What's in a Name?

I haven't always been "swan." Actually my swan moniker came about in response to a moment of lighthearted teasing that happened between Master, T, and I many years ago.

I don't remember the exact details anymore. It is probably sufficient that I'd been doing something around the house that required a degree of brute force and muscling. I'm a tall one, and capable of being fairly physically strong. I might have been moving furniture, or lifting something up onto a shelf, or repairing something around the house... Whatever it was, Master, upon hearing about my exploits, exclaimed, "That's my big, strong, German girl!"

Given that descriptor, I quipped that maybe I'd just change my name to "Ahhhnold."

T and I giggled at the joke, and at Master's obvious chagrin at the prospect. He thought for just a moment and then restated the situation:

"You are nothing like Arnold Schwarzenneger. You are my tall, beautiful swan." And so it is that I've remained "swan" ever since.

I was remembering my Ahhhnold incarnation yesterday as I worked to prepare the house for having the carpets cleaned today.

My condo has some issues related to a fire that occured in the building just a few weeks after we moved in here years ago. The condo that belongs to Master and T was close enough to the unit where the fire occured that they sustained significant smoke damage. Insurance paid to have their place completely cleaned -- ducts, carpets, upholstery, clothing -- the whole business. On the other hand, the adjustors insisted that there was no need for any of that in my place (one unit further from the fire, although in the same building). Over the years, it has become clear that that assessment was simply wrong. There is black soot at the edge of all my carpeting and a nasty, sooty black discharge from every heat vent. Finally, after battling the problem for over five years, we decided that there was no option but to have the ducts and carpets cleaned professionally. Today is the day. Which means that yesterday was spent moving EVERYTHING out of here to the garage so that the carpet cleaners can have a clear shot at the project. EVERYTHING! Chairs, benches, tables, exercise gear, electronics, the entertainment center -- it is all stacked in the garage, filling the space entirely. There is practically nothing left inside the house.

Clearly, the Ahhhnold side of me is still there, waiting to be called forth when the need arises. That isn't a bad thing after all.

swan

Taking a Chance on Hospitality

We live quiet lives, out of the view of people who might not understand our life. Inside our home, the three of us go about our day-to-day routines without much fanfare or fuss.



In the last few weeks, though, we've been gifted with a fair number of visitors to our home who are, like us, living alternative lives in one fashion or another. In each case, the original contact has been through and because of online connections, either here or through other cyber venues.



It interests me that, although many of us have been connecting on-line for years, the process of actually converting on-line contact to real-life, face-to-face relating is still something that we and others approach very carefully. Our offers of hospitality, have been met with openness, but also caution. We've brought people into our home with the promise of a meal and some social time- - simple hospitality without any burden of expectation beyond that. Really, dinner here is just that: people gathered around the big table to partake of good food, good conversation, and companionship.



When we tell people that we are interested in building friendships with others with whom we can be who we are without pretense, we really do mean just that. We tend to let guests set the pace for any discussion or exploration of the "kinky" side of things. We can happily sit and discuss politics, and family life, and work, and all the things that vanilla folks talk about -- for hours and hours and hours (as most of our guests have discovered).


What I think I'm coming to understand is that this coming together face-to-face is a voyage into unknown territory, and it feels risky -- to everyone concerned.

I'm not thinking about the safety risks, although those are definitely a factor. Talking to strangers is potentially a dangerous pastime. I think that when we choose to take online "acquaitanceships" and make them into real life connections, we take chances that are far more personal. We expose our lives and the intimate core of our lives. That can put us on the line emotionally.

I know that we work hard ahead of meeting new people. We worry and fuss and plan and do our best to "set the table" for a good first encounter. We go through these initial meetings working hard to balance. It isn't easy to know what is the "proper" way to move ahead with a potential new friend who is, like us, living an alternative lifestyle. We know, that when people have read out blog, they almost always know more about us than we know about them. We usually get through the evening, and then spend our time trying to figure out if it went well. We wonder if our guest felt comfortable and welcome. We wonder if we "passed the test" of expectations.

All of that wondering is interesting. It is an opportunity for us to consider and evaluate and appreciate what we are and what we offer as friends. Whatever the expectations that people bring into relating with us; whatever assumptions and expectations we might have for relating with others, what we find, over and over, is that it is good to be with other people, to share some hospitality and good conversation, to be in the company of people who can know us and accept us without judgement.

swan

And Now We Continue with Whichever Sport is Happening at this Time of Year

OK.
Enough of all that SEX stuff. Back to the way life really is.
I don't know how other people tell what time of year it is, but around here, there are really only two seasons: Baseball Season and Football Season. There is also one short interval each year which, appropriately, is known as "March Madness," during which the forecast would be for extended periods of basketball...

