Flogging Frame

Very early in my journey into the world of BDSM, I discovered that my tall frame didn't fit well on most standard bondage furniture. In dungeons, I'd struggle and squirm trying to accommodate the ubiquitous St. Andrews crosses and spanking benches that all seemed to be built for the 5'-2" submissives that barely came to my shoulder.

After awhile, I began to imagine what it would be like to be beaten on a piece of equipment that actually "fit" me -- or that I actually fit. That imagining came to have a form and a shape that eventually resulted in the building of this flogging frame.

Most of the time the flogging frame lives its life, very much like we do, in hiding. It looks, if you don't know any better, like a somewhat unusual coffee table. The top is built from oak tounge and groove flooring, and the rest of it is pretty non-descript, dimension lumber. It was originally my thought that it could do double duty as a massage table. The rope ties on the sides are useful tie down points (if a person were inclined that way), but we usually use them as handles for wrestling that top piece off.

Once you (and a good, strong partner) have lifted the top off, this is what you will find hidden under the coffee table top --

The next step in this process is to lift that triangular piece up off the "legs" of the table. It isn't nearly as heavy as the top. It is designed to unfold and be set up, like an easel in the table top which, turned on its top forms a solid, stable base for the whole monster...

Watch carefully...

Here I am putting the frame into the base... Notice that the "legs" set up and make a handy rack for floggers. Isn't that clever?

Once it is in the base, there is a support leg that fits into a track so the whole thing leans forward at a reasonable angle. Set up like this it is all completely stable, and secure. It ought to be -- it weighs a ton!

It was built specifically for my height and all the pads are leather covered, so once it is in place and I'm on the thing, it is actually sort of comfortable and secure feeling.

So, here I am in all my glory... The more observant ones among you will note that there is, of course, a football game on the television in the background.

The well whipped (cute?) swan

Finally Someone SAID What So Many People Really Think...

Here it is. It would (of course) be an annonymous commenter who would take advantage of the safety of being nameless and faceless to put words to the very doubts that plague me --

"I mainly feel sorry for T...she seems to be the one who misses out all the time and who gets the least attention and consideration"

As long as I've been here, from the very first, there has been the continual tension of knowing that having me in this relationship brings with it a cost for T. She made the space for me to be here, and that was not without a price for her to pay. I am never, ever entirely unaware of that fact. I believe that there are real gains that have come to this whole relationship, for all of us, because I am here. Still, as with any relationship, there have been compromises and challenges. None of us live as we might have if we had not connected and combined our lives.

I am able to nurture and support a significant, socially imprinted measure of guilt over my place in this family, and the impacts that I have created simply BECAUSE I exist. When the "crazies" are on me, that guilty sound track plays quite loudly. I can tell myself that I am bad, wrong, evil, terrible, destructive, horrible, wicked... I was raised Catholic -- the list of perjoratives that I can dredge up to apply to my behavior and choices is almost inexhaustible.

I put that on myself. T doesn't do it to me. I don't doubt that she has times when she knows that there are things that she might have more of if it were not for me. We talk about that sometimes. She has never said that she wishes I weren't here. She has never been anything but loving and good to me. She remains the very best friend and sister I could have ever asked for.

So, there is nothing in that comment that I haven't already said to myself. Whoever "annonymous" is, I imagine there are a whole raft of folks who see things the same way. I can feel the weight of that judgement: "evil slut, whining about her life when it is the poor wife who is the one who has reason to be complaining..." The only thing the meanness of it did was give me a chance to "say it out loud" for myself. Maybe that one can be put to rest now. Or not. The world will continue to see what they see and feel the way they feel about what they see here. I will continue to live and walk in the world anyway -- knowing that I am breaking all the "rules," and that the vast majority do not approve. Ah well...

swan

Last Weekend

We've been a family for just over five years. Our relationship is older than that by a couple of years. We have, in that space, ironed out an awful lot of the wrinkles in our day-to-day relating, and settled into the power exchange dynamic that is at the foundation of our lives to such a degree that it really isn't something that we spend a great deal of time thinking about consciously. We have very few "rough" places. Our lives cruise along pretty smoothly for the most part. Early on, He and I would occasionally get "cross-wise" with one another, and those dustups could be pretty spectacular (although, mercifully, short-lived). T and I have never fussed at one another. We are two women, living in the same household, and we function in remarkable harmony. We simply don't fight.


