / given / taken / forfeited... Whatever! Put three or more of us together and get us started with talk of labels and definitions and dynamics and it won't be long before we are tearing each others' eyes out and pulling hair and scratching over who is doing it "right," and who is more "real."
Left to our own devices for very long, we can't help but get into the cloying sonata to "submission as a gift" and the "cherished property" serenade. I've spent far too much of my life digesting all the words that have been poured out about whether submissives or Dominants have the real power in these relationships and exactly who controls things and what the exact proportions are in each case.
Here's what I think. We are people. We do it the way people do it -- imperfectly, and uniquely to our own tastes. We make a hash of it whenever we get together and do it with each other (which seems to me to be the only sensible way to do it in the first place). Submissive natured folks may have some inherent strength and courage, but we are also needy at very deep levels. Dominant natured people may have some inherent strength and courage as well, but can be arrogant and selfish as often as not. All of us, because we are animals first, work to get our own needs met. Get over it. None of us are the best we maybe could be, and life sucks way more than most of us would like. I don't entirely trust anyone anymore -- not like I used to (I've been lied to too damned often). Most especially I don't trust myself. Oh well. It is still better than the alternative.
I am slave. Those three words define a reality that is not nearly as simple as they appear when they are written. There are complexities to that far beyond what I contemplated in the beginning. Surprise. Good times. Not so good times. Go on.
swan
3/22/2007
Can You Hear Me?
I've had animal-people share my world for most of my life -- cats and dogs of various kinds and assorted temperaments have been part of almost every household I've ever lived in for as long as I can remember. There have been golden retrievers and cocker spaniels and miniature schnauzers and wire-haired fox terriers and the wonderful and amazing coyote, along with an array of feline creatures that have run the gamut from sweet and shy to downright devilish. Almost always, I have come to the point with each of them that I have had occasion to wish that they had some sort of speaker that would broadcast what it was they were thinking so that I could hear it. There is just that divide, no matter how closely I come to be aligned with the critters that share my path, where I cannot fathom how they think.
I suspect that there is a similar phenomenon that occurs with Himself and I. I absolutely know that He loves me, and I love Him with my whole self. We've come to understand one another with a great deal of clarity in these almost seven years -- there is much to be said for time spent and miles traveled together. Still, I am convinced that there are times when He finds my thinking and my emotional state to be a complete mystery.
Last Saturday morning was one of those. What started out fairly simply ended up with us crosswise with each other. Not a very big sort of crosswise really; just one of those places where He ended up puzzled, and I ended up feeling "bummed out." It happened so quickly that there was really no way to even pinpoint the place where we fell off the rails exactly, and the results weren't so catastrophically bad that it needed us to "debrief." It just left us feeling like it was not satisfactory. And, since then, we've avoided it... a tender spot between us.
How much easier, if there had been a "speaker" that would have played this little script:
Early morning, dreamy and sleepy. He's still sleeping. It is Saturday and we have no place we have to be today. A luxury. I am feeling soft and warm and (sexy for a change). I hope that, when He wakes up, we can talk and tease and play together... take the time that will make it good for us both.
Snuggle and anticipate and imagine and hope and fantasize for a long, dreamy, happy while... and then He wakes up and wanders off to the bathroom (to take care of late middle-age hygenic stuff that those of you who are not there yet probably do not want to know about). At this point, we haven't even said anything to one another yet.
By the time He comes back, I'm rubbing my ass, and He asks why. I tell Him it itches (some of the scar tissue does that often), and before I can even blink or think or move, He smacks it sharply with a leather strap! My dreamy, sexy, warm mood evaporates in a flash, and tears come to my eyes. I react instantly, flipping away, hurt and upset.
Whatever I was hoping for, it is obviously not on His agenda. He tells me that I'm going to roll over and get spanked. Swallowing my disappointment, I do as I'm told, grab the far side of the bed, and hang on. He counts His way through whatever set of implements He has in mind, while I intone to myself in my head, "roll over and get spanked...roll over and get spanked...roll over and get spanked...roll over and get spanked...roll over and get spanked..."
When it was done, I made love to Him, and endured the look of disappointment in His eyes when I failed (again) to reach orgasm. Another failure.
All week long, I've been catching comments/queries snuck in here and there about how I didn't like it on Saturday. And He has avoided touching me except for the most vanilla of snuggling. Finally, this morning, I asked Him if He might (maybe) spank me. He did agree, and I did pretty well I think. He says He's not angry with me. That helps me. There is so much that we are trying to handle right now. All of us. Especially Him.
It all used to be simpler.
I suspect that there is a similar phenomenon that occurs with Himself and I. I absolutely know that He loves me, and I love Him with my whole self. We've come to understand one another with a great deal of clarity in these almost seven years -- there is much to be said for time spent and miles traveled together. Still, I am convinced that there are times when He finds my thinking and my emotional state to be a complete mystery.
Last Saturday morning was one of those. What started out fairly simply ended up with us crosswise with each other. Not a very big sort of crosswise really; just one of those places where He ended up puzzled, and I ended up feeling "bummed out." It happened so quickly that there was really no way to even pinpoint the place where we fell off the rails exactly, and the results weren't so catastrophically bad that it needed us to "debrief." It just left us feeling like it was not satisfactory. And, since then, we've avoided it... a tender spot between us.
How much easier, if there had been a "speaker" that would have played this little script:
Early morning, dreamy and sleepy. He's still sleeping. It is Saturday and we have no place we have to be today. A luxury. I am feeling soft and warm and (sexy for a change). I hope that, when He wakes up, we can talk and tease and play together... take the time that will make it good for us both.
Snuggle and anticipate and imagine and hope and fantasize for a long, dreamy, happy while... and then He wakes up and wanders off to the bathroom (to take care of late middle-age hygenic stuff that those of you who are not there yet probably do not want to know about). At this point, we haven't even said anything to one another yet.
By the time He comes back, I'm rubbing my ass, and He asks why. I tell Him it itches (some of the scar tissue does that often), and before I can even blink or think or move, He smacks it sharply with a leather strap! My dreamy, sexy, warm mood evaporates in a flash, and tears come to my eyes. I react instantly, flipping away, hurt and upset.
Whatever I was hoping for, it is obviously not on His agenda. He tells me that I'm going to roll over and get spanked. Swallowing my disappointment, I do as I'm told, grab the far side of the bed, and hang on. He counts His way through whatever set of implements He has in mind, while I intone to myself in my head, "roll over and get spanked...roll over and get spanked...roll over and get spanked...roll over and get spanked...roll over and get spanked..."
When it was done, I made love to Him, and endured the look of disappointment in His eyes when I failed (again) to reach orgasm. Another failure.
All week long, I've been catching comments/queries snuck in here and there about how I didn't like it on Saturday. And He has avoided touching me except for the most vanilla of snuggling. Finally, this morning, I asked Him if He might (maybe) spank me. He did agree, and I did pretty well I think. He says He's not angry with me. That helps me. There is so much that we are trying to handle right now. All of us. Especially Him.
