Grumpy

When the school year winds to a close, I get wrapped up in a lot of emotionally intense "stuff." Most of it I don't really pay attention to. I've taught for so many years, that it is simply the rhythm of my year -- this gathering in the new ones, learning their ways and personalities, coming to love them and care for them and nurture them and invest in their success, only to let them go again in the spring and send them on their way to their futures. I've done it over and over and over, and it always catches me off guard. Because the letting go always comes at me when I am most tired, most drained, most ready to have the work be done, I am never ready for the sea of emotions that I find myself swimming in as the last day comes sweeping down on me. It always leaves me surprised and fragile.

Add to that mix, a few other oddball life stressors, and I can get wobbly. Last weekend was a perfect example.

It was a long weekend because of the holiday. That should have added in some element of ease and relaxation.

But I had a HUGE special project/event with my kids on Friday. We'd been weeks preparing for it and the logistics of pulling it off had left me strung out and stressed. When it was over with, I was wiped out.

I'd been trying to handle more of the household routines because of T's post surgical recovery status. We tend to forget how much we work in tandem around here until one or the other of us is "out of commission." The work load gets way heavier under those circumstances, and by the weekend, I was really missing my sister-heart.

There was the graduation event for Master's youngest on Sunday afternoon. It is the sort of "family" thing that puts me into a situation where I am there but necessarily apart. We managed to navigate the huge crowd with both T and grandpa being less than fully "mobile," and we didn't lose either one of them in the process. We got the boychick officially graduated. TAH DAH!

And, we played everyday. When my nerves are jangled and my emotions are running high, I struggle to convert and eroticize painful stimuli. It all ends up tapping right in to all my emotional turmoil. By Monday morning, He was full into His sadistic glory, flirting with the possibilities of switching me, and playing one of His favorite games of presenting me with impossible choices in the midst of a session. Having made the first choice between the rubber strap and a paddle, He then turned it right back into another choice of "which paddle?" The damn burst and I came completely apart -- backing out of the original call for the paddle and opting for the rubber strap if it would mean I didn't have to make any more choices... Anything. Anything. Please. It was simply more than I could sort out anymore.

When I calmed some, He paddled me, and we made love, and I was still just this side of hysterical. And angry. Furious about the game whose rules I cannot ever decipher; about being pushed to the edge and then another edge and then pulled to the edge yet again -- all for no good reason except that He can. Knowing that it is what I committed to and agreed to and chose, and angry just the same.

It is the dark side of slavery. The part that is hard to talk about. The times when it isn't fun, pretty, sexy, easy. The kind of space where I come up hurting, angry and hating Him and hating the life. And doing it anyway. Because I know it is really all good and true and what I am and need and believe in.

I do wish the days this week were easier, lighter, less demanding -- so that we could find our way back to something better than how we left things on the weekend. I wish we could come together in a better space. It is doubly hard when life keeps us running in spaces where things have been so tenuous.

swan

MEMORIAL DAY

I am left empty at the end of this Memorial Day with the continual references to how we are no longer making the mistakes we made in not “welcoming” home Viet Nam veterans, by our supporting the troops in Iraq, even though we know that this war too was politically wrong and immoral.

After all our poor men in green and khaki and blue, or whatever color, have no choice, and they are only protecting us all when they obey the orders of “the government” to march off in lock step and kill hundreds of thousands of innocent civilians. Goodness knows they are there to protect “us.”

I’m Viet Nam era. I graduated High School in 1967. My High School’s graduating class lost over half of its boys/men in Viet Nam. Viet Nam was a war that was without moral purpose. It was a crime in which the United States supported a dictatorship over a socialist democracy, without provocation…..just because we had to prevent the “commies” from taking a country and setting off international geo-political country-state dominoes. The argument was if we didn’t fight them there, we’d fight them here. “They”, the Viet Cong, kicked our ass, and killed 60,000 plus of us in the process. It was a victory very much analogous to the ragtag army of insurgent terrorists that was the American revolutionary army that kicked the ass of the “undefeatable” British army in the 1770’s.

There were a lot of us who were eligible to be conscripts in that war who chose to risk our futures resisting that criminal war. Some of us went to prison for refusing to be inducted. Some of us emigrated to Canada and other countries to remain free and not be forced to carry out the criminal policies of our nation. Some of us organized into terrorist units and fought against our government’s illegal warfare, fighting in the street and elsewhere. Some of these true patriots are still in prison, and are among the Americans who truly should be remembered today

Viet Nam veterans were victims, especially the majority who were conscripts. Their victimization was secondary or even tertiary to those men, women, and children whom they slaughtered in hundreds of thousands in Indo-China. Because they chose or acquiesced to carry out the war crimes of this nation they were often not welcomed home as heroes. At least they were not prosecuted.

Now we are at war again. Iraq, a country previously ruled by a dictator, was attacked by us without provocation or reason. If we are to make war on all the dictators in the world we need to dramatically expand our already historically huge military. By latest estimate (by credible resources………not the U. S. Government) we have killed (murdered) over 250,000 Iraqi men, women, and children. Once again, we are told that if we don’t fight them there we will fight them in our streets here.

I understand how awful it must be to be uprooted from your family to go murder people and destroy nations who have done nothing to warrant that fate. I understand that you believe that if our political process, no matter how flawed, tells you to go engage in mass extermination it is something we should honor if you are killed. I understand once you enter the military you believe that any responsibility you ever had as a human being ends, and that you are to be honored because you and your family were separated and you were badly paid and equipped as you killed and destroyed.

Hurrah, hurrah, it’s Memorial Day. Let’s honor our troops. They are out there carrying on for “us.” It kind of brings a lump to your throat.

Raheretic (Tom)

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

Marriage Thoughts

Morningstar's friend, Buffalo, wrote a couple of interesting and lucid pieces on "marriage" here and here. He asked:

"Why should marriage be forever? If you have to work hard at staying
married, is it worth it? It seems to me a lifetime of self-sacrifice, of walking
on eggshells, negotiating your way through minefields, and trying to make the
proverbial silk purse from a sow’s ear, is a colossal waste of good life... Two
people in a relationship don’t necessarily grown either the same amount or in
the same direction. Often our needs, wants, and desires change. Then one day, we
wake up and find that we not only don’t love the person we’re with, but we don’t
like them too damned well either.Why on earth would you want to work hard at
staying with someone you don’t even like?That bit about hard work doesn’t do it
for me any more than the “till death do us part” bit. When the love is gone, it
is time to say good-bye. “As long as love lasts,” seems reasonable to
me."

