If at First You Don't Succeed

The new spanking bench arrived on Friday -- at the end of a very long and challenging week.  We were too exhausted to even open the box.  It sat in the middle of the living room floor.  We looked at it and went to bed. 

Saturday, we had an unexpectedly full day.  Because.  On Friday, Master sent T off to buy a brand new, tiny little, cuter than cute ... Smart Car.  Quite the piece of wheeling and dealing that resulted in that coup, and completely out of the blue...  So a good part of our day on Saturday was spent in picking up the new car, and getting acquainted with the new car, and all of the details that go with that business.  I managed to get all my weekend teacher work done, and so the day proceeded.

We did get around to unpacking that new bench.  It was mostly assembled except that the padded kneeling platform needed to be attached with 4 screws.  That bit of carpentry required the retrieval of some of Grandpa's furniture clamps from the high shelf in the garage, but it was entirely doable.  Master looked at the thing and was ambivalent about attaching that kneeling pad.  He tested it and found it uncomfortable -- not surprising since He avoids kneeling on the bionic knee...

I fussed off and on all day, wondering if there were ever going to  be time to play.  He felt surprised that I even wanted to play.  More of our awkward dance with one another...  Still, we went to bed on Saturday evening looking forward to the possibility that we might play in the morning.

When morning arrived, we got ourselves up and sized up the potential for the new bench.  He's been thinking that the bench would allow for some pretty stringent restraint, allowing Him to play with me at a much higher level.  We pulled out most of the collection of cuffs and straps and belts that might make restraint on the bench possible, and I got myself draped over the thing and worked to find a comfortable position.

No such luck!  Gravity worked to make the whole business difficult.  The weight of my legs pulled my body back up the incline, and that caused pinching along my mons and pressure on the bottom of my rib cage.  Both of those issues created significant discomfort, and the pushing against my ribs made it feel as if I couldn't breathe.  I struggled to accommodate it; trying to hold myself up off the platform in order to draw a breath, but becoming more and more frustrated and freaked out as time passed. 

We didn't get very far into the session before I was frantic and begging for some sort of help to either endure the misery or find a more comfortable position.  He tried to help me figure it out, but we finally just gave it up, hoping to figure it out another time.  He did take some pictures (don't look if you have issues with old, naked bodies).  I told Him that I really thought the thing would be more comfortable and easier to deal with if we went ahead and attached the kneeler.  He was surprised but willing to try that if I thought it would work better for me.

Then we switched off to an interesting Amish-made stool that He got from His dad's place, and which He's been fantasizing about using to "spank people" for years.  That was better than the bench, although the head down position required seemed to aggravate the chest congestion that I've been battling for the last few weeks.  Arrghhh!

As if all of that finagling wasn't frustrating enough for the two of us, T arrived to announce that the car we were hoping to use to move the last of Grandpa's furniture wouldn't start.  Time to call for roadside assistance and talk to the tow truck guy and ...  So, we put all the goodies away for another day.

It wasn't one of our best encounters.  We did learn a couple of things that will hopefully make the next time better.  We did get the kneeler pad installed.  We did get the car running again.  We did get all the last furniture bits moved.  We did watch the final game of the Olympic hockey tournament.  And tomorrow is Monday.  Another busy week coming at us.  We'll come back around to this when we can...

swan 

More than Fluff

Thursday, friends, will be a challenging day for us.
There are intense political forces at play within the board of Master's agency.  Powered by the financial concerns that have been generated by our current economic climate, there are those who with a short-term view, and perhaps an axe or two to grind, would urge decisions which will hamstring the work of His very dedicated staff. 

He, powerful as He is, has limited capacity to fend off the wolves who would ravage the organization that has been His life and work and mission for some 30 years.  Ignorance and vindictiveness might prevail, and the Executive Director must carefully navigate the turbulent waters, mindful that He is "employee" to the board. 

I have served on that self-same board for many years.  Quietly.  Unobtrusively.  Content to contribute in small and humble and barely noticed ways.  I have offered opinions.  I have advocated for our cause.  I have worked to move the whole endeavor forward by the efforts of my hands, mind, and heart.  I have not sought positions of leadership, and I have eschewed the things that might bring me to notice.