It all used to be simpler.
3/20/2007
Hard Things
This is just a ramble. I don't have any direction in mind. My head is full of words tumbling over themselves. Feelings running every which way -- many of them negative and dark. I really find myself wishing that I could take all of this and put it somewhere else where no one else would see it; where I could simply say it all to myself and have no one looking. I imagine starting another "anonymous" blog that would be the dumping ground for all kinds of stuff I feel like I can't just say here because I'm not wanting to hurt anyone's feelings or embarass myself or annoy anybody. But that is not in line with how I've done this from the start. This writing has always been honest even when it has been less than elegant or eloquent or tidy. Right now, I am not feeling elegant, tidy, or particularly insightful. I don't think there is a lot that will be instructive here. I only know that the words are making me crazy. They need to be out of my head.
I wouldn't recommend reading this. Actually.
Confidence. It might be possible to play around with the edges of BDSM if a person has issues with personal esteem. When the nature of the games being played are fairly low end, and the stakes are really only about sex and a little bit of mutual pleasure -- the sort of thing that really comes down to Top/bottom negotiations, then I suspect that there is really no big danger inherent in folks messing around with this who have wobbly self-concepts. On the other hand, when you take your life and lay it out for another person, or when you take another person's life in your own hands, you should probably have a very healthy ego structure. I came into my explorations of this without a great deal of understanding of my nature, but I believed in my own self. I was sure of my strength and sure of my courage. I believed that I could walk the path that was ahead of me. I trusted my body; my mind; and my heart. I am no longer so sure. I feel betrayed within my own self. I don't believe in myself anymore. The last year has left me uncertain, wobbly, scared, confused -- without answers that I once believed were within my grasp. I am not a bad slave because I behave badly. I am a bad slave because I don't know who I am anymore.
Learning new approaches. It is clear, after more than a year, that my sexual responses are never going to return to the levels that they were before I consented to the hysterectomy (female mutilation). I've spent this year chasing hormonal and assorted pharmcological cures; many of them off-label because they are usually only prescribed for male impotence. I've been medicated for depression and submitted to psychoanalysis to see what it was inside my brain that needed fixing so that I could achieve something that resembles the kind of sexual release that I used to take for granted. If I spend enough money and take enough medications, then every now and then, randomly, I hit the jackpot. We still don't really know what the magic formula is. Of course, the witch's brew of hormones makes me have 2 or 3 blinding migraines a week -- not a recipe for a great sex life; or much of anything else for that matter. So...
The truth is that I've become afraid of sex; afraid to try. It is simple mathematics really. The odds are that, in any given encounter, I'm not going to make it, and then I'm going to feel like I've failed the test again. In the beginning, that didn't really occur to me, but if you fall flat on your face often enough, it gets pretty hard to not start wishing you could avoid going splat the next time. It is just simpler for me to do the things that get Him off, and let it go at that.
He often asks what would be good for me. The truth is that I don't really know the answer to that anymore. There are places inside that are still sore and tender. It takes forever for me to get turned on. FOREVER. I can't easily explain to Him what works; it is so fragile and fleeting and subtle. It takes such patience. I don't lubricate quickly, and I hate all those icky gels and things that they sell. AND, if we put those all over me -- then I'm no good for Him because I can't feel what I need to feel to do what I need to for Him. I start out scared -- sure that it won't work (again); then end up worrying about how long it is taking; then feel bad that I'm not taking care of His needs; and finally just get frustrated with the whole business. Almost always, long before it gets anywhere close to being "good," I'm clear that nothing is going to happen -- and is it any wonder?
I have no idea how to learn how to do this any differently, and I,m really sure that they don't make a pill that will fix it.
Fantasy and Reality. I want things that I'm afraid to ask for. I dream dreams of a life that I wish we could have. I want to invite a closeness with Him, but I'm afraid that if I open a door that I can't go through, that I'll see that look of anger and disappointment, and the distance between us will grow even harder to cross. So I don't talk about my dreams anymore.
It's my fault. I understand that it is my responsibility to share more openly with Him. But He has so much going on right now and life demands so much. It is impossible for Him to deliver the kinds of energy that my "imaginings" would take to bring into being. He needs that easy masochist that cums at the sight of a paddle. I know I fail Him daily as I cringe through every spanking.
I want more SM. I want more intensity. I want it more regularly. We've fallen off and fallen away from each other. I know that is my fault. Because I don't like it. There's the truth and the paradox. I really don't like it and I crave it and need it -- and we need it. What would help me would be if I were supported by His voice, His hands, His commands, His direction, His intention (before, during, and after)... it would connect me to Him rather than leave me in isolation. It is a style difference that I'm not sure it is possible for us to cross. For Him, it is the spanking itself that is the thing. I hear Him counting under His breath -- just counting. I'm there wishing He'd touch me, make it feel like the sexual connective event that it is, tell me who I am for Him in that moment, guide me... but I suspect that for Him to do that would bring Him out of His space.
I wish we would fist. We have tried a couple of times. But I am terrified. Always at the point of His final entry, I lose it and tighten and spasm up and panic. I have this mental image of lose pipes hanging in a dark basement -- I just know that's how my parts must be... and I'm scared to death that He'll punch through the end of what's left and leave me bleeding through that empty pipe at the top of ... Still, how I wish we'd find a time to start slowly and with whatever time we needed to get to the point where I was just ready... How I dream that there were a way to ensure that I could not end it at the critical moment -- some kind of restraint. Honestly, I imagine that we would use the tie down points on the coffee table. It is made for that, after all. Enough time, enough preparation, enough space to get there, and then His will to take me through the point where my courage fails.
I wish that we would play with knives in ways that would leave marks; scratches that remained for a time - or perhaps more. He loves those knives but we never really use them for anything much, except to scratch His feet...
Life that interferes. We are all so tired. We keep putting one foot in front of another. We keep being glad that there are three of us, and wondering how people do it when there aren't three... We keep telling ourselves that this is just a rough patch, and that eventually things will settle down and life will get easier and smoother and we will be better able to live our lives the way we envision them. Yet, we also know, that we've been smacked by one crisis or another for what feels like forever. In our "up" times, we remind one another that six years ago we would have been thrilled to be able to sit down together and just BE together. And that is true. The very good news is that we are together and loving one another. It is a gift and we are grateful. The hard truth is that we struggle against the tide, and it wears on us all. We just never seem to get a break. That sucks. We are looking forward to a vacation this summer. It will be the first time ever that the three of us have vacationed together as a family for more than just a weekend here or there. Even as we plan it, we wonder if we can actually manage to take the time. Sigh.