Yesterday was a baseball day. We had free tickets to a Cincinnati Reds game. The seats were wonderful -- luxurious due to a certain business perk that Master was given, and so we sat in air conditioned comfort, ate and drank to our hearts' content, and watched (be still my heart) our Reds beat the daylights out of the San Diego Padres.

I know that many of our readers are not obsessively oriented to sports. I also am aware that many of those who read here are from other parts of the world, where perhaps, our American pastimes are not as well known or understood. So, for those of you who find the whole baseball/football frenzy a little puzzling, here's a funny bit done by George Carlin (who I hope is having a grand time wherever it is that he may be)...

swan

Hands Up!

kaya gave me the idea for this one, and she's way better than me at fisting herself, and at taking pictures of the deed. I am just a total klutz with the digital camera, and not being able to see what you are pointing the thing at is even tougher. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, there are pictures of my "parts" at the end of all of this. You have been warned. There's plenty of time to turn back now, or maybe you would prefer the scenery here...

Still.

There's been no fisting in my life for probably three years. That is entirely my fault. I've been entirely, utterly, unreasonably terrified at the whole prospect since my surgery -- imagining the bit of what is left of my "girly parts" as disconnected, unsupported, drastically shortened, and vulnerable to some sort of catastrophic breakthrough at the top end. So, everytime we've approached this (and I used to absolutely love fisting) I've panicked, and He's stopped rather than take a chance on traumatizing me.

There was a time when I was pretty adventurous, but I've grown steadily more timid and more withdrawn sexually in the last years. I want to reverse that trend, and I understand that the responsibility for doing that is on my shoulders.

This little trick really works for me from the standpoint of helping to allay my fears about the potential disastrous consequences of fisting. My hand and my fingers are right there exploring the unknown of my revamped plumbing. I am learning the geography of things, so the unknown won't perhaps loom so menacingly in my imagination.

I wasn't entirely successful this time. Along with the challenges of the fisting itself, there are all the issues of the contortions required -- my aging muscles and joints aren't all that excited about imitating a pretzel these days. No wild, rolicking orgasms either, and I do remember that used to be part of the deal. Perhaps it is a little like tickling yourself? Or maybe it is just that I didn't really get the whole fist in. Still, it is a start. My grandmother would have said, "Nothing ventured, nothing gained." So, I'm off and "venturing." Grandma would be proud (maybe).

At any rate, I'm thinking that kaya's got a great idea here. Maybe we ought to form a "hands up" club.

swan

Submission

I've had several conversations in the last month (or maybe a little more) that have pivoted on the notion of submission and what it might be or not be. The recurring theme has been that submission as a personality attribute leaves a person prone to acting in ways that make others happy while leaving her unhappy, resentful, and unfulfilled. This is the common perception of how submission works, but it is entirely contrary to my experience. The vast majority of submissives that I know are people of integrity, determination, and strength who find their joy in living out this essential part of who they really are.

Submissives, if they are healthy, are not doormats to be trampled upon by everyone in the world. They are people who are inherently aware of who they are and to whom they belong. The submissives that I know best submit inside their relationships, and make it clear what their boundaries are elsewhere. I don't know any "voiceless" submissives. They have intellects and ideas, and they find ways to express that within their dynamics. Further, that expression is generally appreciated, and often even required by those who hold their power within relationship.

The whole set of discussions has had me thinking about the Hans Christian Andersen fairy tale, The Princess and the Pea. It is a story that we all know, but I think there are parts to it that speak to the nature of submission. Here's one version of the story:

There was once a prince, and he wanted a princess, but then she must be a real Princess. He travelled right around the world to find one, but there was always something wrong. There were plenty of princesses, but whether they were real princesses he had great difficulty in discovering; there was always something which was not quite right about them. So at last he had come home again, and he was very sad because he wanted a real princess so badly.
One evening there was a terrible storm; it thundered and lightninged and the rain poured down in torrents; indeed it was a fearful night.
In the middle of the storm somebody knocked at the town gate, and the old King himself went to open it.
It was a princess who stood outside, but she was in a terrible state from the rain and the storm. The water streamed out of her hair and her clothes; it ran in at the top of her shoes and out at the heel, but she said that she was a real princess.
'Well we shall soon see if that is true,' thought the old Queen, but she said nothing. She went into the bedroom, took all the bed clothes off and laid a pea on the bedstead: then she took twenty mattresses and piled them on top of the pea, and then twenty feather beds on top of the mattresses. This was where the princess was to sleep that night. In the morning they asked her how she slept.
'Oh terribly bad!' said the princess. 'I have hardly closed my eyes the whole night! Heaven knows what was in the bed. I seemed to be lying upon some hard thing, and my whole body is black and blue this morning. It is terrible!'
They saw at once that she must be a real princess when she had felt the pea through twenty mattresses and twenty feather beds. Nobody but a real princess could have such a delicate skin.
So the prince took her to be his wife, for now he was sure that he had found a real princess, and the pea was put into the Museum, where it may still be seen if no one has stolen it.
Now this is a true story.

If you are of the opinion that a "true" submissive gets taken advantage of, never gets what she wants, and makes others happy at her own expense, then you are likely to not see the parallel between the Princess in the fairy tale and submission. Still, I'll insist that there are distinct features to this well-known story that point to the traits of a self-aware sort of submission.

To begin with, this is no faint-hearted, timid soul. She arrives in the middle of a terrific storm -- the quintessential dark and stormy night. All alone, soaked, and disheveled, she comes looking for a place to finally rest and find safety and refuge. In spite of everything that she has endured in making her journey, she declares who she is -- a real princess.

We already know how really rare this particular sort of person is. Remember the prince had traveled the world looking for "a real princess," and not found a single one -- lots of wannabes, but no genuine articles. The real deal isn't a commodity to be taken lightly, but something precious and valuable to be treasured.

The real princess, spends the night in the bed prepared for her by the Queen, and it is a miserable and difficult trial. She is left sleepless and bruised by the ordeal, but she completes it precisely as it was set out. She is both tender and strong.

When asked how she slept, the princess is entirely forthcoming and honest in her response: "I slept terribly badly. It felt as if there were something hard and jagged in the bed. No matter how I turned and shifted I could not find comfort. I am left black and blue this morning." There's no effort to blame, but also no effort to hide the realities either.

In the end, the princess comes to belong to her prince. The relationship that meets the needs of both partners is created, and everyone "lives happily ever after."

Life, of course, is not a fairy tale, and there is seldom a "happily ever after," but our stories can tell us a very great deal about who we really are. I think it is way too easy to fall into common misconceptions about the nature of submssion. Doing that means that we end up denying our truths, and failing in pursuing our own deep happiness. If we elect to enact a power dynamic within our relationships that does not acknowledge and affirm our truth, our strength, our grace, our vulnerability, and our tenderness, then we doom those relationships to failure and misery.

swan

More Cane Tales

"We" broke the cane.

Yup. THE CANE. The very same cane that we hunted all over for, paid a pretty sum for, and then lost and drove 2-1/2 hours to retrieve. THAT cane.

It happened about a week and a half ago. I never really saw what happened. It was all behind me... But the tip of our wonderful cane broke off right in the middle of all the action, shortening it by about an inch.

Bad.

The only good thing about it all was that we bought the cane from Adam and Gillian's. What that means is that their really fine product was warranted for a full year. We sent an email explaining the circumstances, and received directions to send the broken cane back for a replacement. We shipped it off last Friday, and today the replacement arrived.

So, we are back in business, and really glad that we did business with such a great vendor.

swan

Walking

All of our doctors sing the same song these days:


"You have to lose weight... "


Master's cardio guy insists that he doesn't know anyone who is 70 that weighs what He does. As for me, I've put on more than just a little poundage in the last couple of years -- to the point that I can't get into my "cute" clothes anymore; to the point that all of a sudden, there is medical concern about my cholesterol numbers.

"Two miles a day -- five times a week," is the prescription of the cardiologist, and he is backed by the sleep specialist, and the internal medicine folks, and on and on.


So, we've begun to walk together again. Like we did when I first arrived; and like we were doing in the year before His knee gave out and He had to go through the replacement. It is a challenge. Neither of us are in the best of shape. Cincinnati in the summer can be devilishly hot. Time seems to be always at a premium. All of those are arrayed against us.



But we've begun the process. We try to get going early in the morning, before the heat grows too intense and before He has to leave for work. We aren't anywhere close to doing two miles yet (even though we used to do six before), but our one mile walks are getting easier and we are moving more quickly each day. I remember how this goes. We'll get better each day, and soon we'll have the two miles a day thing down.