At least we haven't fought. Until Sunday.


On Sunday, I was like a cat with all my fur rubbed the wrong way. For whatever reason, I was just about as nervy and jittery as it is possible for a human being to get. I was, literally, a human bomb, walking around with my little short fuse sticking out, just looking for a spark. It didn't take me long to get myself lit up. A seemingly inconsequential thing -- the making of some applesauce and the offer on the part of T to help peel the apples -- sent me into a full on boiling rage (complete with screaming, door slamming, and throwing things). I ended up on the floor in the bathroom in tears, and she ended up baffled and furious. We were off to the races -- our very first ever "girl" fight while Himself looked on in utter amazement and bewilderment.

When the initial explosion was over, T and I were squared off, hands on hips, faces flushed, angry and hurt and, I think, both just rocked to our toes by the sheer violence of the storm that threatened to destroy our little world.

She left -- headed to pick up Grandma's laundry; determined to continue on and visit with her mom. I dragged all the household trash to the dumpster and then stomped myself into the kitchen with the blood still roaring in my ears to make applesauce. Quarter, core, peel, slice... repeat. Over and over and over...

Eventually, He began to try to talk to me about what was going on. At first, I didn't have a lot to say. I was shaken. I was angry. I was frightened. I was confused. I was feeling completely out of control. Somewhere in the midst of the storm, I know that T called and talked with Him, and He convinced her to come home. When she arrived, we sat and talked, and things between she and I arrived at a semblance of calm. Still, though, I was boiling and seething inside. When T left and went back to her side of the household, I began to rant and rage again.

This time, He was my target, and I didn't spare any of the tender spots. I went right for the kill. I railed against the unfairness of the "poly" arrangement of our lives -- how He gets to make dates and connections and I have no chance to hook up with anyone who will make me feel "good." As He threw the fact that a Master/slave relationship might not be "fair" at me, I retorted that ours was a M/s relationship in name only. "What was it about what we were doing that had anything to do with M/s," I demanded. We hadn't done anything that was really M/s since His knee surgery -- that was my assertion. I claimed that He only noticed me when He decided it was time to beat me, otherwise, I sputtered, I might as well be just another piece of furniture. On and on I went -- about how unsatisfactory my sex life is, about how much I wished I had someone who would make me feel like a woman again, about how angry I was at Him for letting "them" do this (the hysterectomy) to me, about how T hated having me here and always had, about how I had ruined their lives by coming here in the first place -- how it had all been such a dreadful, horrible, terrible mistake. When He asked if I was talking about ending our relationship, I replied that I didn't know -- Maybe it was the best thing, I admitted. I don't have any idea how long I carried on, but it took a really long time for all that pent up misery and venom to come pouring out.

When it was done, He was devastated, and more than just a bit angry. I was just stunned at how deftly and determinedly I had just destroyed my entire existence. The evening was grim to say the least. We managed, somehow to get through our dinnertime, to complete a work project that we had to finish together, to prepare to sleep, and even to spend the night together (although at the farthest reaches of our big bed). By Monday morning, we were physically and emotionally exhausted. I got up, showered, dressed for school, choked down some breakfast and prepared to leave. I didn't have the faintest notion how I was going to make it through the day ahead. I was completely emotionally wiped out. As I started out the door, He gave me the gentlest of hugs. It was as if I'd be given a gift. I had become convinced that He might never touch me again at that point, and I was certainly clear that I'd not blame Him in the slightest. Leaning into Him that morning, I dared to hope that there might be some way to salvage something from the wreckage I'd created.