Thursday night, that will change.  Those who come to dismantle what has been built will encounter a woman in the full possession of her personal power.  I do not often choose to exercise that power -- but it still remains mine to wield.  The mild-mannered, and soft-spoken school teacher will vanish, and the strong, self-possesed, confident, and indefatigable woman will emerge. 

I am not their employee.  I am their peer.  I am more than an equal among equals.  I have time and standing to speak where those who lack my years do not.  I will speak.  I will go to battle for this agency, this vision, this mission.  I will insist.  I will be adamant.  They will hear my voice and feel my steely will.  I will face down the board president.  I will teach those who are new and young and so very sure of their rightness.  There will be an accounting.

I'll not be a fluffy bit of ornamental frippery on Thursday night.  I'll be what He needs me to be.  And so I will prove my value to my Master.  If you are one who can channel powerful and supportive energies, then be with me on Thursday evening.  I need you all.

swan

Unattractive Anonymous Reponds

Now this is really interesting. It is rare when a commenter who is so shallow as to identify herself as "Anonymous" will actually respond when challenged. I'm pretty amazed that someone who has so much of her self-worth tied up in her appearance, and who apparently feels we should hide ourselves because of our appearance, would have the temerity to decree that we are "unattractive."

Unattractive is making rude and narrow-minded coments to others about their physical anomalies. Unattractive is presuming that somehow there are body types that are good to be displayed and others that are somehow unworthy of display. Unattractive is thinking you have the capacity to judge others' appearance by something so minor as their hairstyle. (I happen to find women with cropped hair very attractive as I do women with a variety of other hairstyles).

Anonymous you are indeed very much 41. You clearly see the world from the limited perspective of your years. You may find, first of all, that over the next 15 to 20 years, your body may change in ways you will find surprising. You might find too that attractiveness for a great many mature adults is not nearly so much about appearance as it is about character, intellect, emotional authenticity and sensitivity to others, social consciousnes and ability to act with regard to it, ability to contribute to benefitting the lives of others and the community, capacity to relate intimately, sexually, and in ways that make you proud to be associated with someone you find attractive (in my case to "own" that person.)

I can only say that however much your appearance approximates the socially accepted stereotypes of beauty, your shameful comments here have portrayed the essence of unattractivenes for an adult, and if you were submissive to me I'd feel dishonored and embarassed at your behavior.

My swan has all of those attributes I mentioned in spades, and I find her hugely attractive and a source of great joy in my life. And by the way your assumption that she does not exercise or maintain a highly physically active lifestyle is mistaken.

Your need to criticize the appearance of others belies a shallowness that is indeed unattractive.

Tom

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

Unattractive?

We've had another appearance by the ubiquitous Anonymous Commenter.  As with most of these encounters, this particular participant in the life of this blog elevates the level of the conversation with this little gem --

sooooooooooooo unattractive!

I was wondering if this was a joke blog.

Let me begin by extending a hearty "thank you!" to this charming visitor to our little home in the  blogosphere.  I've been feeling a significant dearth of things to talk about here lately.  One of the stressors of writing a blog like ours for years and years is that, over time, it can feel like there is very little left to say.  Yet, the readers remain, and one comes to feel some obligation to maintain the conversation...  What to say?  So... tonight, we'll talk about the perceptions of the poor, squicked anonymous person.

I wonder how many people, like our unfriendly commenter, wonder if this blog is some kind of joke.  Really.  I'm not sure exactly what that might mean... There are joke blogs.  They have names like "FunnyJokesBlog."  A very simple Google search will provide ample "joke blog" resources.  It isn't complicated.  Check it out:

http://yasminjokes.blogspot.com/

http://funnyjokesblog.blogspot.com/

http://jokediary.com/

\http://www.blog4humor.com/

This blog, on the other hand, has its occasional moments of high humor, but in general, it is the chronicle of our lives -- surgeries, illnesses, loss, joys, triumphs, work, laughter, celebrations, and a myriad vagaries that make a family what it is.  I suppose that there are people who cruise the cyber biways looking for people to whom they can somehow feel superior, and then make the judgement that those lives are "jokes."   I'd say that is just pitiful.  Consider -- Anonymous has no identity, and no life experience to share with any of us.  There are plenty of ordinary people who choose not to share their lives in a blog format.  That is entirely reasonable, but most of those people don't go out looking for other people to belittle.  It is one thing to lead your life quietly and privately.  I can respect and understand that.  Wandering about looking for targets -- oh shame!