-- A number of commenters agreed with his reasoning and offered their own understandings of how life brings people to places in long-term relationships where it becomes clear that it may be time to call it quits and move on. Predictably though, there were a couple of folks who showed up sounding judgemental and self-righteous to make the argument that marriage is MEANT to be forever, and that anyone who doesn't INTEND to keep those promises; to SUCK IT UP, and act like a MAN/WOMAN, and keep their committments, shouldn't get married in the first place.


Now, this is awkward. Buffalo has no great love for the Heron Clan. But the fact is that, on this one, he's got it right, and his critics are showing their colors as narrow minded and judgemental folks who simply lack the compassion to allow for even the possibility that there might be good reasons why people do not remain in marriages, whatever their original intent may have been, and in spite of every application of character and courage to fulfill the promises they once made.


Whatever mythology we choose to load it with, marriage is a social/legal contract that is primarily about protecting property and the transmission of property. That it has come to be imbued (in western culture) with "Christian" religious significance is a relatively recent development in the history of human interactions. That particular twist is about issues of inheritance and wealth and the passage of monies into the hands of the Catholic church. Master lays that history out, for those who are interested, in His treatise on the Origins of Modern Monogamy . There really is nothing sacred about our "Christian" view of marriage beyond what we have made it to be. For those who do view marriage as literally sacred, that's fine, but at some point, I'd hope there could come to be a return to an understanding that we don't all share the same religious ground or vocabulary -- and that's not just "OK" but foundational to our free society.

With that said, it is probably a very good thing when a marriage works well and a family unit grows in good and positive ways throughout its lifetime. If that happens, the members of the family unit can live and grow and everyone is nurtured and supported and helped to become exactly who they can be in the very best possible way. We ought to all be glad and celebrate the marriages where that happens.

But it doesn't happen that way all the time. Or even most of the time. People make mistakes. People change. Some marriages fail from the beginning. Some fail slowly over time. A dead marriage is dead, and we ought to simply acknowledge that reality and determine what is the best path forward for those humans who are part of that reality. Telling people to simply stay and tough it out is unrealistic, cruel, destructive, and sometimes even deadly. It serves no purpose and accomplishes nothing good. People can survive the ending of a marriage and come out the other side well and strong and good and happy. The end of a marriage does not have to be a disaster or a catastrophe, and may very well be the beginning of some new and good phase in the life of the people involved.

I'm not suggesting we throw out every marriage that encounters a bumpy place. I'm not saying that we ought to tell partners to give it up at the first sign of trouble. I am however, horrified at the notion that there is never, ever any reason to end a marriage. Such thinking is the sort of idiocy that gets people killed, or leads them to suicide, or results in horrible abuse. Humans have limits.

Those who just KNOW that they have the answer to the marriage question; who believe that it is all about guts and courage and character and perserverance and righteousness may think they are on the side of the angels. Perhaps they have the credentials to justify their braying. I'm sure some do. On the other hand, I'm pretty damn sure that there are plenty of self-righteous saints, making judgements -- who ought to be trying on a few other folks shoes for a few miles. From where I stand, an awful lot of that nonsense is just ignorance, arrogance, and a heartless lack of compassion. What kind of pure "nerve" does it take for one human person to believe that they can look into the most intimate and private life of another, and determine the rightness or wrongness of that person's life choices? Especially when those choices go to life and death, joy and bitterness, love and sorrow?

About the only thing you can be sure of is this: if you are married, you get the safety and security of insurance, and social security, tax benefits, health care decision making authority, and social status, and a whole raft of legal and social rights that are just assumed. You believe in your right to exist as the person you are in your relationship. You have the right to ask for acceptance of your relationship and expect that that acceptance will be forthcoming. You just live in a world where your "marriage" grants you legitimacy. Not because your relationship is better than another person's relationship, but because you have the socially normed legal contractual pairing. Congratulations. AND, if your marriage, through good fortune, turns out to be one of the (statistically) less than half that goes the distance, then you win the prize for having chosen well and having made all the right turns along the way. Good on you. That doesn't make you special. It makes you lucky. Learn the difference.

I only know what I know of my own experience. I married too young. I'll be the first to admit it. I was naive, and a bit desperate. I'd grown up in a household where there was too much alcohol and not enough sane parenting. He seemed alright at the time, and I thought I was in love. I'd been taught that sex before marriage was "wrong" (of course), but he was so earnest and insistent, and I was so innocent of any real knowledge that I was pretty clueless. Of course, no one had bothered to give me any information about birth control because that would have simply "encouraged" me, and interfered with some divine plan (BAH!), so along with the guilt of premarital sex, I joined the ranks of generations of young women -- pregnant out of wedlock. Abortion, according to the religious beliefs I'd been indoctrinated with in those years, was out of the questions, and so... we married. We were years away from being aware enough to know who we were. The wedding was in January. The baby came in July. Sixteen months later, there was another. I needed to survive, make my way, keep my children alive, and try and make that marriage work. That's what I'd been taught all my life; by my entire upbringing and the whole society in which I was imbedded.

But, it became clearer and clearer that the man I'd married was not a solid adult partner. There were "gaps" in the foundation. I found that I spent lots of time running around managing his behavior. He seemed to have no sense of how other people perceived his actions, or the things he would say. He couldn't keep a job, so I lived in continual fear of the next financial catastrophe that he might plunge us into. He was hopeless in terms of providing structure or guidance to the children, and frequently undermined me disciplinarily with the children. He was forever approaching our female friends and women in his workplace with inappropriate and (usually) unwelcome sexual comments and suggestions. I lived in a panic about the potential for legal ramifications for his foolishness.

None of that even touched on the parts of our life together that were sexual. Very early on, I came to understand that I had drives and desires that my husband viewed as "perverted" and "sick." He made it clear that there were things about my fantasies that he simply could never accept and that I was clearly "bad."

I believed him. I worked really hard to make it work. Somehow. I hid who I was. Tried to keep it buried. For twenty-eight years I did what the "know-it-alls" suggest people ought to do. It changed nothing. It kept us both miserable. In the end, when I finally called a halt, he took less than a year to find another and remarry. She, I think, makes him happy in a way that I never did. And, I've finally found the life that makes me happy. Keeping us locked together all those years served no purpose that I can imagine except to fulfill the ideals that others foisted upon us both.

I didn't make promises "lightly." Neither did he. We intended to do it "right" -- considering what we knew at the time. We didn't end our marriage easily or casually. We should have ended it far sooner than we did. Some will judge the reasons that we did that when we did.