I enjoy it, actually. When we walk, we talk. We're together. We get out and see our community; wave to neighbors; pet their dogs. It is pleasant and relaxing, and it buoys my mood. The longer-term payoffs are mostly still on the horizon -- but we're walking toward them. It is just a matter of time.



swan

Why is that?

Each day, He looks at our statistics, and gives me the "news" about how we did the day before.

Lately, it seems that in a typical week we'll have at least 2 or 3 days when our readership is down significantly from what we have become accustomed to.

"What do you think that's all about?" Sometimes implicit; sometimes explicit -- that's the question that He seems to want me to answer somehow.

I don't know exactly. I have lots of theories:

• It is summertime. People have lots of other things to do besides hang out and read blogs.


• Maybe we've run out of things to say that actually matter.


• There is Fetlife, and maybe a whole bunch of other on-line communities. Maybe the day of the blog has passed. Maybe people are choosing to invest their time elsewhere.


• Maybe we've just finally hit the threshold of boring-ness that has driven all but the most committed folks off for good.


• Maybe we haven't posted a butt picture in a good long while.


• Maybe I've come to a place where I filter and edit so much that the words lose their ability to provoke any sort of response.


• Maybe we haven't had a good, old-fashioned, OMG what a mess - style crisis recently.


• Maybe I've just lost the touch (or the sound) that causes people to want to spend time here.

I'm not a readership junkie. I don't have the inclinations or skills to write the sort of hot, provocative entries that drag people in and make them hungry for more. I don't write fiction, and I don't embellish facts. I laid my soul bare here so long ago that there's almost no one out there who hasn't seen it naked a thousand times already.

The truth is that most of what we write here is about our lives, and most of what goes on in our lives is pretty ordinary (if you don't count the fact that there are three of us). We work, and fix an evening meal, and eat and clean up, and watch a bit of television, and head to bed -- so we can get up and do it all again the next day.

We usually "play" on Saturday morning; if nothing interferes. It is pretty routine, and not something that generates much verbiage here because I'm betting that hardly anyone wants to hear that "paddle, strap, cane" refrain every single week. We don't go to play parties, because there's no place in our community where that is a viable reality for us. We haven't traveled to any major events in awhile because of schedules, and cost, and timing. So, we've effectively dropped completely out of the public scene. We are "poly" in the most stable sense of that word. We don't have a gazillion partners, webbed in all sorts of fantastic and complicated ways. There are three of us, basically. Sometimes, there's the hint of another partner for Himself. We've been all around all the various emotions that creates, and maybe come to some sort of level place with it. No real way of telling until one of them actually shows up.

We're probably just "old." We think we've got experience that is valuable and wisdom gained over years of living through it all, but I suspect that we value all that "wisdom and experience" way more than the majority of folks who are decades younger ever will.

There are connections that have been made along the years here. There are people who have come to feel like a part of our family in various ways. The need to reach out and create some sense of community has been met in this place. I'm content with that; glad for the ones who stop by now and again, and perhaps leave a word or two when something captures their imaginations. This is, ultimately, a journal -- not private obviously, but still largely written for in-house consumption. I think it is pretty amazing that anyone reads here at all.

So, I really don't have an answer to the "what's happening to our statistics?" question. I'd explain it if I could. But, since I never knew what caused the readership to grow, I have no idea what might be causing it to decline. And, if I did know, I really wonder what having that information would change in terms of how this story gets told... If it really was about the regular posting of "butt" pictures, would I then calculate that it was important to put my ass on display in the interest of driving the numbers up? Hard to imagine; especially since I hardly ever get any comments on "butt" pictures. What's to say? Or maybe it really is that I need to have a full on emotional melt-down and screaming hissy fit every now and then. Sigh. Even I find that tiresome. But those are things that are, at least on the face of it, doable. Those things are things that are within reach. If it really is true that the numbers have dropped off because it is summertime, or because Fetlife has drained people's energies and forced them to make a change in focus, there's not a thing to be done about that. It is what it is.

swan

Life just Laughs at our Expectations

It isn't just me.

I know this.

People get into relationships all the time when they are still in the grip of expectations and hopes that are simply unrealistic for the long term.