Oh, but...  The intended dagger in this little insignificant snip of a comment was that bit about "unattractive."  I'd bet just about anything that our Anonymous commenter is female, because that is so classically the mode of woment stuck in junior-high-girl-clique-playground-bully-mode.  Smack another woman with a negative evaluation of the physical attributes.  In our oh so constrained society, the very narrow delineations of what constitutes physical beauty can be used to count coup on an adversary.  Hence, Anonymous declares that I am sooooooooo (many o's) unattractive.  Zing!

Except that barb has no sharpness for me.  I absolutely know that I am not classically beautiful.  I have a face full of character; perhaps too strong for a woman, but filled with the signs of who I am and what I think and how I am in the world.  I'd not trade it for some air-brushed model-pretty painted face.  I am a mature woman with a body that is no longer young and perky like a 20 year old.  I've got curves and saggy places.  I bear the marks of the pregnancies I carried, and I have my share of scars and blemishes.  They are the marks of a life lived fully.  Very few real women arrive at the age that I've achieved without a mark or two.  Judge that my physical presence is unattractive, and I'll challenge you to look with eyes that have not been taught to look at beauty the way the marketing industry teaches us to see it.  I wonder if that sort of perception is within the realm of someone like anonymous...  Probably not. 

Maybe, the unattractive comment was not aimed so much at my lovely nakedness as at the whole idea of the life I lead.  Perhaps, anonymous is repulsed by the very nature of my BDSM lifestyle and polyamorous love.  There are, to be sure, many, many people who do not understand or embrace the sort of alternative lifestyle choices that I make.  I know that, and accept that.  I even respect that, and I value those who have different life paths that have shared the journey with me.  I believe that we have learned from each other and benefited from our odd and wondrous friendships.  Of course, people like Anonymous don't "get" that friendship thing.  Friendship is about relationship, and that requires a willingness to be available and vulnerable to others.  It means that we risk being known and seen with all our glories and all our flaws -- trusting in the care and compassion and understanding of our friends.  I'd imagine that anonymous doesn't know anything about all of that.  It is all surface for the likes of that one.  So sad.

So... I'll go on writing the jokes and the truths of my life.  Presumably, anonymous won't be back.  Why would they come to visit here?  Or perhaps there is something that draws them here after all.  Could it be that a life honestly lived, fully embraced, openly described is attractive after all?

swan

A Quirt is not a Flogger

As I've mulled Tuesday's session over in my mind -- because I can never seem to just go with things without thinking them half to death -- it occurs to me that I referenced that portion of His play with me that involved His collection of quirts with just a simple, almost throwaway line.  It all made perfect sense to me, but for those who read here, perhaps it seemed odd that a session that was nominally built around floggers would transition to quirts (although floggers and quirts are both part of the larger family that are known as whips).  I have pondered whether perhaps some observant reader might not have thought for just a moment, "But, wait -- a quirt is not a flogger!"  If so, that observation is certainly true.  A quirt is not a flogger.

A quirt is, very simply, a short handled whip with a lash made of leather.  Quirts are the American equivalent of the riding whip/crop and there are many regional variations. This particular style of whip is sometimes called a riding quirt, horse quirt, or a dog quirt.  The word is thought to have come from the Mexican word, cuarta.  These prosaic whips were initially meant for use on livestock -- but then that is true of many of the whips that have found their way into the BDSM milieu. 