For now, I live without marriage. The world says that marriage is defined by the "numbers," and the number for a marriage is two. No more and no less. So, I live in a family that loves and our committments are strong and true. There is no "social" status to my position or my role, and those who would likely judge the ending of my marriage would almost certainly judge the nature of my "non-marriage" as well. I can't imagine that my poly life fits well inside their narrow, moralistic, world-view. Oh well. Frankly, the thought that there is a bit of consternation in their constrained, and unkind souls gives me a curious bit of satisfaction.

I don't judge how people love. I do judge when people hate; especially people who claim to follow a religious view that teaches "love." Frankly, I believe we are made for joy. I think, when it comes to relating and sex, we tend to take it all far too seriously. There are simple legal ways to take care of the "stuff" that we try to make marriage do for us socially. We ought to separate those things and learn to love one another when and as we do.

swan

Asking for a Spanking

I woke Him up this morning. I just couldn't lie there any longer waiting for Him to wake up on His own. I'd been awake for hours. Thinking, imagining, fantasizing, wishing for the things He would, could, might do to me.

Finally, when He rolled over and threw His arm over me and snuggled up to my back, I began by stroking His arm and hand. When that didn't achieve the desired effect, I took His hand and put it on my breast, and He sleepily cupped me. Ummmmmmm. Nice, but not quite what I had in mind. I squirmed a bit, and then began patting the breast with the sleeping hand.

The growly voice from behind me enquired, "What are you doing?"

So... I just took the sleeping hand and kept it thumping away. From breast on down and around until I was slapping my own backside -- with His hand.

The growl shifted to chuckling as He came fully awake. And, yes, I got the spanking I'd been asking for. To think that there used to be a time that I was shy about asking for spankings. And to think that there was a time not so long ago that I was thinking that I would never want another spanking ever again...

Grin.

swan

Polyamory Observations # 7

I had occasion through a good part of my adult life to participate in many, many potluck meals. Potlucks are a common social phenomenon among Quakers (at least the ones with whom I spent time).


Over the years, I came to develop some interesting sociological theories about potlucks and human behavior. One thing that I came to believe quite strongly was that there is an inverse relationship between the quality of a potluck meal and the number of participants. To put it plainly, people seem to feel a diminishing level of responsibility to provide a quality contribution when they know there will be a plethora of food on the table. If there are likely to be 150 different dishes brought to a gathering, then the effort invested in many of them will be less than can be expected if there are only going to be 8-12 participants at the event. I believe it is about how visible people feel. That single factor changes the level of investment.

Some people like those great, big, random, sort of sloppy, not too interesting, nothing to write home about kind of potlucks. They enjoy that sort of meal where you can count of five varieties of brownies, and a half dozen bags of chips, and a whole mess of pasta salads, and more pans of lasagna than you can shake a stick at. For me, I'd rather have eight or ten dishes that people have considered carefully and invested some effort and energy into. The sort of unique and interesting offerings you get when friends are actually sharing with one another on a level where they know that everyone knows who brought what.

Which is a long, meandering way of bringing me to where I need to be to talk about where my mind has been these last few days in terms of my thinking about polyamory, and the way that we do it -- or at least the way that it seems that I do it.



Because, I do think that it is clearer to me than it used to be that there are levels to polyamory practice: there is the macro-level where we can see poly groups doing whatever it is that they are doing. People tend to describe these dynamics in terms of their geometry, or in terms of how the whole group relates together. Hence we get descriptives like "quad," "triad," "web," "clan," etc. Then there is a relational level that relates to how partners interact. Sometimes these dynamics are labeled as primary, secondary, tertiary, etc. The one level that gets very little attention, and about which I've found hardly any information is the individual level. No matter how else we talk about it, polyamory involves individuals, and each and every one of those human persons is going to bring to the practice of poly a set of wants and needs and desires -- as well as a whole range of style and personality factors that will impact how they do poly.

I know there are people who approach polyamory in much the same way that some people do potluck suppers -- the more the merrier. They gather up various relationships and form connections every which way. When you try to get a fix on the connections and interwoven relationships, it is a little like browsing the groaning tables -- a little of this and a bit of that. There are wives and husbands and boyfriends and girlfriends and primaries, secondaries, and tertiaries all over the place. The social calendars for these folks have to be something to behold.

I'll be honest, I get uncomfortable even thinking about that kind of polyamory. I'm too shy. Too slow to connect. I like to get to know the people around me and then I like it to stay that way. I don't like change and I don't like strangers and I don't like uncertainty. I know, with a pure, clear, unwavering certainty, that anyone who comes into the relational dynamic from outside is going to make things unstable and messy. The minute a new person appears on the horizon, I can feel the energy shift, and I get edgy -- like a cat in a thunderstorm.

That's me -- just the way I am. I am prone to swirling doubts. That's where I ended up this last weekend. And, when I am in that place, I am painfully aware of how far my reactions fall from the "ideal" of "more love makes more love" poly that is SOLD in the happily ever after books that get written on the subject.

It isn't that poly is "bad," or that I'm bad at it. It is just that there are times when it is difficult, challenging, scary. Whatever they tell you in those cleverly written books on the subject, it is very rare that everyone in a poly relationship falls in love with a new partner at the same time, feels the same intensity of affection for everyone involved in a relationship, is as secure about every part of every relationship, is as interested in forming new connections as everyone else, feels as secure about themselves as everyone else does, etc... All those "mismatches" can make poly feel less than "wonderful" on any given outing. It doesn't mean that poly is a bad idea or that I'm bad at doing it. That's the thing that I have to remember... because when I'm feeling shaky and scared, it is easy to get into believing that I'm the one who is out of place, doing it wrong, needing to rethink.

As Himself tells me, if we were doing monogamy, and things were tough or stressful or challenging, I'd probably never question "monogamy" or its underlying validity. I'd likely simply suck it up and tough it out because, after all, it is the way it is done. Poly doesn't have that same status, so it is easy to question it; blame it; know with a guilty certainty that it must be the reason that things feel difficult.

It is hard. To do this in front of so many eyes. It feels like whatever I say, however I experience this carries weight far beyond my personal sense of it all. When I get the jitters, I end up feeling like a fraud, a failure, a fake. In those moments, I desperately want to go hide. To not have to struggle and stretch and reach for whatever is coming next while I am so aware of having an "audience." Maybe, once I figure it all out, it will all feel better.

swan

All is Well

Everything went well with T's surgery. She is home and resting -- sound asleep actually. Thank goodness for pain medication. No problems, no complications. All as we expected. There is the liklihood of knee replacement for her down the road, but hopefully this will buy some time.

Thank you all for your good wishes and healing thoughts. You are the best.

Hugs, swan

Just asking for a bit of Support...