I went to school and the students arrived right on schedule. I tried to focus. Tried to breathe. Worked hard to fight off the urge to just crumple into a ball and sob. Teach. Teach. Teach. I was in agony. It hurt to breathe. Standing up required conscious effort.

When I could get a break, I checked email and there was a note from Him... "I hope you are OK. I am not..."

"I'm not OK," I replied. "I didn't sleep, and it hurts to breathe. I feel as if I've destroyed everything. None of this is your fault. I know I need to find some help. I'm not OK. Don't blame yourself for my mental illness... I have to fix this. I only hope it isn't too late. I am not sure if I can come home. I don't know what to do, but I don't want to give up..."

Back came the reply, "You can always come home. We will find a way through this. Mine always and all ways."

It is Wednesday and the storm has calmed, but I am aware that it isn't going to just vanish. Something happened and it wasn't a "phantom."

There are lots of explanations and there are things within my life and within our dynamic that we can point to in terms of "what might have set it off." I don't know and I don't care. I only know that I don't want to go there ever again. I want to find a way to some sort of reasonable, solid, stable emotional state. I do not want to ever again lash out and attack those I love. Spanking and power exchange can achieve only so much. They cannot substitute for needed mental health care.

I am better today. I am not convinced that I am well. I am determined to find a place where I will BE well.

swan

Ride the SLUT?

Early this morning, driving into school, listening to the Bill Press Show on the radio, I heard a piece about a new mass transit project being developed in Seattle. The word is that the project is the South Lake Union Trolley. If you are not quite as quick on your transportation system acronyms as the locals are, that translates as SLUT...

Oh, yes!

Now, that four day conference that Himself attended a month ago was all about working to help develop and establish a working coalition that would push for and implement a better mass transit system here in Cincinnati. So, I couldn't resist the urge to call Him up and share that little tidbit with Him. Of course it didn't take Him very long to begin imagining the day when the fine citizens of our lovely burg would be happily riding on the Cincinnati Urban Networked Transit... You can figure that one out can't you?

swan

Aftermath

Well.

We are back. Real life landed on us with a vengeance, and almost immediately as we departed from COPE and drove home Sunday. To leave for even a short bit of time and immerse ourselves in "that" life requires that we put an awful lot of the other stuff on temporary hold. So we have to plan ahead very carefully. We'd grabbed up Grandma's laundry and gotten it taken care of ahead of time, and I'd done as much planning and grading as it is possible to do. All of our own household washing and cleaning was caught up before we left, and T and I had done the grocery shopping and baking ahead of departure. So we were were "ready," or as ready as can be. Still, coming back necessitates, diving right back in. I had to jump right on the grading left from the end of the week, and we had to get in a visit to Grandma, and there were all the things that we took with us that had to be unpacked, laundered, and put in their proper places... The end of the weekend was hardly relaxing. There is no such thing as an easy re-entry.


But let me see if I can hit the mental rewind button and get my head back to the event itself -- enough to do some decent reporting.


This was the first year for this event. As such it was remarkable: amazingly well-run, well-attended, happy, comfortable, nicely done. The presenters did a good job. The vendor area, although small, was well stocked and we found a few goodies that Himself just couldn't live without (surprise, surprise!). The dungeon was GOOD (if a bit cramped), with very nicely done furnishings, and fabulous music that really did contribute to our play -- the energy there was excellent. Barak and Brat Sheba, who were the organizers and prime-movers of this whole venture were great hosts and delightful throughout. They are pulling in accolades from all sides which is exactly as it should be.


The "bests" of an event like this, for me, are several:

• There is the condensed time for us three away from the routines of our lives, and that is good. We get so caught up in the busyness sometimes that we often don't stop to breathe and just take time to enjoy each other. And we DO enjoy one another. We had a lovely dinner out on Saturday evening, and it was a pure pleasure to just take the time, away from the family cares, and the blaring of the television news, and the continual round of chores and demands, to simply be together over a good meal. We settled in and watched the ebb and flow of people coming and going and simply were with ourselves and it was good.