In my experience, the quirt bites very sharply, and tends to leave dark, almost fang-shaped welts that mirror the width and shape of the lash -- usually about half an inch wide.  It is a challenging sensation, but one that I can find intriguing and attractive.  I have to work at it, but generally, I can find my way to some sort of accomodation with the crude little whips.

That gives me an almost full repertoire of whips -- floggers, quirts, dressage whip.  That would be just about the whole whip family except for the signal whip/singletail whip.  That one I don't seem to be able to get my head wrapped around.  I guess I'll just have to acknowledge defeat and leave the field to the real pain sluts.  Sigh. 

swan

NCSF Announces Impending Changes to the DSM

For those who are interested in the broader issues that confront those of us in the kink/alternative communities, the following announcement from the National Coalition for Sexual Freedom (NCSF) points to the potential for a timely and reassuring step forward in the treatment and perception of those who participate in alternative sexual behaviors.  To have the professional psychiatric community acknowledge that one can exhibit an alternative sexual orientation without that fact constituting a mental disorder is huge.  There is much yet to do if we are to achieve equal legal standing and eventual social acceptance, but this is a good beginning...


The APA Paraphilias Subworkgroup Agrees:


Kinky is NOT a Diagnosis


In the new proposals for the DSM-V, alternative sexual behavior has been depathologized. The American Psychiatric Association's Paraphilias Subworkgroup's DSM revisions acknowledge that you can be a fetishist, transvestite, sexual sadist or sexual masochist without having a mental disorder.

NCSF has worked very hard with its DSM Revision Project to make sure these changes take place, and will continue to strongly advocate for clear language of what exactly constitutes a mental disorder. Susan Wright liaisoned with the work group and supplied data that NCSF has gathered about the real-world discrimination and persecution that takes place against BDSM-fetish practitioners because of the DSM-IV-TR. The DSM Revision Petition was also extremely useful in generating comment from community members and mental health professionals urging that the current diagnoses be changed.

To see the proposed changes, go to:

http://www.dsm5.org/ProposedRevisions/Pages/SexualandGenderIdentityDisorders.aspx

Read the "Rationale" section under each diagnosis to see their thinking on the paraphilias. The work group makes it clear that "non-normative" sexual behavior is practiced by healthy people:

"The first broad change follows from our consensus that paraphilias are not ipso facto psychiatric disorders. We are proposing that the DSM-V make a distinction between paraphilias and paraphilic disorders. A paraphilia by itself would not automatically justify or require psychiatric intervention. A paraphilic disorder is a paraphilia that causes distress or impairment to the individual or harm to others. One would ascertain a paraphilia (according to the nature of the urges, fantasies, or behaviors) but diagnose a paraphilic disorder (on the basis of distress and impairment). In this conception, having a paraphilia would be a necessary but not a sufficient condition for having a paraphilic disorder."

"These revisions will affect everything-child custody, job discrimination battles, and even help change the way society views us," says Leigha Fleming, Chairperson and Director of Incident Response. "I think of all the people over the years who have had the DSM used as a tool of discrimination and punishment, and I'm proud of NCSF for continuing the fight to change it. This is the first step towards decriminalization of BDSM, which NCSF is pursuing with our Consent Counts project."


The Paraphilias Subworkgroup is now reconsidering what constitutes "clinically significant distress or impairment in social, occupational, or other important areas of functioning" when determining a mental disorder. The DSM must make it clear that people do suffer distress and impairment because of the societal stigma against alternative sex, but that doesn't mean they are suffering distress that is generated internally.


As part of the development process, the preliminary draft revisions to the current diagnostic criteria for psychiatric diagnoses are now available for public review and comment until April. Personal comments about discrimination and persecution are welcome additions to this commentary to continue to urge the work group to differentiate between sexual minorities and sex offenders.


Just as Norway recently joined Sweden and Denmark in removing consensual paraphilias entirely, NCSF continues to urge the complete removal of these paraphilias from the DSM. However like the incremental removal of homosexuality (to egodystonic homosexuality and then finally taken out in 1987) this is an important step for the BDSM-leather-fetish community.