It is early. Later today, T and Master will head off to the outpatient surgical center so that she may have some arthroscopic surgery to repair a torn MCL in her knee along with some other repairs that are needed to get her back up and mobile after a long stretch of limping around here. The surgeon is the same one who did the knee replacement on Himself two years ago, and we are most confident in his skill and abilities, still surgery is always a bit nerve-wracking. I am stuck at school and unable to be with the family for this one and that makes me crazy. As soon as I can, I'll fly out of here and join them, but will worry and fuss terribly until then.

Keep our T and all of us in your thoughts today, friends.

swan

Calm

Just a couple of days ago there was a comment on morningstar's blog that set me to thinking. Her friend, drakor wrote:

"it is not all about the intensity it is more about the calm of slavery that attracts"

Now, I have to admit that I quite often fall short of anything that even remotely resembles "calm" in my slavery. Still, I think there is great truth in what drakor points to. Slavery, is not about what we do or what is done to us. It is about a sense of being in a place in our lives that fits, and that is so right for who we are that it is perfectly, utterly calm.

I have discovered that, when I manage to find myself in that mode, all my doubts and fears and inner chatter settles down and I simply live in His world -- and that feels right and good and easy. For me, when I am in tune with that part of who I am, there is very little sense of struggle usually. Slavery becomes like breathing -- like being my own self, because that is what it truly is.

The issue, for me I think, is that it seems difficult on many days to get there and stay there. I feel myself tugged off my center by many competing forces and demands. I am buffeted by outside influences and outside voices and a whole lot of "imprinting" that can cause me to respond and react in ways that are not at all in keeping with the truth of my slavery or of my best nature. When that happens, I end up feeling stressed, angry, unhappy, bitter, and way apart from my own sense of "calm."

I know, from experience, that the solution (when I'm feeling off balance) is not to abandon the slave path that is the correct way for me, but to renew my dedication and attention to it. The place of calm and rest and security and simple freedom for my spirit, heart, and mind is found as I turn fully toward Him.

Whatever else comes at me from the outside world, that is the fixed mark that keeps my world steady and sure. That is the stable and calm center of my life. That is, ultimately, aside from all the other bits and pieces, what makes me His.

swan

Resilience

I have, for probably at least a couple of years, had fragile skin that seemed to break and bleed under the least bit of trauma. There just was seemingly no elasticity left. No flex. No give.

This is a difficult circumstance if a significant part of the way that your sexual/erotic orientation is expressed is through SM impact play. We engage in a whole range of activities that put the skin on my lovely backside under stress. It needs to bend and stretch and then bounce right back.

I've invested a fortune in lotions and potions. We've applied bandaids by the carton. I've ingested vitamins and minerals and herbs of all sorts and descriptions. We've spanked through clothing. We've avoided what we considered the most delicate and vulnerable spots. Until about a month ago, no matter what I did, or what He did, every session seemed to end up with blood splattered and smeared everywhere. The bleeding hasn't stopped our play, but it has been a matter of concern. It has seemed to indicate a level of damage that simply would not heal or recover -- not with treatment, not with supplementation, not with rest.

Then, there was the awful and, for us, powerful break and reset that took place a few weeks ago. That event, difficult and painful as it was, seemed to be a point of healing for He and I at many different levels. One interesting thing, coming out of that has been, that I no longer break and bleed during sessions. Not at all. Fascinating.

If you go look up the dictionary definition of "resilience," you will find that it has two meanings that end up looking something like this:

• The ability to recover quickly from illness, change, or misfortune; buoyancy.
  
• The property of a material that enables it to resume its original shape or position after being bent, stretched, or compressed; elasticity.

I find that those two definitions, together are interesting in my case.

I think that the lack of elasticitiy in my skin these last couple of years was a physical manifestation of my declining emotional resiliency. I know that sounds like voodoo or new age mystical nonsense, but there it is. As we went from crisis to crisis, the traumas piled up and the space needed to fully recover just never was there: surgery --mine and His, extreme and protracted female problems, job loss, and job politics, and the advent of the poly energy vampire. Somewhere along the line, I got angry and lost my sense of joy and buoyancy. Where there had been a single damaged place, the artifact of the early days paddling regimen, suddenly there was not a single place that you could hit me that didn't break, split, ooze and bleed at the slightest provocation.

And then, the anger was finally fully expressed. Finally fully embraced. Finally exhausted. Finally absolved. Finally released. And now -- the brokeness is gone.

We are whole beings, bodies, minds, hearts, spirits. What is felt in one part will be seen and shown in the others. We cannot separate the parts and pieces. Cannot compartmentalize who we are and isolate the bits. Wellness and health will express itself throughout the whole person. So, too, distress, anger, fear -- all of these will show up in large and small ways throughout the entire person.

swan

Caning

A very long time ago, when He and I were only just beginning this journey together, there was an intricate game we played for a very long time around the whole idea of caning... When I was newer to this, the thought of being caned scared me half to death. It was, of all the SM forms of play that I'd experienced at that point, one of the most evocative.

I've come, in the years since to embrace the cane -- when I'm in a headspace to embrace anything at all along the masochistic curve that I follow. Here lately I seem to be back there again.

It might be that partly I'm stuck hunting for a way to replace the really nice cane that we broke a few months back. The replacements that we've found have just not been IT, to tell the truth. Serviceable, I suppose, but disappointing in terms of quality. So last night, as we sat watching another miserable outing by our happless Cincinnati Reds, I was cruising the Internet for ratan canes. Not an altogether unsuccessful effort either, although the question arises as to how much we are willing to invest in the beastie...

And then there was a difficult night. Long story. Nightmares and broken sleep and uncertainties.

This morning I came up into a fragile and tender place, facing the mostly inevitable Sunday morning session. Willing, of course, but unsure of my sturdiness.

He read the signs and was casting around for what would be "good." He asked, laughing, if I was in the mood for a "little light spanking," and we shared a laugh. I grinned at Him and allowed that I was uncertain that our spanking scale extended that far, that I was of the belief that the "light" end of the spanking scale was somehow missing. And the conversation hummed on for a bit... Turning after a bit to that time, almost six years ago, when He caned me for the very first time...

Which led to this morning's caning. Which was not at all like the first time. I wasn't actually sure that I was "into" caning as He began, but very quickly, as He tap, tap, tapped away -- with rapid fire strokes, I could feel a fire building in my butt surely, but a heat elsewhere too. By the time He had started to up the ante with some really sharp strokes that were raising welts, I was riding the wave and feeling the power that comes from a good session that brings its own sexual tension.

By the time He'd finished building the fire, I was more than ready to go. We galloped off into a joyous bit of lovemaking that left us both gasping.