• There is the opportunity to be with other people who are kinky. To simply wander around in the company of people who do not think that the three of us holding hands is odd, or that the fact that I get beaten is somehow horrible, or that what we wear in the dungeon is all tha out of the ordinary. It is delightful to find ourselves in the presence of people who will ask about my cutting and admire it as something significant and beautiful -- not some horrific mutilation. It is a joy to find others making this journey who will talk about their ups and downs and joys and struggles as if it were the most natural thing in the world, and then listen and share and talk about it the way other people talk about THEIR relationships, so that we can all drink in the supportive, nurturing, affirmative energy of knowing that we are somehow not alone in the world.




• There is the chance to visit vendors who make and sell GOOD quality lifestyle products that are a pleasure to touch and look at and own. It is so different to buy whips and paddles and crops and canes and straps and fetish gear from people who make it with respect and integrity and skill. This is not the cheap, tawdry junk that is typically found in "sex" shops. It is lovely and sensuous and full of life and energy. The craftspeople who make and sell these goods do so with their hearts and hands and minds and spirits, and the products carrry that within their very being. All through the year, we deal in these goods via the Internet, through the mail, and by phone -- long distance. For the space of these kinds of events, we are able to see one another face to face and make the connections that knit us to one another.



• There is, perhaps for me, best of all, the dungeon time. In the dungeon I learn and re-learn that I am really alright; that I can do this, that I am not such a lost cause. I gain strength and power and affirmation and energy from playing in the presence of others. Whether they pay attention to what we do or not makes not the least bit of difference. I am buoyed by their very presence; by their simple, easy acceptance of me there in their midst -- naked, gasping, sweating, grunting, shrieking, bleeding, sobbing. That it is alright to be there and be hurt while the hum and throb of the place goes on all around us is powerful and supportive in a way that I cannot fathom and cannot explain. It simply is. This time, the music was a gentle and rhythmic wave that caught me and carried me along. That is not normally my experience, and I was enchanted to have it occur in this particular dungeon. We played both nights, which is exceptional. We do not do that as a rule. We are one night people -- one night or the other, but not both. For some reason, we found the energy and well-being and connection that took us to the dungeon both nights. That was wonderful. Even more interesting, on the second night, we played until the dungeon monitor had to politely and gently ask us to wind it up because we were well over the time limit on the particular piece of equipment (there was a 45 minute time limit so that everyone could have a chance to play).

The things that are chafing me --

• It was a crummy venue. The hotel was just depressing in terms of the overall condition of the place -- rundown, sad, decrepit, unattractive. It was the same location where last year's Ohio Leather Fest was held, and a year of age has not improved it any. Last year we encountered roaches in the hallways and in the dungeon; this year it was fleas in our room. Literally, the place was a second-rate, flea-bag hotel. There wasn't a single GOOD or even palatable restaurant alternative anywhere in the vacinity. I know that it doesn't have to be this way. Thunder in the Mountains is held in business class hotels with attractive facilities and decent amenities. I'm sure that cost is a consideration -- this place is cheap. Still, I really wonder what it COSTS us as a community when we let ourselves be pushed into trashy hotels that say to everyone (including us) that we just don't deserve a decent place to gather and socialize and live as the people we are?
• There weren't enough of us to completely fill the hotel. Some of the rooms were occupied by "vanilla" folks. So -- there was the "Grandmother Rule" in effect for the whole weekend. The "Grandmother Rule" imposes limits on our behavior to protect the sensibilities of all those "vanilla" folks. It limits what we can wear and what we can do to those things that would not offend or shock "Grandma." Now, I am generally not in favor of "vanilla violation," and I don't advocate an "in their face" attitude on the part of our community, but I wonder... What is it that makes us so willing to bend ourselves into a small, tiny, cramped, unnatural presentation at "our" event so as not to offend? Why is it ok for US to hide our leathers and our canes and our corsets while THEY parade their twinset sweaters and crucifixes and children (the clear evidence of their heterosexual breeding behavior)? If what we do in terms of our sexual/erotic orientation is "offensive" by definition and required to be hidden, why is the same not true for THEM? Nevermind answering -- I know... that is all purely rhetorical. But still!
• I like playing in public. I wish we could do more of it. But I've been around awhile and this is not new. Like so many of these events that we've attended before, this one felt pretty formulaic: sessions during the day featuring presenters on pretty typical topics (flogging, caning, bondage, aftercare, etc.) and play parties in the evening. I don't discount the value of that format for those who are relatively new to the life -- I found it tremendously worthwhile in my early years, and I believe there will always be those who will need the opportunity to explore the techniques and ideas of the beginning paths. Still, I find I am increasingly frustrated at the lack of opportunities at these things for real conversation and real connection to people who are, like us, living it and doing it in the face of real life challenges. I'd love to sit in small circles or discussion groups that could be directed or guided or facilitated somehow to explore how people engage and confront the middle passages of this life once the beginnings have been negotiated and successfully navigated. Surely there must be some other formats besides the "everybody sits mostly passively in presentations made over and over by the same presenters year after year."