Fear. I am afraid. Of myself. Of the future. Of what I do not know. Of what I cannot see. Of what I want, and of what I do not want -- because they are often the same thing. My fear drives me to push, to bluster, to swagger. I need Him to know what that is, and I'm not sure that He does entirely. It is difficult because of my outside/inside lifestyle. Out in the world, I have to be larger and stronger and more expansive than is good or appropriate inside my inner life. It isn't always easy to drop that persona at the door. Still, there are roles that I assume within the context of slave that "need" me to push a bit... did He take His pills? has He gotten His mouth guard in? tried the new less drying shower product yet? Finding the balance isn't always easy, especially when I'm feeling so off balance anyway. I am afraid. I don't feel comfortable and I am not entirely sure where I fit. Sometimes -- like Sunday, when I say that to Him, it hurts His feelings, and He simply suggests that if I feel like my life is so bad that perhaps we need to end this. That does not help to ease my fear. If there is anything that will scare the willies out of me, it is the belief that I can say the word, and He will just let me go...
Aging. It is just this simple -- there may not be any good alternatives, but getting older sucks. We noted this last week, that I am now the same age as He was when I arrived here. We've fought the good fight against the depredations of the years. Still, there have been real losses and we can't deny them. Neither of us are as strong or sturdy or energetic as we were five years ago. Perhaps we are wiser(I don't know), but we are surely older. These are not, in my view, golden years.
Communication. This is the almost cliched watchword of lifestyle relationships: communicate, communicate, communicate. All of us tell one another that it is critical to make sure that open, honest, transparent communication is the heart and soul of these dynamics. Still, I find that it really just isn't that simple. I edit what I say. I filter how I say it. I manage my tone of voice. I interpret what He says. I look at body language and facial expression and find meaning in every single nuance. Even when He doesn't really MEAN anything, I extract meaning. The air around here literally quivers with communication even when no one has anything to say; even when no one says anything. Sometimes that is good, and sometimes that is a problem. Our dynamic is intense and our life is intense. We can get enormously stressed. So when all of us are stretched out to the limits of our endurance, the phenomenally wired sensitivity can cascade into some pretty wild communication tumbles. I tend to hang onto things and then pour it all out into emotional cloudbursts... Baffling for everyone else in the household, I suspect.
I like wandering, going nowhere conversations. About nothing in particular. The sort of chatter that might turn up nuggets if left to their own devices. That sort of comradely back and forthing is leisurely and lazy. It takes time and space and quiet. Our house is never quiet. It is the single, biggest rub point for us all -- and the place where I am most likely to make the rest of the family nuts. I get lonesome because, from dawn to dusk, the televisions play in every room in the place. No one talks when the one-eyed monsters are holding forth. It seems I am the only one who gets bothered by it. The only one who feels the isolation between us. I just go around trying to remember that it isn't MY place to say differently -- until I can't stand it anymore. Then the dam bursts and they look at me like some weird space alien has landed in their midst, and we go on from there. I doubt either of them will ever understand.
Comparisons. I try not to compare. I really know that what I do is appropriate to me and us. Some of what I read makes me want to take people and smack them or shriek or simply say, "you have got to be kidding!" I try to remember my manners. It isn't my job to tell anyone else how to do their thing. Still, it is hard to be the only one doing things in a particular way, or the only one like this. Loneliness is awfully damn lonely. I wonder if I haven't spent most of my life as the odd one. Have had very few close friends. True when I was an adolescent. True as a young adult raising my children. True as I lived through my marriage. Remains true to this day. I have always felt that I simply did not fit. Still feel that way.
Anger. It is very hard to not want to shriek in anger. When there is so much that other people can do and have that I cannot do and do not have. Forgive me if I remain quiet. It is better than the sounds that I would make if I came roaring out in the full throat of my unbelievable anger. I know that it is inappropriate to unleash the rage I have at what seems terribly unfair on those of you who are young and healthy and flush and horny... Somedays, I simply want to shut this all down so that I do not have to look and know about any of it.
Frustration. There, maybe I have poured out most of the frustration. I have to go back and see the "sex" doctor next week. Blech. He is making noise about making me go see the shrink again. I really, really, really do not want to do that. I am not strong enough (I don't think) to go sit with someone who sits and listens and smiles and pretends to understand; who seems sympathetic and kind. I know he is getting paid to be nice to me. I know that he can't be anyone in my life. Still, I am so needy. I can't do this. It will break me. I just can't balance that right now.
Icky, icky post.
swan
I wouldn't recommend reading this. Actually.
Confidence. It might be possible to play around with the edges of BDSM if a person has issues with personal esteem. When the nature of the games being played are fairly low end, and the stakes are really only about sex and a little bit of mutual pleasure -- the sort of thing that really comes down to Top/bottom negotiations, then I suspect that there is really no big danger inherent in folks messing around with this who have wobbly self-concepts. On the other hand, when you take your life and lay it out for another person, or when you take another person's life in your own hands, you should probably have a very healthy ego structure. I came into my explorations of this without a great deal of understanding of my nature, but I believed in my own self. I was sure of my strength and sure of my courage. I believed that I could walk the path that was ahead of me. I trusted my body; my mind; and my heart. I am no longer so sure. I feel betrayed within my own self. I don't believe in myself anymore. The last year has left me uncertain, wobbly, scared, confused -- without answers that I once believed were within my grasp. I am not a bad slave because I behave badly. I am a bad slave because I don't know who I am anymore.
Learning new approaches. It is clear, after more than a year, that my sexual responses are never going to return to the levels that they were before I consented to the hysterectomy (female mutilation). I've spent this year chasing hormonal and assorted pharmcological cures; many of them off-label because they are usually only prescribed for male impotence. I've been medicated for depression and submitted to psychoanalysis to see what it was inside my brain that needed fixing so that I could achieve something that resembles the kind of sexual release that I used to take for granted. If I spend enough money and take enough medications, then every now and then, randomly, I hit the jackpot. We still don't really know what the magic formula is. Of course, the witch's brew of hormones makes me have 2 or 3 blinding migraines a week -- not a recipe for a great sex life; or much of anything else for that matter. So...
The truth is that I've become afraid of sex; afraid to try. It is simple mathematics really. The odds are that, in any given encounter, I'm not going to make it, and then I'm going to feel like I've failed the test again. In the beginning, that didn't really occur to me, but if you fall flat on your face often enough, it gets pretty hard to not start wishing you could avoid going splat the next time. It is just simpler for me to do the things that get Him off, and let it go at that.
He often asks what would be good for me. The truth is that I don't really know the answer to that anymore. There are places inside that are still sore and tender. It takes forever for me to get turned on. FOREVER. I can't easily explain to Him what works; it is so fragile and fleeting and subtle. It takes such patience. I don't lubricate quickly, and I hate all those icky gels and things that they sell. AND, if we put those all over me -- then I'm no good for Him because I can't feel what I need to feel to do what I need to for Him. I start out scared -- sure that it won't work (again); then end up worrying about how long it is taking; then feel bad that I'm not taking care of His needs; and finally just get frustrated with the whole business. Almost always, long before it gets anywhere close to being "good," I'm clear that nothing is going to happen -- and is it any wonder?
I have no idea how to learn how to do this any differently, and I,m really sure that they don't make a pill that will fix it.