NCSF needs your support to continue important projects like the DSM Revision Project that directly impact peoples' lives. Please join NCSF to show solidarity! We do so much for very little money, and we need your help.


Please donate to NCSF now!

The National Coalition for Sexual Freedom is committed to creating a political, legal, and social environment in the United States that advances the equal rights of consenting adults who practice forms of alternative sexual and relationship expression. NCSF advances the rights and advocates for consenting adults in the SM-Leather-Fetish, swing, and polyamory communities. We pursue our vision through direct services, education, advocacy, and outreach in conjunction with our partner organizations to directly benefit these communities.



Office: (410) 539-4824
Media: (917) 848-6544
media@ncsfreedom.org
www.ncsfreedom.org
www.twitter.com/ncsf
http://ncsf.wordpress.com

Snow Day Flogging -- It Happened

It was a long, long day of waiting and trying not to fuss, and by late this afternoon I was ready to declare that there was no Santa Claus. 

He had lots to do today... lots of serious work-related business to tend to.  I took off in the middle of the day to go run some errands and gather more odds and ends out of Grandpa's apartment.  I got home, and we had some lunch and He headed to the bank -- more serious business to take care of. 

I'd gotten pretty convinced that the promised flogging just wasn't going to happen, and then it was 4:30 PM and He was there asking if I still wanted to get flogged -- or did I want to take a nap instead?  Are You kidding me?  Sir?  I was feeling sleepy, but the whole reason I was so sleepy was that I stayed up all night thinking about getting flogged.  So.  No.  Thanks.  No nap for me.  Sir.

So, I cleared off all the accumulated junk that seems to pile up on the top of the flogging frame when it is in its coffee table disguise.  Honestly, that 4' x 8" surface just seems to attract junk of all sorts.  We worked together and got it all set up -- noting along the way that He is now officially cleared of all post-surgical restrictions (like lifting heavy stuff) as of yesterday. 

It was amazing!  Amazing!  He started with my beloved floggers, and spent some really nice time with the buffalo floggers, landing heavily on my ass and my back -- knocking the wind out of me with every crashing blow.  He worked me over with a whole range of quirts.  Somewhere in the middle there was time spent with the kangaroo-hide cat and the dressage whip.  I know there was a paddle toward the end, but I'm not sure which one.  He finished up with a pretty intense caning. 

I got sort of loopy toward the end, finding that if I opened my eyes, the room seemed to spin slowly but crazily. I remember telling Him that I was afraid I was going to fall. That made Him laugh.



And then -- a few awful moments of disbelief as He went to get the signal whip, and did not find it in its usual place...  I was not feeling very coherent, but was in a near panic trying to think where I might have stuck that darned whip.  Finally, He spotted it where it had apparently fallen off the hook and slid behind the door where we usually hang it.  I was relieved but also shaken.  When the third or fourth whip strike landed square across the small of my back I lost it and came completely apart...  That ended it for us for the day.

He took some pictures at the end, and although I look very post-session sad-eyed, it was really very good for me... that face seems to be the common "after a beating" look for me these days.

swan

 

Snow Day and a Flogging

School has been called off for tomorrow due to the unprecedented amount of snow we've received here in the last day...

Master has promised me a flogging in the morning.  And so, while He sleeps soundly in our bed, I am wide awake in the middle of the night -- like a child awaiting the arrival of Santa Claus!

A flogging!

It is a bit of SM play that has fallen away in over the months and years.  As He has struggled with increasingly painful arthritis in His shoulders, it has become more and more difficult for Him to swing His beautiful, sensual, heavy floggers.  So we've moved more and more to play with paddles, straps and canes. 

He promises the floggers tomorrow, with a bit of derision in His voice -- telling me that He'll flog me, and it won't hurt at all.  I know that isn't the truth, but I understand that He experiences it that way...  Because I can fall into the pain that the flogger creates.  I can sail off into the heady fragrance of leather in the air, and I can sink deeply into the sensation created by the luxurious texture of leather on my skin, and I can revel in the pure beauty of the craftsmanship that went into making these amazing toys -- and all of that makes the pain somehow more accessible for me.  So, He doesn't see them as toys that hurt in the way that He so enjoys. 