Still, it was a good time. Life is harder because we are here and not there. Re-entry is always difficult and this week is proving that for sure.

swan

Not Going "Public"

I am torn.

This afternoon, we will pack up the car with some snacks and the toy bag and whatever luggage we need to make it through a couple of days and head off to the Central Ohio Perversion Excursion for a couple of days of kinky workshops, vendor shopping, and play parties. It will be for us and opportunity to socialize and play with other people who are "like us" for a couple of days -- to drop the facade we maintain and relax into being among like-minded folks.

It will most likely for me, be a trip that is both pleasure and challenge. I have, as long as I've followed this path, felt affirmed and supported in the public scene. I have also struggled with my ability to "perform" well within that environment. It is always a concern in my mind that my actions in public bring honor to Master, and that I not act or react in ways that create disappointment or embarrasment. I worry. Still, we will go and interact and play and learn and socialize. For a few days, we will behave as if "OUR" way is "THE" way -- as if our lifestyle were perfectly normal and entirely within the realm of the everyday and the ordinary. We'll pretend that we are the "norm."


When it is all over with, we will pack it all up, get back into our "civilian" costumes, and head back into the life we live during all the rest of the year. We'll go back to hiding in plain sight.

And all of that will occur against the backdrop of the current buzz about Idaho Senator Larry Craig's escapade in the airport bathroom...

To be honest, I've taken my share of gleeful pleasure in the oh-so-public fall from grace of one of the self-righteous "family values" crowd, but there is that niggling sense of uneasiness about it all in the back of my mind. Whatever the truth of Senator Craig's conduct, the reality is that it is the perceived need for the "hiddeness" of his behavior that created the issue in the first place. And on that level, he and I are kindred somehow. That bothers me. Because, I too, hide my truth. I too, "sneak" off to second rate hotels to have stolen weekends away so that I can be (for just a little while) my true self. Part of me justifies that as the necessity forced by a judgemental and unfair society, and part of me cringes at the fact that I don't act to change the injustice. It is true that there is unfairness here. It is also true that I am too afraid, too attached to my comforts to act affirmatively to change it.

Perhaps I shouldn't be quite so quick to laugh at the Senator.

swan

We're Not in Kansas Anymore

We've been navigating a whole series of difficult, or at least challenging, passages lately. This business of making the transition to "later life" relatedness in a polyamorous/BDSM relational dynamic is feeling as complex as just about anything I've ever tried to learn how to do. That could be (probably is) just because I tend to overthink absolutely everything, but I really do think that between the physical parts and the emotional parts and the financial parts, there is way more to balance here than there was just a few years ago. I believe that I am up to it when I'm "at my best" -- when my mind is functioning clearly, and I'm not in the grip of some hormonal lunacy, and I am not physically half dead, and I'm not making myself nuts about just paying this month's bills -- so how the hell are we ever going to retire and how are we ever going to keep on doing this until we are all in our nineties...