Fantasy and Reality. I want things that I'm afraid to ask for. I dream dreams of a life that I wish we could have. I want to invite a closeness with Him, but I'm afraid that if I open a door that I can't go through, that I'll see that look of anger and disappointment, and the distance between us will grow even harder to cross. So I don't talk about my dreams anymore.
It's my fault. I understand that it is my responsibility to share more openly with Him. But He has so much going on right now and life demands so much. It is impossible for Him to deliver the kinds of energy that my "imaginings" would take to bring into being. He needs that easy masochist that cums at the sight of a paddle. I know I fail Him daily as I cringe through every spanking.
I want more SM. I want more intensity. I want it more regularly. We've fallen off and fallen away from each other. I know that is my fault. Because I don't like it. There's the truth and the paradox. I really don't like it and I crave it and need it -- and we need it. What would help me would be if I were supported by His voice, His hands, His commands, His direction, His intention (before, during, and after)... it would connect me to Him rather than leave me in isolation. It is a style difference that I'm not sure it is possible for us to cross. For Him, it is the spanking itself that is the thing. I hear Him counting under His breath -- just counting. I'm there wishing He'd touch me, make it feel like the sexual connective event that it is, tell me who I am for Him in that moment, guide me... but I suspect that for Him to do that would bring Him out of His space.
I wish we would fist. We have tried a couple of times. But I am terrified. Always at the point of His final entry, I lose it and tighten and spasm up and panic. I have this mental image of lose pipes hanging in a dark basement -- I just know that's how my parts must be... and I'm scared to death that He'll punch through the end of what's left and leave me bleeding through that empty pipe at the top of ... Still, how I wish we'd find a time to start slowly and with whatever time we needed to get to the point where I was just ready... How I dream that there were a way to ensure that I could not end it at the critical moment -- some kind of restraint. Honestly, I imagine that we would use the tie down points on the coffee table. It is made for that, after all. Enough time, enough preparation, enough space to get there, and then His will to take me through the point where my courage fails.
I wish that we would play with knives in ways that would leave marks; scratches that remained for a time - or perhaps more. He loves those knives but we never really use them for anything much, except to scratch His feet...
Life that interferes. We are all so tired. We keep putting one foot in front of another. We keep being glad that there are three of us, and wondering how people do it when there aren't three... We keep telling ourselves that this is just a rough patch, and that eventually things will settle down and life will get easier and smoother and we will be better able to live our lives the way we envision them. Yet, we also know, that we've been smacked by one crisis or another for what feels like forever. In our "up" times, we remind one another that six years ago we would have been thrilled to be able to sit down together and just BE together. And that is true. The very good news is that we are together and loving one another. It is a gift and we are grateful. The hard truth is that we struggle against the tide, and it wears on us all. We just never seem to get a break. That sucks. We are looking forward to a vacation this summer. It will be the first time ever that the three of us have vacationed together as a family for more than just a weekend here or there. Even as we plan it, we wonder if we can actually manage to take the time. Sigh.
Fear. I am afraid. Of myself. Of the future. Of what I do not know. Of what I cannot see. Of what I want, and of what I do not want -- because they are often the same thing. My fear drives me to push, to bluster, to swagger. I need Him to know what that is, and I'm not sure that He does entirely. It is difficult because of my outside/inside lifestyle. Out in the world, I have to be larger and stronger and more expansive than is good or appropriate inside my inner life. It isn't always easy to drop that persona at the door. Still, there are roles that I assume within the context of slave that "need" me to push a bit... did He take His pills? has He gotten His mouth guard in? tried the new less drying shower product yet? Finding the balance isn't always easy, especially when I'm feeling so off balance anyway. I am afraid. I don't feel comfortable and I am not entirely sure where I fit. Sometimes -- like Sunday, when I say that to Him, it hurts His feelings, and He simply suggests that if I feel like my life is so bad that perhaps we need to end this. That does not help to ease my fear. If there is anything that will scare the willies out of me, it is the belief that I can say the word, and He will just let me go...
Aging. It is just this simple -- there may not be any good alternatives, but getting older sucks. We noted this last week, that I am now the same age as He was when I arrived here. We've fought the good fight against the depredations of the years. Still, there have been real losses and we can't deny them. Neither of us are as strong or sturdy or energetic as we were five years ago. Perhaps we are wiser(I don't know), but we are surely older. These are not, in my view, golden years.
Communication. This is the almost cliched watchword of lifestyle relationships: communicate, communicate, communicate. All of us tell one another that it is critical to make sure that open, honest, transparent communication is the heart and soul of these dynamics. Still, I find that it really just isn't that simple. I edit what I say. I filter how I say it. I manage my tone of voice. I interpret what He says. I look at body language and facial expression and find meaning in every single nuance. Even when He doesn't really MEAN anything, I extract meaning. The air around here literally quivers with communication even when no one has anything to say; even when no one says anything. Sometimes that is good, and sometimes that is a problem. Our dynamic is intense and our life is intense. We can get enormously stressed. So when all of us are stretched out to the limits of our endurance, the phenomenally wired sensitivity can cascade into some pretty wild communication tumbles. I tend to hang onto things and then pour it all out into emotional cloudbursts... Baffling for everyone else in the household, I suspect.
I like wandering, going nowhere conversations. About nothing in particular. The sort of chatter that might turn up nuggets if left to their own devices. That sort of comradely back and forthing is leisurely and lazy. It takes time and space and quiet. Our house is never quiet. It is the single, biggest rub point for us all -- and the place where I am most likely to make the rest of the family nuts. I get lonesome because, from dawn to dusk, the televisions play in every room in the place. No one talks when the one-eyed monsters are holding forth. It seems I am the only one who gets bothered by it. The only one who feels the isolation between us. I just go around trying to remember that it isn't MY place to say differently -- until I can't stand it anymore. Then the dam bursts and they look at me like some weird space alien has landed in their midst, and we go on from there. I doubt either of them will ever understand.
Comparisons. I try not to compare. I really know that what I do is appropriate to me and us. Some of what I read makes me want to take people and smack them or shriek or simply say, "you have got to be kidding!" I try to remember my manners. It isn't my job to tell anyone else how to do their thing. Still, it is hard to be the only one doing things in a particular way, or the only one like this. Loneliness is awfully damn lonely. I wonder if I haven't spent most of my life as the odd one. Have had very few close friends. True when I was an adolescent. True as a young adult raising my children. True as I lived through my marriage. Remains true to this day. I have always felt that I simply did not fit. Still feel that way.
Anger. It is very hard to not want to shriek in anger. When there is so much that other people can do and have that I cannot do and do not have. Forgive me if I remain quiet. It is better than the sounds that I would make if I came roaring out in the full throat of my unbelievable anger. I know that it is inappropriate to unleash the rage I have at what seems terribly unfair on those of you who are young and healthy and flush and horny... Somedays, I simply want to shut this all down so that I do not have to look and know about any of it.