I do like canes. I do like canes. I do, I do, I do like canes.

swan

Foot Massage

It is one of the simplest, gentlest kinds of service. He loves it, when I massage His feet. It relaxes Him completely, in a way that demands nothing at all from Him -- He does not need to participate or direct or reciprocate or anticipate any sort of response at all. The foot massage is purely a sensual, relaxation experience.

So it was, close to midnight on Friday as we crawled into bed, and He mentioned that His feet were aching and tired, that I asked if He wanted His feet rubbed. He fussed some that it was late and I was tired. I told Him that it was not difficult at all. I simply grabbed a light comforter so that I could shift to the other end of the bed and not FREEZE in the air conditioning, and set to work.

I have no formal training, but I do have lengthy association with a body worker/massage therapist friend, who shared her skills with me for many years. So I do have some knowledge.

I curled around His feet and ankles, and worked on His soles and toes and calves. I really couldn't see His face, but I could hear the contented noises from the other end of the bed. Happy Master sounds, and the occasional "thank you -- that feels wonderful" floating my way. I kneaded and rubbed and stretched and pulled and stroked. First one foot and then the other, as the evening wove its way into the purple darkness.

It calmed Him, and it calmed me as well. Sometime later, He was shaking me awake. I'd fallen asleep cuddled happily wrapped up around His feet, dreaming happily, and peacefully -- entirely contented in His service. I imagine I could have slept there just fine except that He much prefers me curled into the crook of His arm, and is not particularly fond of having my feet in His face.

swan

One of My Perennial Manners/Etiquette Rants

I tend to be a stickler about "manners" at a certain level. I imagine that has to do with being a certain age, and being raised with the kinds of expectations that many of us were in the 1950's.

Children were brought up to be respectful, to understand that they weren't the center of the universe, to understand that there were limits and boundaries that they were to observe and live within. We refered to adults as Mr. or Mrs. or Miss. We said, "yes, Sir" and "yes, Ma'am." We were often "seen and not heard." When we were "company," we cleaned our plates, even when what was on our plate might be truly scary looking. We looked but did not touch. We didn't ask personal or intrusive questions, no matter how curious we might be, and we did not ask for treats when we were out away from home, and surely not from strangers or adults who were not "our" adults.

Likewise, I, being raised by Depression-era parents, have a whole set of social etiquette notions that can get stomped on in today's more "freewheeling" cyber universe where people are significanlty less formal than I tend to be about meeting, greeting, and initiating relationships. For example, when I meet someone for the first time, whether in person, or online, I EXPECT to have that first meeting allow for some time for us to get acqainted before we leap right into the areas that I consider to be "personal," "private," and "intimate." If, the first time that I encounter you online, the conversation goes anything like, "Hello, how are u, how often do u have sex?" I am likely to find that inappropriate, forward, cheeky, and presumptuous. At a minimum. Most likely I will treat you like a two-headed, ill-mannered, bottom- feeding, predatory, hairball. And I WILL get all bent out of shape.

Rude behavior is rude.

So, call me too sensitive and too touchy.

This week, I've been accosted by not one but two "out of the blue" strangers on Yahoo messenger. I don't know where these guys come from, or why they pick me. I do know that when they barely get past hello and the obligatory marital status question before they are asking "sex" questions, I find it offensive. I do not keep my status or my situation secret, and I do not put myself "out" as shopping for a relationship, so I am always puzzled by the come on routine. What's that about? With one of these guys, I refered him to Master because He indicated that he might be interested in meeting and playing at some point. That wouldn't be my call in any case, and so I sent him off to talk to Himself. Pretty soon, he was back, still pushing and questioning at levels of familiarity that were way beyond what I knew he'd discussed with Master only minutes before. Are people really that clueless, or is it really considered appropriate to just ignore limits and boundaries in today's world?

Maybe it is a function of how outsiders understand our declared practice of "poly." Is it because we label ourselves as polyamorous that people somehow assume that we are not deserving of the same basic courtesies that other people are afforded? I'm beginning to think that probably that is the case...

It just seems to me that many men online see that label "poly" and assume that I'm "up for grabs." They see "poly" and translate it to a whole thesaurus of synonyms: slut, whore, hooker, prostitute, tramp, hussey, floozie, loose woman, tart, ... The easy, dismissive labels seem to obviate the need for any sort of human to human contact or connective conversation. There's no reason to waste the time on "idle" chit chat. These fellows know at the outset what sort of "girl" I am, and they seem to figure that they won't have to invest a whole lot of energy in all that messy relationship building business with me. Blech!

I don't need flowers and chocolates and poems and all of that. But cripes! 'Hello' is nice. "How are you" (spelled like a grown up) is nice. A little bit of a personal biography that does not center on the length of your male member is nice. Pleasant conversation about things that you enjoy doing in the real outside world is nice. Act like a civilized person. Treat me like a person. I am not a walking life support system for female genitalia. And frankly, if that is all you want, you are barking up the wrong tree because, get a clue, I'm OWNED! DUH!

And, women, noting that we are a poly relational dynamic, often seem to assume that it is somehow ok to just waltz in and insert themselves in the midst of the whole business without so much as a "pardon me, do you mind if I have this dance?" Women who would never wriggle in between their monogamously coupled friends hardly even blink about flirting outrageously, making offers, carrying on with, and otherwise upsetting the balance of things around here. They see that word "poly," and just figure that it is open season. If there is something that looks attractive, interesting, appealing or exciting, then by all means, help yourself... No limits, no boundaries, no rules, no courtesies required or expected. Blech again!

That sort of move sets off a whole bunch of other stuff that just get me going, and keeps me going for days at a time.

As I think about it, I think it is all about the very first day of 4th grade. Yup. I'm pretty sure that's it. Her name was Dana Click, and she was every bit as cute and perky and perfect as her name would have you believe. She had penny loafers with two perfectly matched, shiny, brand new pennies in them -- both perfectly upright of course, and the most lusciously sweet and adorable pink fluffy sweater to wear over her Catholic school uniform. Her hair was flawless, as was she, in every single detail.

I, on the other hand (already too tall and a confirmed tomboy), was as awkward, gangly, shy, and rumpled as it was possible to get. With my clearly Teutonic "Zimmerman," I was relegated to the very last seat in the very last row, out of sight and mostly out of mind unless someone wanted to make jokes about the girl that most people (teasingly) called "Cinnamon."