I imagine that we won't only flog tomorrow.  I am sure there will be paddles and perhaps straps and canes as well.  He's said as much, and that is fine.  It won't be all paddles.  There will be pleasure mingled with the pain.  The floggers will be like the maple syrup on top of otherwise plain pancakes; like luscious blackberry jam on dry toast.  Sweet...

I haven't anticipated a session like this in I cannot remember when.  I am so excited and so grateful.  I can barely hold still, and sleep eludes me.  Usually, I curse the coming of the dawn, but tonight I am breathless waiting for the morning...

swan

Asking or Not Asking

Here's another thought stream gleaned from the archives of these blogs over the last five years...

...I am ... longing for gentle touches, yearning for the sorts of foreplay that might inflame me ahead of the pain ...I did beg Him to hold onto me...I ...went to Him…and asked, "do you think you might have time to spank me sometime this afternoon?"...Exactly what I needed...I need to be taken through that place...I only clung to Him in straining hunger...Leather is my delight...I thought that I wanted to try the whip again…Maybe if I could get a bedtime spanking sometimes...I started begging Him to wait...f a REAL session that steps through levels and stages to some culminating point seems terribly exciting...flogging is like a present...I've found myself wanting it more, needing it more, asking for more...If I promise to be good, would You spank me, please?...

It intrigues me to see the longings and desires laid out in a string like this.  One of the things that I learned very early in all of this was that it was a better thing to ask for spanking interactions than to manipulate or brat in order to create that event -- simpler, more honest, and healthier for us both.  Once I was able to be clear about the need I have for spanking, it really wasn't that challenging for me to find the place that was comfortable about asking...

But.  Then.  I ran into a whole host of mental hurdles grounded not in what I want and need, but in the essential nature of our power exchange dynamic.  Lately, I've stopped asking, because asking doesn't get me what I think I want.  Asking for what I can envision in my mind; for what I might fantasize about doesn't result in the fulfillment of any of that.  Whatever I might ask for becomes fodder for Him, and what He makes of my fantasies isn't even close. 

That's frustrating, but it also teaches a very simple lesson -- that within the context of this power-based relationship, there is no "I want."  He is not a service top, and He won't be pushed into that mode by my imaginings.  If I were true to my path, that would be just expected, and it wouldn't cause me any sort of distress.  If...

As it turns out, I am finding I have to work at accepting all of that.  It isn't pretty or anything that remotely resembles "graceful."  It makes me feel sad and mournful for the things that I imagine might have been... if things were otherwise.  Then, I try to imagine what I'd lose if that "otherwise" were to occur, and the thought just destroys me.  And so, I am caught swinging crazily back and forth between loving what I have and mourning what I cannot have.  He watches all of that and judges it to be just craziness -- and so we go...  He's both dissatisfied and baffled by my responses.  I am frustrated and angry more than I ought to be.  There just doesn't seem to be any way out of the mess.  It really amazes me that the two of us, bright and aware, and so much in love, can so miss the mark when it comes to communicating about such an elemental part of our lives.

swan

Another (Better) Valentine's Day

One year ago, we took some pictures of Master and T on Valentine's day.  They were glowing and wonderful, and so clearly in love -- but they were also, clearly, two people who had lost the battle with obesity...

Then, on March 23, 2009, they both had bariatric surgery for weight loss.  Master had rouen y gastric bypass, and T had sleeve gastrectomy.  They each recovered -- T quickly and easily, and Master with great difficulty and terrible pain.  We learned our way along the path to a brand new relationship with food and eating and exercise and a whole host of new body-image issues and understandings.  We went through an enormous pile of discarded, too-big clothes.  Master joked that He was renting clothes from Goodwill as we purchased and then donated back bags and bags and more bags of garments. 

As we moved through the year, Master lost 142 pounds and T lost 80 pounds.  They are, today, both much lighter and much healthier.