The dictionary defines the condition like this:

star·ry-eyed [adj. ] -- Having a naively enthusiastic, overoptimistic, or romantic view; unrealistic

There is value to the "starry-eyed" part of life. It imbues us with wonder and hope and great energy. All of those things are useful for getting through the difficult and complicated beginning days of forming intimate relationship with another human being. Let's face it, most of us are raised and socialized to be independent individuals. It is sort of our "natural" way to want the things we want in exactly the way that we want them. One of my favorite authors, Kathleen Norris, writing in her book "Cloister Walk," tells of a monk (Benedictine monastics live in lifelong community with their fellows. It is intimate relationship building multiplied) who described the issue this way:

"There are people here who can meditate all day and others who can't sit still for five minutes; monks who are scholars and others who are semi-literate; chatterboxes and those who emulate Calvin Coolidge with regard to speech. But our biggest problem is that each man here had a mother who fried potatoes in a different way."


It is a question of expectations. We all have them. Many of them are completely unrecognized by us as we go about our day to day lives. We expect the toothpaste tube to be squeezed in a particular fashion, and the way the socks get mated makes a difference to us, and the sort of sheets that we put on the bed are part of who we are. What we are called, and what we eat, and where we keep the tissue boxes are all part of our expectation set.


Those of us who find our way, along whatever path, to BDSM arrive there with all kinds of expectations. Some of them may be entirely reasonable, and others may be just plain crazy, but it matters not at all, because there they are. And, depending on what sort of process we follow to actually begin to actualize our BDSM lifestyle hopes, we may or may not delineate and spell out various of our expectations. Even when we make a conscious effort to do that however, it is next to impossible to ferret them all out. They persist in hiding in all the twisty, kinky corners of our psyches. More difficult still, because practicing BDSM most often comes out of a deeply rooted personal orientation, each unfulfilled expectation has the potential for feeling like a rejection.

Add to that the large, looming, inescapable factor which is life and living, and you have a perfect recipe for unmet expectations stew, served up with a hearty helping of dashed hopes on the side.


We are kind of there. And I know (because I read all over the place) that we are not the only ones. There are plenty of others out there who are struggling with how to cope with feelings of disappointment and deprivation because of the day-to-day impediments that life imposes on their fantasies and dreams.

Around here, it shifts back and forth between us. Somedays it is me, keeping track of how long ago it was that we played, or how many hours are spent on baseball compared to the time available for exploring what might be fun for us. Other times, it is Him, imagining younger butts to spank, and wishing for some newbie that He could bring along through that first exciting part of exploring BDSM inklings. Add to those divergent perspectives, the realities of needing to work, and needing to accommodate our assorted health challenges, and the demands of families and the wider community, and we find ourselves eating that "stew" way more often than is healthy for us.


I don't honestly know how to fix the problem of longing for things that simply cannot be brought into being in a real-life, practical, day-to-day, getting older ready or not, relationship. Intellectually, I understand that some expectations might never have been reasonable from the start, and others have become out of reach as time has passed. The reasonable, rational part of me knows and understands that my life today is not just better than the one I left behind to come here; it is good and happy and full in its own right. But it really just isn't what I was expecting. Go figure.


There's a story that we tell often in the developmental disability community (it serves as a metaphor for the experience of many parents when they learn that their new infant has a developmental disability). It is the story of a woman who had dreamed all her life of traveling to Paris. She had fantasized about all the wonderful things that she would do and see in Paris: about the food, and the magnificent view of the Eiffel Tower, and the wonderful art, and the pure joy of immersing herself in the culture of the place. Finally, after many, many years of wishing and planning, she was able to travel to Paris for the trip of a lifetime. She got on the plane and settled in for the trip, and all seemed well -- until the plane landed and she disembarked only to find herself in Holland. HOLLAND?!?!?!? How can that be? I was supposed to go to Paris. I have no interest in visiting Holland... But, there she is in Holland. Over time, she comes to find that Holland has chocolates, and windmills, and charming people, and flowers. Holland is a lovely land full of interesting experiences. It isn't Paris, but it is very, very good.


So, I don't know the answer to the question that kaya asked at the end of this entry on her blog: "then what?" I haven't got nearly enough wisdom to figure out what comes next. I am beginning to believe that it really doesn't matter that I don't have the answers. I suspect life is going to continue to carry me and us along. If we really aren't going to land up in Paris, then I'd best get busy figuring out what is fun to do here in wherever-the-hell we are. Since the foundational reality is that this IS my life, and I AM happy with it, it would seem that the questions and disappointments become really an exercise in keeping myself stirred up. I don't figure knowing all of that will cause me to quit doing it. Maybe it is a bit of emotional masochism. Still, I do think that trying to consciously focus on the good stuff is probably healthy. I know that some people quite intentionally look for what is good and joyful and positive in their lives and express that reality formally with gratitude. Perhaps, that sort of exercise might be appropriate for this time and this place.

swan

Dinner at our house

The ornament of a house is the friends who frequent it.