Frustration. There, maybe I have poured out most of the frustration. I have to go back and see the "sex" doctor next week. Blech. He is making noise about making me go see the shrink again. I really, really, really do not want to do that. I am not strong enough (I don't think) to go sit with someone who sits and listens and smiles and pretends to understand; who seems sympathetic and kind. I know he is getting paid to be nice to me. I know that he can't be anyone in my life. Still, I am so needy. I can't do this. It will break me. I just can't balance that right now.
Icky, icky post.
swan
3/13/2007
Alzheimers
Alzheimer’s is an insidious disease. It creeps up on you and your family and before you know it you have a stranger in your house. People who were once a vibrant contributing part of the community are reduced to lost wanderers. Traveling places only they can go. Sometimes, when you least expect it, they peek out at you and remember. Then just as fast, they disappear once more.
Last week, Tom had a late meeting out of town and Swan was at an after-school function, so I was on the Power-Shake & Laundry Visit to Tom’s Mom. I never know what I will find when I arrive, so armed with a fortified chocolate malt (Mom is down to 84 pounds and not eating meals, but loves a good malt!), a cup of hot tea to counteract the chill of the malt, a bag of laundry (I do her laundry twice weekly so Dad doesn’t have to), and an umbrella to hold off the MONSOON that was happening while I was trying to get into the nursing facility.
We had one of our better visits. She mostly remembered me. Mostly as her daughter, not her son’s wife. Sometimes she thinks I am the wife of Tom’s ex-wife. Sometimes I am simply that nice holiday food lady.
We visited, she had her malt & tea, and I gathered dirty laundry and hung the clean. I hugged her good-bye and she told me she loved me. And I headed out into the downpour.
I started the car and my CD player was playing The Dixie Chick’s “Taking the Long Way Home”. About half way home, this came on:
Last week, Tom had a late meeting out of town and Swan was at an after-school function, so I was on the Power-Shake & Laundry Visit to Tom’s Mom. I never know what I will find when I arrive, so armed with a fortified chocolate malt (Mom is down to 84 pounds and not eating meals, but loves a good malt!), a cup of hot tea to counteract the chill of the malt, a bag of laundry (I do her laundry twice weekly so Dad doesn’t have to), and an umbrella to hold off the MONSOON that was happening while I was trying to get into the nursing facility.
We had one of our better visits. She mostly remembered me. Mostly as her daughter, not her son’s wife. Sometimes she thinks I am the wife of Tom’s ex-wife. Sometimes I am simply that nice holiday food lady.
We visited, she had her malt & tea, and I gathered dirty laundry and hung the clean. I hugged her good-bye and she told me she loved me. And I headed out into the downpour.
I started the car and my CD player was playing The Dixie Chick’s “Taking the Long Way Home”. About half way home, this came on:
These walls have eyes
Rows of photographs
And faces like mine
Who do we become
Without knowing where
We started from
It's true I'm missing you
As I stand alone in your room
Everyday that will pass you by
Every name that you won't recall
Everything that you made by hand
Everything that you know by heart
And I will try to connect
All the pieces you left
I will carry it on
And let you forget
And I'll remember the years
When your mind was clear
How the laughter and life
Filled up this silent house
One room
Two single beds
In the closet hangs
Your favorite dress
The books that you read
Are in scattered piles
Of paper shreds
Everything that you made by hand
Everything that you know by heart
And I will try to connect
All the pieces you left
I will carry it on
And let you forget
And I'll remember the years
When your mind was clear
How the laughter and life
Filled up this silent house
Silent house
In the garden off the living room
A chill fills the air
And the lilies bloom
And I will try to connect
All the pieces you left
I will carry it on
And let you forget
And I'll remember the years
When your mind was clear
How the laughter and life
Filled up this silent house
And I will try to connect
All the pieces you left
I will carry it on
And let you forget
And I'll remember the years
When your mind was clear
How the laughter and life
Filled up this silent house
The song is called “Silent House” and it was written about families dealing with Alzheimer’s.
We have just cleaned out most of her belongings, taking most of them to charities, because she doesn’t need or remember any of them.
I have saved the special pieces. To make sure there are things to carry on. To pass on. To make sure we never forget. So we have memories of the laughter before the loss.
T
3/12/2007
Catch 22
I've quit talking about the health and sex stuff here for the most part. There have been several reasons for that. Partly it has been because even I got bored going over the same grim territory again and again and again. There is only so much time a person can spend grieving with that intensity. After awhile, you have to decide to live or die. Since what there is left here is the reality, there doesn't seem to be much point in moaning on and on and on forever. Pull up the big girl panties and deal with it. The other part of all of that is that we've made some progress. Things are a little bit better. With MAJOR medical interventions and enough drug and hormonal interventions to move an elephant, I sometimes achieve something that gets me sort of close to "off." And something is better than nothing. Besides, if I piss and moan too much, I'm gonna find myself hauling my sorry butt back to the shrink and taking anti-depressants. I may not be the sexy babe I was before, but I am not stupid. I know enough to not want to go there again.
HOWEVER...
We have hit a major bump in the "happy, happy, joy, joy" trek. So, if you don't want to hear me do a pity party, just click to whatever comes next on your blog reading list.
For those of you who are too young to remember the book, or the definition of the phrase, "Catch-22" is an idiom meaning "a no- win situation" or "a double bind" of any type. It really came into common usage with the publication of Joseph Heller's book by the same name in 1961. Within the book, "Catch-22" is a military rule, the self-contradictory circular logic of which, for example, prevents anyone from avoiding combat missions. In Heller's own words:
There was only one catch and that was Catch-22, which specified that a concern for one's safety in the face of dangers that were real and immediate was the process of a rational mind. Orr was crazy and could be grounded. All he had to do was ask; and as soon as he did, he would no longer be crazy and would have to fly more missions. Orr would be crazy to fly more missions and sane if he didn't, but if he was sane he had to fly them. If he flew them he was crazy and didn't have to; but if he didn't want to he was sane and had to." ~Wikipedia~
That's what I've run into on the health front: a Catch-22. The HRT that makes it possible for me to avoid a lot of the surgically induced impacts of menopause (including total sexual dysfunction) relies to a large degree on conjugated estrogens. With a pretty good dosage of estrogen and some off-label applications of topical testosterone gel, I reach a state that the doctor refers to as "hormonally replete." That all makes it possible for me to use drugs that are normally prescribed for erectile dysfunction and voila! We're there.
Unfortunately, the longer I have taken the estrogen replacements, the more migraine headaches I have had, and the more extreme they have become... It finally reached the point where I went to see my neurologist/migraine specialist who absolutely had a fit! It seems that there was one small detail that no one bothered to explain to me: people who have migraines should NEVER, EVER, EVER TAKE CONJUGATED ESTROGEN!!!!
So, I am off the hormones. Back to square one. Trying to get the headaches moderated. Dealing naked with the hormonal earthquakes. Wanting a sex life of some kind. Wanting to sleep through the night. Wanting to not drop into the pit of despair again. Wanting to just go on with my life which is mostly good and happy. Trying to bleieve that somehow I will find a solution that makes sense in all of this.
Catch-22.