And so, we come around the year to another Valentine's day, 2010.  So, we got out the camera and took some more pictures -- and here they are.  My lighter, but and even more beautiful Valentines...  swan

There is no "I" in Slavery

I...I...I...I ...I...I ... I...I... I ...I ...I ...I ...I ...I ...I...I ...I ...I ...I ... I ...I ...I ...I ... I ...I ...I ...I ... I ...I ...I ...I ...I ...I ...I ...I ...I ...I ...I ...I ...I ...I ...I ... I ...I ...I...I... I...I ...I ...I ...I ...I ... I ...I ...I ...I... I ...I...I ...I ...I ...I ... I ...I ... I... I...I ...I ...I ...I … I ...I ....I ... I

How's that for a bit of fancy editorial distillation?  Take all of that stuff that came off these blogs over the last five years, and eliminate all the extraneous words until all there is left is that bounty of the personal pronoun.

So the very first, and perhaps most telling insight from the blog archives is simply that -- there is an awful lot of self-absorbed focus on "the slave."

If any of what has been written has validity; if there is any truth in this volume of words; if there is something here that is of value going forward,  then that has to change.  That should have changed long ago.  It is time, now, to eliminate "I" from this place. 

swan

Spanking Evolution?

I've been wandering the trails in my mind; uneasy with my erratic and unpredictable masochistic drives and desires.  I am caught, and not for the first time, in trying to understand and corral my longings and find some way to simultaneously suffer and enjoy. 

I know that for some that is all pretty straightforward and obvious and relatively easy.  But it often baffles me.

One night, a week or so ago, lying awake in the darkness, I wondered if there might be some insight about it all buried somewhere in the over five years of words poured out here.  So, for the last few days, I've mined these blogs for the threads that I've woven together here.  Seriously cut and pasted back together, here is the stream of consciousness that I'm hoping might help me to understand more about my spanking orientation --