~Ralph Waldo Emerson~

We live mostly quietly, and largely, within our own walls and lives. We go about our daily work, as people who are "in disguise." The disguises enable us to continue to live reasonably well from a financial and economic standpoint, but there are definitely costs in emotional and social terms. We participate in the public scene very sporadically, and almost never here in our own community. Partly, that is about being "careful," but to a much larger degree it is about the feeling that there is a mismatch between us and our needs, wants, and visions about "community," and the present reality of the local scene.



So, we've worked at finding ways to connect on a more personal, more organic level with people who might be interested in creating relatedness with us outside the "in-group" social milieu of our local BDSM community. We've had some interesting success on that front. Over the last couple of months, we've entertained people here in our home who feel like congenial matches on the scale of potential friendships. We've sat around our big table and shared some pretty good food, some decent wine, and lots of interesting and intriguing conversation. And that feels really good.




It isn't easy. Meeting people is a tricky proposition. First, there's the issue of finding folks who are interested in meeting and then spending time with us. We think we're fun and interesting, but a want ad that touts the advantages of friendship with an aging kinky triad probably wouldn't garner a whole lot of positive response. And, we're sort of picky. We are inclined to prefer people who are fairly bright, people who are interesting, people who can hold up their end of a conversation. We haven't got anything against the idea of getting together with people who might want to play if things worked out like that, but if that's all there is to recommend a new acquaintance, it probably isn't going to end up being a match.




Even when we find people who seem like likely prospects, we have to work our way gingerly through the mine-field of initial contact. It is almost always a question of what we might mean by "friendship." In a world where the question, "would you like to be my friend?" is more often than not accompanied by penis pictures, it is easy to understand why people would be hesitant to link up with some plaintive sounding stranger from the Internet. And ours is a complicated situation -- by the time we run through the list of descriptors (committed, heterosexual, fMf, 24/7, BDSM, poly, triad, intentional family) eyes can start to glaze over. No surprise there.




But, we've managed to hook up with some brave souls. And thoroughly enjoyed our time with them.




It causes me to contemplate ideas like friendship, community, and social association in the lifestyle. We've been around the public part of the scene for a long time. Our first real-time meeting was at a major leather event. We enjoy playing and socializing in public. Still, we've seldom (if ever) formed any sort of significant relationship at an event. Too, we've seen more than one public lifestyle group devolve into in-fighting, power struggles, and backstabbing. Over and over, we've shaken our heads at the seeming incongruity of people who live a marginalized lifestyle excluding, belittling, and exploiting others like themselves over sometimes unbelievably fine shades of difference.



I think that the reality is that groups are not necessarily good vehicles for creating personal networks of support and friendship. Groups survive and thrive, or falter and fail depending on a number of factors. However a social group evolves, it must, ultimately formulate a shared vision and direction if it is going to grow and move forward. As the "vision" of the group is defined, it is a given that there will come to be an "in-group," and by definition, a set of individuals that are "out." How the "in's" choose to deal with the "out's" goes a very long way to determining the way the group manifests in the world.




Friendships, on the other hand, are personal relationships. They are each unique. Formed by and between the individuals, a friendship is woven out of a multiplicity of threads that bind people to one another. You can nurture a friendship but you can't define it with a list of rules and requirements. Friendships are not "organized" by their very nature. Friendships don't lend themselves to hierarchies or business models. Friendships are much more akin to gardens, where the soil is prepared, the seeds planted, care lavished, and rewards gathered in as the seasons dictate.



I don't know about the BDSM community. Perhaps it really does exist, but maybe not. Maybe it is a unicorn that we've all talked about and imagined, but never actually seen. Perhaps the best we can hope for is the occasional successful BDSM organization to do the work of convening gatherings, advocating our political agendas, and providing leadership, education, and training. That's a tall order. Maybe it ought to be enough, and we should refrain from demanding that our organizations also provide the context within which we, as individuals, are spared the hard work of creating lasting and fruitful friendships.




swan

Murphy's Law

Sometimes you cannot win for losing. There are days when the whole universe comes after you and there is just nothing at all to be done about it.

We've had a stretch of not quite 24 hours that feels kind of that way. Keep in mind as you read this pitiful tale, that it is property tax time. We owe a bundle to the local county. It is a monetary headache that occurs once every 6 months. But we figured we had everything covered once His paycheck made it to the bank at midnight Tuesday. Of course, figuring you've got it under any sort of control is just asking to be smacked up alongside the head.