Dana and I were on opposite poles from the outset, and of course, bound together by cruel fate for the entire rest of our school careers. Through elementary and junior high school and on into high school, I watched as she blossomed into a beauty. Her skin was purest ivory. She never got too tall. She learned every flirtatious and coy trick almost as if it was somehow bred in her genes, and perhaps it was. Long before I achieved any whisper of pubescence, Dana was fabulously curvy with a figure that caused every healthy boy within shouting distance to forget his name and anything else he ever knew about anything.

I on the other hand, made my way through junior high and into high school in full on geek mode. If there was ever a human embodiment of the "ugly girls at seventeen" song lyric, it was probably me. At 5'-11", I weighed somewhere close to 110 pounds. I had hair that wouldn't do anything civilized and a case of acne that, to quote my loving brother made my face "look like it had caught fire and someone had tried to put it out with an ice pick." I never ever did NEED a brassiere, although I finally did talk my mother into allowing me to get them just in time for gals to start burning the damn things. I had seriously buck teeth and the requisite mouth full of braces. I never, ever, even once dated anyone in all of my high school career. Oh yeah, AND, to make matters worse, I was smarter than most of the guys in my class, taking classes like honors English and calculus.

So, when some bouncy, cute, "I'm so all of that" chicky comes waltzing into my world and stomps into my stuff, I'm very easily tipped back into that seventeen year old space again. Nevermind my fully formed, very solid, nice, mature, steady, adult ego structure. What I want to do is run over every 24-year old hawty I see, leaving broken and bleeding girlys lieing lifeless along the roadways all over the city. Because anger is real and not reasonable. And people should have enough sense to know what is "their's" and "not their's."

Sometimes, when it all starts to pile up, I can get pretty over it. That's been the way I've been for the last few days. Not much in the way of social benefit coming from all this trail blazing, brave new paradigm BS. And then it turns around and bites me on the ass every which way. That can piss me off. I think the anger has burned itself out mostly. I've steamed and stewed and stormed and growled and snarled and cussed and spit until it is finally gone. For now, I'm done grousing about all the obnoxious people "out there" who are obviously just badly brought up and without an ounce of good breeding. But hang around for awhile, and I'll be back, doing my "Miss Manners" rag. Sure as the sun rises in the East, you know I'll get on a tear about this one again.

swan

Why I Hate Bob Deegan

A very long time ago, before I was even a glimmer on the horizon, He met a woman with many, many years of experience in the lifestyle as a Dominant. He was newly liberated from His marriage at the time and into what He views as a fairly prolific and random spanking phase of His life. She took Him under her wing, evaluating Him as somewhat more enthusiastic than skilled, and endeavored to give Him some technical training with a variety of implements. He tells how His first outing with a flogger resulted in the demolition of a nearby lightbulb in a table lamp. One of the assignments He was given was to practice turning light switches on and off with the flogger until He could reliably do the "lights on -- lights off" thing. T reports that, when she first met Him, all the walls around all the light switches were routinely black with flogger marks...

I owe that long ago Lady Dominant a huge debt. I can attest that He CAN hit my ass with a flogger. Every time. Without fail.

Along the line, He and we've attended dozens of workshops and listened to I can't even begin to count how many lectures about how to do this and that. It is good to learn about how to do WIITWD from people with experience. I've spent a fair amount of time in dungeons and watched people work with singletails, practicing moving bits of facial tissue across the floor and using ink to make patterns on paper and all manner of other techniques to learn how to do it.

But Himself learned the basic use of the singletail from Bob Deegan. The good news is that watching Deegan use the single tail is like watching some kind of hybrid between a beautiful ballet and intense martial arts. He is awesome to see work. The bad news is that Deegan is of the opinion that, since people do not typically take pillows to dungeons, they shouldn't be practicing their singletail technique on pillows either. Gahhhhh!

What that means, in practical terms, is that every blessed stroke of the whip, for good or bad is aimed at my hide -- and every single stroke lands where it will.

I am not brave about the singletail. It scares the living daylights out of me. Sometimes, I can be fascinated by it, in that nutty way that is the wired part of being masochistic, but even that is still deeply tinged with real fear. I want to be "good" about sessions with the whip. I want to stay where He puts me, and I want to behave in the way I know He expects of me.

It is terribly difficult. The "Deegan" dictate means that there is no way for me to have any sense of what is coming. I can't predict which strokes will fall where. I can't predict the intensity. I can't predict the rhythm. Every second of the encounter is a pure challenge both physically and emotionally. By the time we're 15 or 20 or 3o strokes in, I'm panicked, begging, hysterical, hanging on by shear will -- or not hanging on at all -- just begging, pleading, anything to be allowed the rescue that I cannot obtain except by His mercy.

Sunday was like that. We'd started with a "warmup," that I knew was leading toward the whip. I'd tried to "prepare" if that's possible to do. I'd gotten myself into position, holding onto "the fluffy" and thinking that I was in a pretty good place. But then the whip strokes began falling all over the place -- backs of my calves and soles of my feet and middle of my back. Randomness is harder, in my experience, than the things you can predict, and this was just wildly random. It didn't take long for me to hit the point of wild begging: "please, please let me go... please, please, please!"

I think it didn't go on too much longer, actually. Not nearly as long as it might have. He was kind.

We'll do it again. Soon. We talked. About what was so hard. About the need to practice. About how much I'd like to run over Bob Deegan with my car... About what I'd been fantasizing about when I woke up on Sunday morning -- which was not getting whipped on my feet (LOL). He said that perhaps, for the sake of practice, He might have me wear my leathers and that would protect most of me. Then it would be like a target that would only "light up" if you hit it. So maybe Deegan will survive.

swan

Did you Take My Coffee?

We were off on Saturday afternoon to one of those "family" events. Or at least we were attempting to be off.

The youngest of "our" offspring was going to his senior prom with the lovely young woman who might, if appearances mean anything, be "the one," and his mother (our ex-wife) had invited the entire extended clan to be present for the launching. The young woman had been flown in, using mom's frequent flyer miles from Georgia where she now resides, and they were reunited for an adolescent magical weekend. We were to pickup Grandpa and be present to take some photos and give hugs and wave happily from the driveway as they drove off on the big night...

There is no surer way to set Master into stubborn mule mode than to give Him a time certain that He has to be someplace. It brings up an obstinate streak as wide as the St. Lawrence River from whence His people originate. In His view, only peons need bother with arriving according to the dictates of clocks. So set a time and the stalling begins. To further complicate matters, on Saturday, a dental crisis made the departure even more difficult as a temporary cap chose that particular time window to precipitously loose its grip.

Not surpsisingly then, as our appropriate departure time came and went, I was flying around attempting to prepare the things that I knew He would need in order to eventually be ready to leave -- gathering His odds and ends together, and collecting the far flung bits He tends to leave in His wake.