I am appreciative of the time and sincere concern and caring that people invested in responses to my last "identity crisis" post. I probably really do need to "embrace" the new realities of the shifted and diminished responsiveness that is a fact and result of the hysterectomy, and I need to stop or finish or complete the mourning for what has been lost and get over the last bits of my anger at that whole passage. I think I've made progress on that front. I am not nearly as desperate or as angry as I was. Not nearly as obsessively wrapped up in it all as I was a year ago. But I haven't completely forgotten that there has been a loss either, and I haven't gotten to a place of being "happy" with the change. As for the "depression" issue, I will "give" you all the acknowlegement that I tend toward the depressive side. I did a couple of different anti-depressant medications last winter/spring. There was some improvement in mood -- I was less emotionally "volatile" I think. I also felt generally crappy, and (with medical guidance) I ended that medical intervention. I did a course of "therapy" with a therapist (the whole "talk therapy" thing). He was kink friendly (Master found him), and I'm sure he was good and competent. The reality was simply that the things he was poking at were things that are simply not changeable/negotiable in my life. I am not willing or able to be more open about my lifestyle, and hence the likelihood of creating a wider "friendship" circle is nil. I am unable/unwilling to make any real changes in the power structure of my life, and so the things that cause me to be incredibly anxious are not going to go away. Continuing to make regular trips to the therapist to chat about all of that seemed like a waste of time, energy, and money. It still does. I know the limits of what I can/will change to reduce my discomfort. As for a low-GI diet, our diet is tailored to manage type II diabetes in both Master and T. We control very carefully for carbohydrates, fats, and sodium. In terms of diet, I am eating better -- with more care and awareness -- than probably 95% of the people I know. A more intensive exercise regimen is probably a good prescription. When I walked regularly, I was better. And -- I know the parameters of the childhood abuse. I know the who and the how and I know that there is no recovering the parents I wish I'd had. I have given myself permission to not deal with my mother who remains mean, nasty, hateful with me to this day. I have reconstructed the memories of the abuse. I have walked the path. I'm done.


I do continue to scrabble and claw my way into some kind of place of reasonable comfort with my SM orientation. The shift in my "capacity" from five years ago is apparent to me, continually in my awareness, a source of real anxiety for me, something that I worry about in terms of how I "measure up." I know that Roy recommends that we simply lay off the heavy stuff, and do "mental" dominantion, but it really isn't that simple. For one thing, it only takes a very few days before I'm climbing the walls, needing to be spanked. Pain is part of my sexual expression. So even as I struggle to cope with it, I still crave it physically and emotionally. Having lost the "other," I cannot fathom what losing that too would mean... As for "mental" dominantion, I know there are partners who play that way, but it really isn't a big part of our dynamic. He is a spanker, not a talker. We don't do rules and protocols and fancy games. I'm doing good to get "language" during a session, or verbal feedback afterwards (unless I ask for it, and even then it is likely to sound like, "you were fine."). This is not going to go "soft."

One of the tricky passages that we are navigating our way through is the NEED He has to spank other people. It is the way He is. The way He has always been. I knew that about Him in the very beginning. There were no secrets, and it isn't a surprise, although for awhile, it sort of stayed out of the picture because it just did. I don't know what the reasons for that were or are. It doesn't matter. It is probably too bad, as I look back at it, that things happened that way, because I came to feel secure in the absence of those "other people," and I forgot that they were really out there.

Now, we are "poly." I've written a lot about how our family works, about how we make things go, about our dynamics. Still, it is a "closed" kind of poly-ness that feels safe to me. I know who is here, and I know what to expect, and I know who will be around the dinner table and in the bedroom each night. I know, when I make a call, home who to expect to answer the phone. I know who handles which things. I like that. I'm shy. I don't like strangers, and I don't meet people easily, and mostly, I don't really trust people very easily. The "fact" of the matter is that HE is poly. I'm poly because I am here; because I fell into this relationship and poly made this work. Everything beyond the edge of that "little" comfortable (although alternative) world we've carved out scares the living crap out of me.