It all started Monday night when, upon leaving His evening meeting, Master climbed into His car to head home, only to discover that the blower for the air conditioning system would not blow. At all. He fiddled with all the buttons, dials, and combinations of settings -- to no avail. This is a monster inconvenience, but not a huge crisis, because our just barely one year old KIA Rio's have great warranties. So, we made plans to get up early and take it to the dealership to get the problem fixed. So far, so good.

Then, just after dinner, T and I were discussing what we could defrost for dinner Tuesday. We all decided that barbecued chicken would be good, so she went off to pull some chicken breasts out of her freezer. It wasn't long before she was back to report that her refrigerator was NOT refrigerating -- that everything in the freezer was completely thawed. Clearly, this was a situtation that had been working its way up to a crisis for awhile. My refrigerator "croaked" about 15 months ago, and we'd had them both serviced at that time, but hers was undeniably dead last night. That set off the dreaded scramble to retrieve the receipts for the previous repair/service work on the refrigerators, and a quick Internet search to determine what it would cost us to replace the darned thing. Hint: it isn't going to happen! We found the number for the refrigerator repair guy and called him -- set an appointment for 1:00 Tuesday afternoon. A mere $600.oo later, we once again had two working refrigerators and life seemed better.

Deciding that we seemed to be in a "cooling equipment phase," Himself decided to call the company that services our home heating and air conditioning units, and get them out to do a maintenance check. Phone call made, and guess what? The service contract expired on Sunday. Sunday for pete's sake! Renewing said contracts will cost us $195.oo for each condo. Sigh.

Have I mentioned that I studied demolitions and explosives, once a very long time ago in ROTC classes? I can feel it all coming back to me -- clear as day!

swan

Mule-headed Dolt

I've been stupid and stubborn. If ever there was a BAD slave, I'm it.

I'm still not sure I've got the thinking pattern sorted out, but let me see if I can capture most of it so that I can maybe start straightening this mess out.

I (that is really the problem here -- almost all my thinking starts with "I") have real trouble achieving orgasm. That shouldn't be a news flash to anyone who reads here. It just never really came back after the hysterectomy, and while an orgasm comes at me out of the blue now and then, it isn't anything that I can count on or predict. If I manage one orgasm from sexual intercourse in a month, that's good. It's been two and one half years. I know that I should be "over it" by now. I know that this is a life change that I should have adjusted to in the last 24+ months, but it still hurts me and I still grieve the loss.

I can achieve orgasm through masturbation. Using a vibrator, all by myself, usually late at night, I can sometimes get there. It is a lonely business, and not all that satisfying. I want what I lost. I want it enough that somedays, contemplating the years that lie ahead, I wonder why I should have lived through all of this...considering.

Every now and then, He approaches me with the notion of finding something that "is good for me." Except He hasn't got any idea what that might be or how to get there. He wants me to tell Him what to do. He really cares, and His intentions are good. It is just that I feel like the Garmin GPS system of sex: "in 3-1/2 minutes, move left then rub more intensely." That business gets me into a place where I want to just put my hands on my hips and say, "why bother?" If I have to do all of that, it is easier, in some ways to just do it myself.

The only problem with that is that I resent it. I really want Him to be able to fix this, and I feel like He should just take the time and invest the energy to figure out what works. It isn't that I'm unwilling to be interactive and participatory about it; I'd surely provide feedback and input. I just feel like I work to attend to what He wants and needs. Why is it OK that I've gotten to this point, and life has just gone on?

So, then the resentment fuels a move on my part to pull away; to begin a passive aggressive interior (mental) bargaining that really boils down to, "when I get what I want, I'll take care of what you want." That's not the way a slave behaves; not the way a slave thinks; not the way a slave reacts.

Because He really needs me to be attentive and proactive in terms of my service to Him. Right now, He is struggling with His own sexual performance issues. There are surely ways that I could probably facilitate His sexual pleasure, and I find myself lying there, stiff and silent beside Him, thinking, "welcome to my world." So wrong. So mean spirited. So self-centered. What am I thinking?

When I lay it all out like that, when I can see the distance that I've come from where I ought to be, I'm ashamed. I need to do better. I need to re-align my thinking, my emotional response, my behavior. Now.