Trusting that there has to be an answer, but knowing that all of those "practicing" physicians obviously don't have it.
swan
HOWEVER...
We have hit a major bump in the "happy, happy, joy, joy" trek. So, if you don't want to hear me do a pity party, just click to whatever comes next on your blog reading list.
For those of you who are too young to remember the book, or the definition of the phrase, "Catch-22" is an idiom meaning "a no- win situation" or "a double bind" of any type. It really came into common usage with the publication of Joseph Heller's book by the same name in 1961. Within the book, "Catch-22" is a military rule, the self-contradictory circular logic of which, for example, prevents anyone from avoiding combat missions. In Heller's own words:
There was only one catch and that was Catch-22, which specified that a concern for one's safety in the face of dangers that were real and immediate was the process of a rational mind. Orr was crazy and could be grounded. All he had to do was ask; and as soon as he did, he would no longer be crazy and would have to fly more missions. Orr would be crazy to fly more missions and sane if he didn't, but if he was sane he had to fly them. If he flew them he was crazy and didn't have to; but if he didn't want to he was sane and had to." ~Wikipedia~
That's what I've run into on the health front: a Catch-22. The HRT that makes it possible for me to avoid a lot of the surgically induced impacts of menopause (including total sexual dysfunction) relies to a large degree on conjugated estrogens. With a pretty good dosage of estrogen and some off-label applications of topical testosterone gel, I reach a state that the doctor refers to as "hormonally replete." That all makes it possible for me to use drugs that are normally prescribed for erectile dysfunction and voila! We're there.
Unfortunately, the longer I have taken the estrogen replacements, the more migraine headaches I have had, and the more extreme they have become... It finally reached the point where I went to see my neurologist/migraine specialist who absolutely had a fit! It seems that there was one small detail that no one bothered to explain to me: people who have migraines should NEVER, EVER, EVER TAKE CONJUGATED ESTROGEN!!!!
So, I am off the hormones. Back to square one. Trying to get the headaches moderated. Dealing naked with the hormonal earthquakes. Wanting a sex life of some kind. Wanting to sleep through the night. Wanting to not drop into the pit of despair again. Wanting to just go on with my life which is mostly good and happy. Trying to bleieve that somehow I will find a solution that makes sense in all of this.
Catch-22.
Trusting that there has to be an answer, but knowing that all of those "practicing" physicians obviously don't have it.
swan
3/09/2007
Ownership and Being Owned
I've been following an intense discussion going on in the last few days. The whole exchange has been lengthy and complex and interesting on a lot of different levels, and I've not been an active participant. I do think that magdala summarizes a lot of the salient points well in this post and the one that follows it. The discussion has been wide ranging, and it is interesting because it is being carried on by a number of people who are involved in living the life.
I've been watching and thinking about it. Wondering what there was for me to say. As usual, I've been struck by the enormous surface differences between my life, and magdala's, and kaya's. Surely, there is very little that makes their paths and mine look the same. Yet each of us self-define as "slave." Perhaps that is important. Perhaps not.
I agree with kaya that words do mean something. It is valuable to define our terms. If we simply say that "slavery" in the sense that we use it within the lifestyle means whatever people say it means "for them," then it very quickly comes to mean nothing at all, and we lose the ability to use it to convey anything by the words. If, when we speak of power exchange, or "power forfeiture," it doesn't denote something that, at least in general terms, we can all point to and say, "that is it," then we have no way to speak to our lives at all.
With that said, I want to take a different approach to this discussion here. Rather than posit the extremes, let me paint the notion that in ownership dynamics -- which is what we are discussing, there is the necessity of focusing on the core member of the dynamic: the Owner. Almost always, when I hear/read discussions of what would or would not be "OK" within these relationships; what would be what magdala refers to as a "deal breaker," things usually devolve to the point of where would it have to go for the "owned" partner to say "no." In my view, the more critical issue, from the outset (and always), is what path or vision does the Owner have in mind. Within ownership driven relationships, the real operative issue is does the Owner have the right/power to envision an outcome, and then move toward bringing forth that creation.
Given that definition, kaya lives within a "real" and valid ownership dynamic where the One who owns her has the right and power to implement His vision in bringing forth the creation of His slave as He sees that reality. So does Magdala. So do I. The fact that kaya may spend most of her time locked in a small basement room while I am sent out to "mold and shape young minds" is a comparison that is perhaps analogous to the differences in techniques used by DaVinci and Picasso -- different Owners with different ultimate creative outcomes in mind. Tomorrow, kaya could find herself trudging off to classes to learn how to teach, and I could find myself locked in the closet. Each of us would likely experience some significant "property" style cognitive-whiplash should that actually happen, but it is within the realm of possibility. Each of us have Owners who could see a different vision with the sunrise.
I will argue that the driving force in "ownership dynamic" relationships must be the Owner. Under that model, all the fussing about which slave is the most slave-like (based on who handles the highest levels of pain, or spends the most time chained to the bedpost, or has the fewest choices with regards to clothing or hair style or employment, etc.) becomes academic, because the real question in each case is, "what does the particular Owner choose or want from the slave?" Just as, in other arenas, some might choose to own Fords, or Hondas, or BMW's, so in the realm of lifestyle slavery, Owners will make decisions about how to model/shape the nature of the dynamic with their individual slaves.
Like magdala, I find kaya's declarations that she has no "deal-breakers" disquieting, and disturbing. I understand the depth of committment and passion and trust that drives that statement. I think I even understand what it means to come to a point in your life where you simply decide to stop equivocating and say something definitive. So, I believe that what is really going on here is an attempt to state that the point of entering into an Ownership dynamic relationship is that the consent to becoming "property" is a one-time thing. Done. Over with. It is not an on-going negotiation. So quit asking, or operating on some other set of assumptions. Fair enough.
Still.
I do not entirely believe that there is no breaking point. No point where there would be "too far." No limit. AND, I do not believe it even has to get as horrific as the sort of life and death, taboo, sort of scenarios that magdala proposes. I believe, in my heart, that those of us who enter into ownership dynamics do so with a certain and sure understanding of those with whom we create those bonds. We trust that the earth will not shift radically under our feet; that the Master will not change the definitions totally so that the world that we find ourselves living in "down the road" is entirely outside the realm of what we anticipated.
But, since we are engaging in hypotheticals, let's play "what if." Owners have the power to create their world's the way they want them to be. This is hot and squishy and intriguing when it is titillating. However this isn't always sexy. What if we take the future, hypothetical shifting of "Ownership" demand out of the sexy realm? What if any or each of us were to get this sort of direction from the One to whom we have pledged our obedience?
I've had a revelation.
I've been on the wrong path.
I understand that SM is "bad, sick, and abusive."
So, the first thing that you must do is pack up and discard all of the paddles, whips, clamps, clips, and other "toys."
Dismantle all of the restraints and bondage gear.