One of those items was His morning coffee mug which He tends to carry around with Him and leave wherever He goes. I'd picked it up and carried it back to the kitchen in my rounds. He almost always wants a cold drink when we travel in the car, and so I'd asked what He would like, and He'd given me His preference. He then asked, "Did you take my coffee?" To which I replied, "Yes."

Now, there is an interesting quirk to Master/slave communication. Those of us who live as slave tend to anticipate and "read" to a highly nuanced degree most of the time. On the other hand, we can sometimes be quite literal. I remember a class that He and I took on florentine flogging. Some of you may recall the story. I think I told it at one point. The instructor in that case, had asked for someone to demonstrate with and I was volunteered. There I stood in front of the room, floggers in hand. The instrustor, watching me get completely tangled up, finally looked at me, and wanting me to let my arms hang at my sides said, "Drop the floggers." Immediately both floggers hit the floor much to everyone's amusement. Well trained, literal slave, ask no questions, obedient sort of communication mode.

This "coffee" question, it turns out was a similar sort of situation. In His mind, "Did you take my coffee?" was really "Did you take my coffee to the car?" It was not at all meant to be "Did you take my coffee mug to the kitchen?" It was not until we got in the car and on the road and there was no coffee that the variance in the two questions became clear...

Harrumph! Sometimes, this sort of thing can be just too damned difficult in the most annoyingly simple ways.

swan

IT Finally Happened!

Well, Dear Friends, IT finally happened. I went to visit my maternal parental unit yesterday. If you all remember from previous posts, MY MOM, is the wonderfully inclusive Mom. She is the one who welcomes all of her kids friends and tag-alongs, no matter who they are, and loves each of them as her own.

Sooooo, I went for a visit. And we were sitting in the living room talking and she was being particularly sweet about Tom, commenting about how she is so pleased that I have someone that loves me as he does. That, not just with words, but the way he watches me when no one else is looking, or how he will reach for my hand at a table, just the little things. And at that moment, Tom called. I said something like "Well, speaking of the Devil", and she laughed and I started talking to Tom. During the course of our conversation Swan's name was mentioned and my Mom pipes up in the background "You mean, Tom's other Wife?" I about fell out of my chair laughing! She slapped her hands over her mouth, her eyes grew to about 3 times their normal size, and she whispered, "Oh PLEASE, don't tell Him I said THAT!" Well, Of Course, I just HAD TO!!! And he was howling on the phone, too. She tried to explain it away by saying that Swan and I both just look at each other and seem to know what needs to be done and get to it around the houses and when Tom needs something, Swan is always available to help, if I am unavailable.

We have never told my family of our poly lifestyle. It has just not been necessary, because of their inclusiveness with Swan. We have always felt they probably knew there was more to our relationship than a married couple with a good friend who does EVERYTHING with them, but I just never felt the need to explain it all.

Seems it ISN'T necessary. My 70 year old Mother has IT. Who cares who else gets IT.

T

Is He...?

I've been writing about our lives and our dynamic for over two years now, here and at The Swan's Heart (my earlier blog). I've poured out torrents of words about Him and about me and about us. In all of that, I feel that people would have some sense of how we are together. Of course, not everyone reads this, or has followed from the beginning, and the words only give snapshot views.



I don't talk with a lot of outsiders about my life. I'm pretty "normal" looking (I think). I don't maintain an enourmous online correspondence, and I am seldom in contact with people I don't know well online. Still every now and then, I'll get started into a conversation with someone new, and that almost always brings up a series of questions. Some of them are predictable as I describe the nature of my life and relationship.



People almost always wonder how our dynamics work, especially in terms of our polyamory. It reinforces my belief that there are very few who actually DO what we do and make it happen with any degree of intention and success. We are as rare as hen's teeth. I can tell that simply by the kind of reactions I get when I describe our family. I'm accustomed to fielding those questions and they really don't stop me or slow me down. I know how to help people understand what our family is like and how we work.



The question that I have been getting more often in recent weeks or months, and which I'm finding that I just have never contemplated before is one that goes something like, "Is your Master very strict?" I find that the question leaves me sitting looking at the computer screen, blinking stupidly, like an owl hit with a searchlight out of the darkness.



I think I do not understand what it is that the question implies. It causes me to want to ask, "what do you mean, strict?"



I think that "strict" is perhaps situational. And relational. And a matter of taste.



I've said it before. Ours is not a Master/slave dynamic that is steeped in formal rituals and protocols. We recognize that there are those who practice those disciplines. We do not. So, I do not, for example, kneel to serve His drinks, or ask permission to speak, or routinely address Him as "Sir." He is not "strict" in that sense. These are not routines or protocols that He finds useful or appropriate to His or our life together, and so He does not require them (although He most certainly could do so).



Likewise, He does not engage in the business of setting out "tasks" for me or for T. He does not feel that I need to be "reminded" of my submission to Him with a list of things to do each day from Him. He expects that I am submissive to Him and that I will remember that regardless of where I am or what I am doing, and that I will handle myself and all my work/activities in a way that honors that reality. Again, others practice differently, and He could decree a different approach at any time. This is the norm for us as of now.



He expects that things will be done in His household as He likes them to be done, and that He will not need to have to expend energy to make that happen. He expects that T and I will take care of His needs and His desires and that will happen smoothly and seamlessly for His comfort and happiness. He wants that done without His needing to intervene whenever possible. We do that without His direction, and mostly without His noticing -- except to be glad and grateful.



He is "strict" in terms of SM play. He wants my submission to be complete, and my behavior to be completely within the boundaries that He defines in that realm. There, we do have clearly defined rituals and protocols that we do observe, and which are not "bendable." And, the level of formality intensifies if we are in a "public" setting as opposed to playing at home. I suppose some would say that, in this area of our relationship, He is "strict."



So, I don't know. When I think about things, there are all kinds of little things that are simply part of my life that might seem "strict" to an outsider. I call Him when I arrive at work, and again when I leave. I never go anywhere without telling Him where I am going and where I am and when I will be home. I don't turn on the radio or the TV in the house when He is there, and I don't turn them off -- and I never make a channel change (we watch or listen to what He chooses). I check with Him about what He would like to have prepared for dinner each day. I keep Him notified of all my appointments and make sure He knows about my work calendar. To me, those things are not "strict," they are parts of being connected and cared for by Him. They are how my life has worked for a very long time.