However, after five years, He is not willing to limit Himself to "just me" any longer. So there will be others. There is already one on the way. He's been careful to manage that in ways that He felt would not threaten me. Love for me has driven Him to constrain His drives in ways that He probably would not choose to otherwise. Intellectually, I understand His need and desire. Emotioanlly, I have a very difficult time not feeling as if I've been judged and found wanting. I find it very hard not to get into "if only" mode -- "if only I'd play harder, cry less, respond better, like it more..." He tells me that none of that is true, and I believe Him, but I FEEL the other response anyway.

So, I understand that I am afraid, and we are moving ahead anyway. He will spank other people. He will be happier, and I will become less afraid with time. We will put up metaphorical signs out in front of the place that direct the "BUTTS" to form one line, wait quietly, deposit their trash in the appropriate containers, and not park on the street (it's against the rules of the condo complex). I'll get over my squickiness about who's blood and whatever is on which toys. I'll stop wondering (I hope) about who is better at it than me. We'll get through this and I hope I'll grow some. That's the next part of the path.

Part of me (the little, whiny, coniving, passive-aggressive, bitchy part) wants to use all of that to negotiate. I find myself thinking, "Yeah, that's all great forYou, but what do I get out of it? You get to go out and sample the spanking wonders of the world, and I'm going to be right here 'owned' just like always, waiting patiently for You to be done with whoever. There won't be any need or drive for You to explore further with me, and even less chance that we will ever find the keys that set me free to 'enjoy' and fly again." Morningstar wrote this great piece recently in response to a question about what helps her to handle pain. She could have been in my head for a good part of what she wrote, but this section was like a recipe for a dream session:

Things that help me get past the BAD pain.. despite the time of day.. or my
mind set.. is when Sir spends a goodly amount of time connecting to my body with
touches.. it helps me relax and feel there is something out there more than just
a flogger or cane causing pain......... See when Sir touches me.. rubs against
me.. or caresses me.. i feel Him and know i am not alone.. that we are doing
this together.. for the pleasure of both..........Another thing that really
helps me get over the top .. and this is just me..... is if Sir pushes my legs
far apart and fucks me from behind.. giving me orgasms upon orgasms in between
the floggings....... my mind starts to associate the pain with sexual
pleasure... or the orgasms release the much needed endorphins to get me over the
top......

Sigh. I've watched people play like that -- Dominant alternating between giving pain and giving pleasure... until the submissive partner is literally panting, swaying, flying, floating -- until it is all a blend of sensation. It is like a marvelous dance or a dream. It takes time and focus and patience and I can't imagine anyone ever having that much time for me. Or that much patience. For me, and for us, there is that much faster, much more driving sort of session that rarely even acknowledges that I might have "sexual" parts. Afterwards, then, there is the call to fucking, but even then, I'm often playing catch up. I wish I was the sort of masochist that converted pain directly to erotic pleasure. That would make it all simpler. I very rarely achieve that level of "wonderfulness."

Anyway, we are onto a new phase. He told me last night that it was time to stop writing about poly and start really doing it. So. There will be new people in "our" life. They will bring Him great joy I hope. I'm going to focus on not being "crazy" or acting "crazy." Then, with practice, maybe this will all get easy. Easy would be an improvement. Dorothy, after the cyclone had deposited her in Oz, told her dog, Toto, that she was pretty sure that they weren't in Kansas anymore. I imagine I haven't been in "Kansas" for a very long time. I suppose it is time to pick up my stuff and wander off down the yellow brick road and see what is out there. There are people to meet and places to see. Wish me luck. I'll be watching out for the flying monkeys.

swan

Identity Crisis

I sometimes (maybe most of the time) envy those who can say with certainty and assurance, "I am ____________________." Fill in the blank with the words that we toss around so casually: submissive, slave, masochist, horny, sexy...