From now on, I want our relationship to contribute to the well-being of mankind and the earth, so each day your "tasks" will be as follows:
Monday -- volunteer at the homeless shelter
Tuesday -- voulnteer for a local agency for people with developmental disabilities
Wednesday -- volunteer for an agency that works for the environment
Thursday -- volunteer for the local Headstart
Friday -- volunteer for a local agency for the aging/elderly
I expe
ct you to journal about each of your daily activities just as you have been doing.
Oh yes, I've also decided that as part of my ongoing spiritual quest, I am adopting the practice of celibacy, so please dispose of the bed and purchase two simple twin beds for the bedroom."
Which of us, slaves, would stand by that "no deal-breakers" stance?
swan
I've been watching and thinking about it. Wondering what there was for me to say. As usual, I've been struck by the enormous surface differences between my life, and magdala's, and kaya's. Surely, there is very little that makes their paths and mine look the same. Yet each of us self-define as "slave." Perhaps that is important. Perhaps not.
I agree with kaya that words do mean something. It is valuable to define our terms. If we simply say that "slavery" in the sense that we use it within the lifestyle means whatever people say it means "for them," then it very quickly comes to mean nothing at all, and we lose the ability to use it to convey anything by the words. If, when we speak of power exchange, or "power forfeiture," it doesn't denote something that, at least in general terms, we can all point to and say, "that is it," then we have no way to speak to our lives at all.
With that said, I want to take a different approach to this discussion here. Rather than posit the extremes, let me paint the notion that in ownership dynamics -- which is what we are discussing, there is the necessity of focusing on the core member of the dynamic: the Owner. Almost always, when I hear/read discussions of what would or would not be "OK" within these relationships; what would be what magdala refers to as a "deal breaker," things usually devolve to the point of where would it have to go for the "owned" partner to say "no." In my view, the more critical issue, from the outset (and always), is what path or vision does the Owner have in mind. Within ownership driven relationships, the real operative issue is does the Owner have the right/power to envision an outcome, and then move toward bringing forth that creation.
Given that definition, kaya lives within a "real" and valid ownership dynamic where the One who owns her has the right and power to implement His vision in bringing forth the creation of His slave as He sees that reality. So does Magdala. So do I. The fact that kaya may spend most of her time locked in a small basement room while I am sent out to "mold and shape young minds" is a comparison that is perhaps analogous to the differences in techniques used by DaVinci and Picasso -- different Owners with different ultimate creative outcomes in mind. Tomorrow, kaya could find herself trudging off to classes to learn how to teach, and I could find myself locked in the closet. Each of us would likely experience some significant "property" style cognitive-whiplash should that actually happen, but it is within the realm of possibility. Each of us have Owners who could see a different vision with the sunrise.
I will argue that the driving force in "ownership dynamic" relationships must be the Owner. Under that model, all the fussing about which slave is the most slave-like (based on who handles the highest levels of pain, or spends the most time chained to the bedpost, or has the fewest choices with regards to clothing or hair style or employment, etc.) becomes academic, because the real question in each case is, "what does the particular Owner choose or want from the slave?" Just as, in other arenas, some might choose to own Fords, or Hondas, or BMW's, so in the realm of lifestyle slavery, Owners will make decisions about how to model/shape the nature of the dynamic with their individual slaves.
Like magdala, I find kaya's declarations that she has no "deal-breakers" disquieting, and disturbing. I understand the depth of committment and passion and trust that drives that statement. I think I even understand what it means to come to a point in your life where you simply decide to stop equivocating and say something definitive. So, I believe that what is really going on here is an attempt to state that the point of entering into an Ownership dynamic relationship is that the consent to becoming "property" is a one-time thing. Done. Over with. It is not an on-going negotiation. So quit asking, or operating on some other set of assumptions. Fair enough.
Still.
I do not entirely believe that there is no breaking point. No point where there would be "too far." No limit. AND, I do not believe it even has to get as horrific as the sort of life and death, taboo, sort of scenarios that magdala proposes. I believe, in my heart, that those of us who enter into ownership dynamics do so with a certain and sure understanding of those with whom we create those bonds. We trust that the earth will not shift radically under our feet; that the Master will not change the definitions totally so that the world that we find ourselves living in "down the road" is entirely outside the realm of what we anticipated.
But, since we are engaging in hypotheticals, let's play "what if." Owners have the power to create their world's the way they want them to be. This is hot and squishy and intriguing when it is titillating. However this isn't always sexy. What if we take the future, hypothetical shifting of "Ownership" demand out of the sexy realm? What if any or each of us were to get this sort of direction from the One to whom we have pledged our obedience?
I've had a revelation.
I've been on the wrong path.
I understand that SM is "bad, sick, and abusive."
So, the first thing that you must do is pack up and discard all of the paddles, whips, clamps, clips, and other "toys."
Dismantle all of the restraints and bondage gear.
From now on, I want our relationship to contribute to the well-being of mankind and the earth, so each day your "tasks" will be as follows:
Monday -- volunteer at the homeless shelter
Tuesday -- voulnteer for a local agency for people with developmental disabilities
Wednesday -- volunteer for an agency that works for the environment
Thursday -- volunteer for the local Headstart
Friday -- volunteer for a local agency for the aging/elderly
I expe
ct you to journal about each of your daily activities just as you have been doing.Oh yes, I've also decided that as part of my ongoing spiritual quest, I am adopting the practice of celibacy, so please dispose of the bed and purchase two simple twin beds for the bedroom."
Which of us, slaves, would stand by that "no deal-breakers" stance?
swan
3/08/2007
No More Sundays
Master has spoken.
No more Sundays.
Sundays make me crazy.
I am pretty good about Saturdays. I like Saturdays
It is just the whole Sunday thing that sends me spinning into black mood awfulness.
I think it starts with the very beginning; the talking heads that pop up on the infernal one-eyed monster in the bedroom first thing in the morning. Shall I do my rap on the BAD Feng Shui of television in the bedroom?
Almost certainly, it is the pure awfulness of having to deal with Tim Russert and his mealy mouthed, pansy-assed questioning of the smarmy Republican liars that parade across his "stage" every single blessed week. Especially when it clicks on right after I have done whatever I can to ahieve whatever it is that I am or am not going to achieve in the realm of sexuality these days. Blech!
And then there is the spectre of papers to grade and lessons to plan, and knowing that that is going to eat ALL of my day.
And laundry, if T hasn't saved me and done it for me.
And housework that I never, ever get done during the week, and which never, ever makes anything look any better than it did before I started because there isn't enough room to store all the piles of crap that we have dragged home from THE HOME, so it just piles up everywhere and looks at me with that look that stuff has when it knows that it has you beaten.
And never any time to do anything that is any fun because by the time I get my stuff done and He gets His stuff done and T gets her stuff done and we visit THE ELDERS at THE HOMES, it is time to crawl (exhausted) into bed so we can do it all again.
So.
No more Sundays.
Only Saturday "B" and Saturday "A."
Master has spoken.
One more day this week, and we will start the very first weekend without any Sunday. I'll let you know how THAT turns out.
swan
No more Sundays.
Sundays make me crazy.