When I tell Him about these questions, He responds that there is no need for Him to be "strict" with me because I'm not "bad." That's another realm I suppose. The issue of behavior management and self-management. I understand that it is my responsibility to be for Him, and to not require Him to put energy into my slavery. I do know that He has the right to mold my behavior in any way that suits His taste, but my slavery is not dependent on His pouring energy into it. When "bad" behavior on my part requires Him to react to me in affirmative or intensively "strict" ways, that has created a deficit that detracts from our life together. That is not a condition that I seek to create on an ongoing basis.



So, "strict" is an interesting question. I am not sure that, when the question is posed to me that I know how to interpret it. I think it means many things to many people. I think that people hear that I am "slave," and envision a life that is restricted and constrained and enormously limited. That is not the way that I experience my life. Slavery is, for me, the expression of my self and my love and my highest truth. It is freeing and joyous and connecting. Somehow, "strict" does not go with that...



swan

The Princess Pat

We don't often speak of the woman who bore me into this world. When we do, we usually call her "The Princess Pat." It is a title given to her by T, and refers, sort of sideways to the silly song of the same name--

The Princess Pat (Egyptian hand movement & hips)
Lived in a tree (Arms up over heads, making a tree bow)
She sailed across (wave hands over water)
The seven seas (Seven fingers, wave hands over water)
She sailed across (Repeat hand wave over water)
the Channel too (thumb and finger channel, two fingers)
and took with her (sling bag over shoulder)
a rickabamboo (hands wave down move hips)

A rickabamboo (hands wave down)
Now what is that
Its something made
For the Princess Pat (repeat Egyptian move)
Its red and gold (hand on right hip)
and purple too (hand on left hip)
That's why its calleda rickabamboo (repeat motion)

Now Captain Dan (stand at Alert)
and loyal crew (salute)
They sailed across the channel too (as above)
but their ship sank (hold noses and move body down)
and your's will too (point out and finger two)
if you don't take (sling bag over shoulder)
a rickabamboo (hands wave down)

The song and the music is the song of the Princess Patricia's Canadian Light Infantry. Princess Patricia of Cannaught was the daughter of a Governor General of Canada 1911-1914 and a grand-daughter of Queen Victoria and Prince Albert.The rigabamboo is correctly the Regimental Camp Colour, affectionately known by the Princess Pat's as "The Ric-a-dam-doo".

The reality is that my Princess Pat is most likely what Clarissa Pinkola Estes would call an unmothered mother. She simply has no role model for how to do the mothering thing and she has never been any good at it. I don't think she ever really wanted to do it in the first place, but I suspect that, in her day she was a serious looker and a terrific slut, and well things just got out of her control and there I was... Damn! After that, there were three more pregnancies, some of them terribly difficult, and she was quite sincerely stuck. Mix in some significant quantities of alcohol and a decidedly narcissistic bent, and you have The Princess Pat.

I spent an awful lot of years trying to figure out how to "win over" The Princess Pat. It wasn't until about a year ago that I finally gave myself permission to just quit. I would exhaust myself and aggravate myself and work myself into a frenzy over the meannesses that she was capapble of. All of it would lead nowhere of course, because she was endlessly wrapped up in her own stuff, and none of it was ever about me -- nor was it ever going to be about me. About a year ago, I just quit calling; quit writing; quit. I just turned her loose and forgave her for what she could not ever do. If set me free.

It was sad in a way, but surprisingly painless. For me. Not for her. She mourns. Every now and then, in odd ways, there will be some random contact, and I can hear the sorrow in her. I feel bad about that, but I understand that it isn't mine. I cannot mother my mother -- not anymore. That is a path that leads me nowhere. She has two of my brothers that are still willing to do the dance with her. It will have to be enough for the three of them.

I have the gift, at this late juncture, of Master's mother. She does not know who I am. She doesn't know who anyone is, really. But she knows that I come and visit her sometimes. We talk about whatever comes up. A lot of the time lately, it is about flowers and gardening. She used to love to garden, and was really very good at it. It is something that is lost to her now as a physical possibility, but she seems to wander in gardens of memory, and those she happily shares with me -- geraniums and lilacs and roses and whatnot. Mostly I sit and smile and nod and encourage her with smiles and happy chit chat about anything and nothing at all. Simple pleasures shared and quiet moments that are really hers and really not mine. Except that it warms her and heals me. She is, in those moments, simply, joyfully, willingly loving with me in a way that my own mother never has been. She wants nothing more than my time and my smiles and a loving hug. She doesn't care who I am or what I'm doing or how I might be related to her or anyone else in the whole family constellation. For her, it is enough that we are together in this time and this place, talking about the flowers that are pressed in the pages of memory.

And so, I release to time and the seven seas, The Princess Pat. I wish her smooth sailing and fair winds. I hope that someone, somewhere along the way will enjoy her, as I am now enjoying the mother who wasn't mine, but has come to be mine in these last few months of her own voyage. How very glad I am that I have had the pleasure of her company.

swan

I know it is the Middle of the Night, But...

I often wake up at about 3:30 AM. I imagine that I am part of a cohort of women around the world lying awake in the throbbing darkness, hot and flushed, awash on the shores of the post-menopausal tidal storms.

I am surprised, these days, by my newly awakened sensualities, drives and desires. I am wanting spanking again, and at 3:30 in the morning, I am not at all sure what to do about that...

He sleeps at 3:30 in the morning. Not surprisingly. People really should be asleep at that hour of the day.

Still, the other morning, I considered the possibility that He might be amenable to suggestion. I rolled over and, ever so gently, caressed and stroked the somnolent penis.

I'm pretty sure the critter rolled over, checked it's watch, glared at me, and growled: "Hey! Do you have any freakin' idea what time it is, woman?!? Can't you see I'm trying to sleep, here! Leave me the fuck alone!"

OH. OK. Nevermind. So... I tell myself stories -- about the times He pinches my tits, and smacks my cunt and whips me. I imagine His hand on my ass. I am still hearing the echoes of the speculation He voiced that perhaps I needed to sleep with the whip. I am waiting for the new collar to arrive in the mail. All of it fires my imagination and burns in my brain. I did eventually go back to sleep. I think it was about an hour before the alarm clock went off.

Maybe if I could get a bedtime spanking sometimes...
Maybe that would help.
Maybe I just need to give up and take some kind of sleeping pill.
I just don't want to deaden these feelings.
They seem healthy and good.
I'm willing to live with the wanting. I'm glad to have it back.
I know that the weekends come along, and there will be Saturday morning.

In a few more weeks, it will be summer, and the sleepiness won't matter. I won't have to manage all those bright-eyed kiddos everyday. I won't need to rise and shine at 5:30 and 3:30 won't be such a big deal... Until then, the late night stories are working to wake me back up, and bring me back to who I was. It is a fair trade.

swan