I have the worst time these days filling in the blank at the end of that simple declarative sentence, and not being afraid that I will be challenged to prove it (and possibly be unable to make good on the claim).

I know, intellectually, that I am just supposed to (by now) have made my peace with the outcomes of the medical realities, and figured out how to go on. Most days, I determine to not look at the "losses and limitations," and focus on what I have. Because, after all, I am loved and I am healthy. I don't have nasty periods anymore and I don't have to deal with PMS. I am not in pain, and I am not at risk from the consequences of out of control anemia. Plenty of people can't say the same. So, continuing to mourn seems -- whiny and self-absorbed, and needlessly negative. It surely doesn't accomplish anything. So, I try really hard to deal with things the way I learned when I was ten years old: if you never let yourself "want" anything, then you can't be disappointed if you don't get it, or can't have it.

He sometimes asks if I am "turned on." I can hear the hopefulness in His voice, and I hate it that I disappoint Him with my answer, but the truth is that my body doesn't seem to DO that anymore. I don't know if it would under some sort of "just right" stimulus. I doubt that I'm ever going to find out. I seldom even fantasize in any particularly erotic ways anymore. I used to have a vivid fantasy life, but it is as if the fantasy "library" has taken all the stories off the shelves and packed them away somewhere. I can't seem to find a single one most of the time.

Which is too bad, because I still have a fair number of nights when I am AWAKE for big chunks of time at 2 or 3 AM. -- just lying there staring into the darkness completely unable to go back to sleep. There was a time when I'd have simply grabbed a vibrator and enjoyed the opportunity to blast off into orbit, but more often than not, these days, the vibrator and I can still be at it at 5:00 when the alarm goes off for me to get up and head off to school -- having achieved absolutely nothing but frustration.

And it isn't as if the desire for sexual release and gratification is gone. It isn't. Just the ability to actually achieve it. But, there's no going back. So.

It would, maybe, be easier to deal with losing that part of my sexual identity, if it weren't for the absolute fact that I've gotten wimpier and wimpier in the masochism category as well. With very rare exceptions, I struggle and gut it out through every single session -- even the ones where we are doing something that I initially thought I might have wanted (and He really doesn't like that "gutting it out" thing). I panic in the earliest moments. I get angry. I feel cheated. I feel lost. I feel unsupported. I feel like it really doesn't matter what I do because it won't change the course or trajectory of all of this. I'm less and less rewarding for Him to play with, and He plays with me less and less. I surely can't blame Him for that. I'm not the eager, happy masochist He brought to Himself five years ago, so we don't play like we used to -- or at least that is the way it is left between us. We have no circle of friends to play with, and if we did, I'd be terrified at the comparisons. We'll be going to play in public in a couple of weeks. I can't imagine how I'll ever get through it.

He keeps telling me that I could CHOOSE to be happy -- that He believes that I am somehow "determined" to be unahappy and depressed. He periodically mutters that I'm clearly depressed, and that we won't be treating that since treating it depressed me, but it is still the truth. What can I say? Mostly, I just sit quietly. If I don't say much, maybe I won't sound depressed or depressing, because I can't stand the thought of more medication and more sessions with the shrink. I know that if I am just strong enough, I can stay out of the pit of darkness that makes it necessary for me to do all that other stuff.

Slave? Submissive? I try to stay in that mode. To serve. Cook. Take out the trash. Deal with His laundry and ironing. Carve out the time to clean the bathrooms and the kitchen and run a vacuum cleaner and dust rag once in awhile. Try and keep Him supplied with the cold beverages that He likes, with His coffee made in the morning, with the oatmeal cookies He loves. Manage the C-Pap and the prescriptions and get the bills paid. Rub Him and scratch Him and be where He needs me to be. I hope its good enough.