I am pretty good about Saturdays. I like Saturdays
It is just the whole Sunday thing that sends me spinning into black mood awfulness.
I think it starts with the very beginning; the talking heads that pop up on the infernal one-eyed monster in the bedroom first thing in the morning. Shall I do my rap on the BAD Feng Shui of television in the bedroom?
"When it comes to building your romance feng shui, TV in the bedroom becomes just that: TV in the bedroom -- and nothing else. Television is a distraction to romance and it takes away from a room’s restful qualities because when it’s turned off, the TV acts like a mirror, reflecting you and your sweetie in bed. This disrupts your chi and can even cause insomnia. Still not convinced? Experts on insomnia also recommend that TV’s stay out of the bedroom because it sends a signal to the occupant(s) that this place is only for rest. Remember, when it comes to your romantic bedroom, you should only be using it for R&R: rest and romance. Watch television in your family or living room only."
Almost certainly, it is the pure awfulness of having to deal with Tim Russert and his mealy mouthed, pansy-assed questioning of the smarmy Republican liars that parade across his "stage" every single blessed week. Especially when it clicks on right after I have done whatever I can to ahieve whatever it is that I am or am not going to achieve in the realm of sexuality these days. Blech!
And then there is the spectre of papers to grade and lessons to plan, and knowing that that is going to eat ALL of my day.
And laundry, if T hasn't saved me and done it for me.
And housework that I never, ever get done during the week, and which never, ever makes anything look any better than it did before I started because there isn't enough room to store all the piles of crap that we have dragged home from THE HOME, so it just piles up everywhere and looks at me with that look that stuff has when it knows that it has you beaten.
And never any time to do anything that is any fun because by the time I get my stuff done and He gets His stuff done and T gets her stuff done and we visit THE ELDERS at THE HOMES, it is time to crawl (exhausted) into bed so we can do it all again.
So.
No more Sundays.
Only Saturday "B" and Saturday "A."
Master has spoken.
One more day this week, and we will start the very first weekend without any Sunday. I'll let you know how THAT turns out.
swan
3/06/2007
Being
I got the most wondrous message from a long ways away recently. "Thank you," it said. I was pleased to get it, but really was baffled because I really had no idea at all what I'd done that was deserving of thanks.
I wrote back to my correspondent and said exactly that... "I don't know what it is that I have done," and they responded: "You were just being you."
Well, I've thought about that little exchange, and it seems to me that there is really an interesting "secret" in there somewhere. I know that I am often bemused by how many people read and respond to what I write here, because to me most of it seems pretty pedestrian and not at all profound or interesting or informative in any sense. Still, on a pretty regular basis, I will get some kind of comment or email that tells me that someone is touched in a way that I never expected by what I wrote about something I experienced or thought about...by me just being me. Wow!
Just last week, I was chatting with someone I haven't talked with in awhile, someone who walked the early part of this path with me. She and I have diverged a good bit in our experiences in recent years and haven't had a lot of contact. She brought up the subject of this blog, and so I talked a bit about how I experience the writing here; what it takes for me mentally to write without an overpowering awareness of all the eyes that read. Because, the audience does participate in the way blogs come to sound I think. Some blogs are very audience driven and come to be very much performance venues. You can hear the awareness of the onlookers in the way the writer writes. I don't have a knack for that kind of writing. If I get too caught up in watching my stats; too aware of all of you reading here, I lose my ability to say anything at all -- it simply makes me so self-conscious that I can't think of what it is that I was thinking in th
e first place. Nor am I particularly good at fiction. I haven't the ability to make other voices up in my head... they all end up sounding like me trying to sound like someone else -- just doing really bad accents! No; I'm a reporter of my own news, and a naturalist exploring my own internal landscape. My best writing comes when I simply sit down inside my own head and look around and listen quietly and record what I find there. If I pay too much attention to the noises from "outside" my own universe, then I become distracted and unable to focus enough to make any sense of it all. Maybe it is that I am too much of an ADHD "child" to capture the essence unless I put all my energy into that laser-like internal focus.
Whatever, I was touched by the gift of knowing that there are people who appreciate the plain stuff of what comes out here. I cannot figure out how to value it for anyone but my own self. I am coming to a real awareness that the "prescription" that this place was in the beginning has proved exactly right -- that He was right in demanding it. The words that have poured out here have healed and saved me; pointed the way when I could not see the path; linked me to my community when I felt entirely alone; taught me to wait when I only wanted to run; let me laugh and sing when the joy was on me; let me rage when I needed to do that; and given me a sense of myself, finally, that feels sure and calm and steady and peaceful... All because there were words and those who were willing to read and sift and respond to them.
I wrote back to my correspondent and said exactly that... "I don't know what it is that I have done," and they responded: "You were just being you."
Well, I've thought about that little exchange, and it seems to me that there is really an interesting "secret" in there somewhere. I know that I am often bemused by how many people read and respond to what I write here, because to me most of it seems pretty pedestrian and not at all profound or interesting or informative in any sense. Still, on a pretty regular basis, I will get some kind of comment or email that tells me that someone is touched in a way that I never expected by what I wrote about something I experienced or thought about...by me just being me. Wow!
Just last week, I was chatting with someone I haven't talked with in awhile, someone who walked the early part of this path with me. She and I have diverged a good bit in our experiences in recent years and haven't had a lot of contact. She brought up the subject of this blog, and so I talked a bit about how I experience the writing here; what it takes for me mentally to write without an overpowering awareness of all the eyes that read. Because, the audience does participate in the way blogs come to sound I think. Some blogs are very audience driven and come to be very much performance venues. You can hear the awareness of the onlookers in the way the writer writes. I don't have a knack for that kind of writing. If I get too caught up in watching my stats; too aware of all of you reading here, I lose my ability to say anything at all -- it simply makes me so self-conscious that I can't think of what it is that I was thinking in th
e first place. Nor am I particularly good at fiction. I haven't the ability to make other voices up in my head... they all end up sounding like me trying to sound like someone else -- just doing really bad accents! No; I'm a reporter of my own news, and a naturalist exploring my own internal landscape. My best writing comes when I simply sit down inside my own head and look around and listen quietly and record what I find there. If I pay too much attention to the noises from "outside" my own universe, then I become distracted and unable to focus enough to make any sense of it all. Maybe it is that I am too much of an ADHD "child" to capture the essence unless I put all my energy into that laser-like internal focus.Whatever, I was touched by the gift of knowing that there are people who appreciate the plain stuff of what comes out here. I cannot figure out how to value it for anyone but my own self. I am coming to a real awareness that the "prescription" that this place was in the beginning has proved exactly right -- that He was right in demanding it. The words that have poured out here have healed and saved me; pointed the way when I could not see the path; linked me to my community when I felt entirely alone; taught me to wait when I only wanted to run; let me laugh and sing when the joy was on me; let me rage when I needed to do that; and given me a sense of myself, finally, that feels sure and calm and steady and peaceful... All because there were words and those who were willing to read and sift and respond to them.
I am grateful, and enormously humbled.
swan
swan
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