Maybe, if I got back in line with what I say I am supposed to be doing and how I'm supposed to be living, maybe life would improve. For Him and for me too.

swan

Words, words, and more words

I spent some time over the weekend capturing the writings from The Swan's Heart along with those here at The Heron Clan, and storing them all in a word file. We do worry that Blogger could suddenly do something evil, and all those years of blogging could be lost. So... a bit of work, and everything is archived on my personal computer. I haven't done anything at all to edit any of it, or cull out the bits that may not be especially "valuable," but as it stands, it comes to 1055 pages -- 427,360 words. Goodness! That doesn't include the comments. It is strictly the words produced by us.

There is so much there. Many, many, many words -- a good portion of what's there, I've forgotten. When I go back and look at some of it, I feel as if I am reading thoughts and feelings recorded by someone else. Perhaps that isn't that far off. I've changed. We all have.

I think there was a more open voice in some of the earlier entries. I've come to edit and filter much more than I once did. I protect myself more now. I am less trusting, less willing to expose myself, or any of us, to outside judgements. I miss that open, free-wheeling sound. But, it feels like there's a lot more to consider now when I put words together. I wonder about who is reading. I wonder about how He will feel about what I write. I'm sure I frequently sound too negative or too whiney or too angry or too unhappy. I wonder if whatever I have to say will make the statistics go up or down. I worry that I'll hurt feelings or make people angry. I am afraid that I'll be misunderstood. I'm afraid that I might scare or intimidate some unknown, unseen someone.

By the time I navigate all of that, the words sometimes won't come at all. What does come often feels cramped and lifeless. Often, I suspect I am too careful to spill out words that have any real impact anymore. So, this place has changed. It has changed me. Much as I'd like to claim that I write for me, for Him, for us (and I do try to do that) -- it simply isn't possible to keep writing publicly and not get moved by that same public.

I once compared this business of blogging to a whole lot of us, all singing in empty concert halls. If that were true, we might get some clearer words. Closer to the reality, I now believe, is that we are all performing as we simultaneously wander through one another's "shows." It is much more like a giant Busker's fair than any sort of concert-style performance. I keep right on doing my bit as the sword swallowers and jugglers and acrobats swirl around the edges. And, of course, like any fair, there are the unpredictable, uncontrollable vagaries of life and the world to contend with as well.

What becomes truly amazing, once you sort of think about it, is that any of us manage to make any sense of any of it. Ahhh well, here's to the words that bind us and cheer us and help us find our way.

swan

Ottoman

In the early days, when I was newly arrived here, quite often I'd find myself over the leather ottoman, restrained and whipped/spanked with almost everything in the toybag. The ottoman is so solid and stable that it provides a secure anchor point in a world that shrinks down to include the things that create sensations. In that world, the feel of the leather on my skin is a comfort -- a place to draw comfort and strength. The ottoman is soft, cushioned, almost like a cradle. There is nothing about the ottoman that is uncomfortable or difficult. I never have to think about something that pokes or pinches or bites. I can rely on the presence of the ottoman.

We don't use it anymore. It is in T's space. It isn't accommodating of His knees. It takes planning and intention and volition to get to where we can use the ottoman. Simpler to simply pull out the pillow, get myself over it, and hang on. Lots of reasons why the ottoman has faded from our repertoire, relegated to the background of memory. I understand, but I miss it.

swan

Birthday

Thirty-two years ago today, I was laboring to give birth to my eldest child -- my son. It was the bicentennial of the birth of the United States of America, and amidst all the celebration, my baby was making his appearance -- only a few days late.

I remember it as a very long, langorous day of periodic naps and lots of television about the tall ships in Boston Harbor. I remember my young husband fidgeting and fussing as I went about the business of childbirth. It took me all day. It was 11:09 PM when my new baby son made his appearance amidst the booming fireworks that commemorated the occasion.

Now, I know that the fireworks weren't really ABOUT that particular moment -- the arrival of one new baby on the planet, but it felt that way to me, and we celebrated every single one of his birthdays with fireworks and cakes decked in red, white, and blue. I believe he might have been seven or eight years old before he realized that the whole Independence Day thing wasn't about him.

Today, the first thing I did after I got up was call across the country to say Happy Birthday and Happy Fourth of July. The man's voice that greets me on the other end of the phone reminds me of how very many years have passed. Still, the lilt of his voice, the irrepressible sound of him reminds me of the days when he was small and curious and eager to be in the world. I remember all the funny things that came about as he grew up, mostly because he was so intent and so literal and so determined.

That serious, intent youngster is all grown up now -- a man who knows who he is and who knows his way. He is so good it takes my breath away. I love him dearly...

So, while others around the U.S. celebrate and contemplate another year in the life of our nation, today is just Rick's birthday.

swan