I've been struggling with the masochistic side of our relationship … It is where I live… a huge component of my slavery… is predicated on the sadomasochistic power exchange between us… there is only the searing agony and the fear and the humbling knowledge that I will hurt and beg and most often break... I am feeling sad, longing for gentle touches, yearning for the sorts of foreplay that might inflame me ahead of the pain I know is my lot... I am, perhaps a terrible coward…We'd already been playing at what we call "pussy-whacking" …He kept it sexy, scratching me and stroking me with the tip of a knife blade … I began to relax into the framework of the stocks… cold and clammy and shivering, but still there and still in control of my fears, able to hang on and be with Him, and submit to His will… I hate choices in the middle of sessions. My mind whirls in a thousand directions and I can't make it settle down to the decision point… Ingrained behaviors serve. In my mind, I began the mantra which carries me through the worst of these times -- "Yours always and all ways…I so often enter into the beginnings of a spanking in fear and dread…He declared that He thought I needed to be spanked and fucked. My heart leapt in me. It has been a long time that He has made that definite sound…I did beg Him to hold onto me, which He did, wrapping a strong arm around my waist to hold me down and immobilize me for the blows which he rained down on my ass and upper thighs…He counts. I don't. I breathe and stay…went to Him…and asked, "do you think you might have time to spank me sometime this afternoon?" in my tiniest, littlest, least demanding voice…the thing that keeps me here or turns me lose to go into subspace, is his intent. If he lets me go, then I’m gone. If he holds me with his mind, then no amount of struggling on my part will get me there. Tighter than any bonds that he might impose on my body, he holds my mind and my soul…when it is going to land on my ass, I take the production of substandard crap personally…When He knew I was alright and just awash in my feelings, He went after me with intent and intensity…paddles and the cane and the leather strap -- welts and blisters and blood drawn and groans and grunts and sweat and cries and sobs. I begged and thanked Him and writhed under His hand…our play is extreme and hurts…I bleed, I blister, I bruise, I welt, I cry and rage and sometimes break... When we play the way He likes to play, the way He fantasizes about playing, it marks me physically and emotionally… latigo flogger… is the heaviest and meanest flogger in the arsenal… I felt only the heaviness and the depth of the thud. And then, I felt myself slide over the cliff into subspace... the "rules" of football here...Master paddles for points scored. Any and all points scored. By anybody…Penalties for breaking position, for breaking the rules, for not taking it well... We begin again. We double the count. We always up the ante…I don't earn spankings. That isn't a game we play. I am spanked, and caned, and strapped, and whipped … because I am His and He wishes it. Sometimes it gives me pleasure as well. Always, it is my pleasure to know that He loves to do it, even as I struggle and suffer… Hand spanking might be too thuddy. Cause too much jarring. Maybe hurt something inside…But the cane. Light and whippy. No thud at all. All sting. Oh. And the rubber whip. Even lighter. Plenty of sensation. Not a single jarring impact. Exactly. Exactly what I needed. Even a few marks. And tears of relief and release and connection and earth-bound reality again. And pure, simple, animal gratitude…He was there with intent and demand, pushing the covers away and pushing my legs apart…He was stepping up the pace and slapping harder and harder as I moaned and yelped with each impact, struggling to stay open to the onslaught. And then He'd back off and stroke and soothe and murmer into my panting awareness…So sure of Himself. So sure of me. So completely sure of us…Anytime I am dropped into a position of helplessness, powerlessness, and perceived "aloneness," I experience a reaction which goes very quickly to black rage… I still react in a very visceral way at the edge where control is surrendered. It is a difficult passage for me... I need to be taken through that place…Hand spanking doesn't usually last… He returned with cuffs and straps to bind me into place under His power and for His desire…One hundred strokes with each …I love you, Sir. I love you, Sir. I love you, Sir… until there was not agony, but pleasant warmth and connectedness again…The week of prescribed paddlings ended, explosively. All the paddlings delivered as promised. When the time came for the last one, I was bitter, resentful, enraged, hurt. My anger boiled over and I exploded. Broke all the rules. Raged and stormed and flailed… I am not a good actress I am afraid. I can, and do (at least try) to endure whatever He seeks to do with me, but it isn't the same. I know it and so does He…This morning, out of nowhere, He stunned me, by beginning to PLAY with me. Not hurting me -- playing with me sexually… I only clung to Him in straining hunger…Spanking and fucking. Nothing fancy. No costumes or role plays. Just simple and elemental and primal…Leather is my delight. There is something about the pain that leather brings that is deeply delicious and …What some would see as "punishment," I am experiencing as reassurance… He told me it was time for my whipping. YIKES! I'd given that up. I'd assumed it wasn't going to happen. I'd quit thinking about it. Now, here it was. Right in front of me. I felt my stomach drop, and suddenly, I needed to try and get to the place where I could do this… the whip is a frightening adversary…I was still a bit fascinated with the whip, so I told Him that I thought that I wanted to try the whip again…Maybe if I could get a bedtime spanking sometimes… 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… I quit thinking, settled into my body, and just let Him take me where He was planning for us to go…I'm not sure when I started begging Him to wait -- "Wait! Wait! Please, Wait!" I heard Him chuckling -- "What is it we are waiting for?" He asked me… "Did you miss the train?" …I need to be tightly restrained, gagged, and taken where I would not go voluntarily … into blood and welts and deep bruises…Completely drained, spent, gone… I was dreaming that You were teasing, and creating this most delightful heat with Your cane...the notion of a REAL session that steps through levels and stages to some culminating point seems terribly exciting… have been times (relatively few) when He has undertaken to seriously punish me for some infraction or out and out bit of bad behavior… purely awful…there is something powerful in the flow of energy when He paddles and straps and canes me that bangs through all my defenses and makes me know Him entirely…insisting that I am His and will be His and will, therefore, of course, be spanked…For me, flogging is like a present…We've been spanking more, and more regularly, and I've been … even enjoying a bit. I've found myself wanting it more, needing it more, asking for more. Master has been right there, welcoming and jubilant…I am wondering what it is that I really need and want…I just know that everyone else in the entire spanking universe is way better at it on every level than I am…He likes that place where I suffer… clearly having a good time watching me squirm and gasp…I seem more inclined to think about spanking and more likely to be thinking about it in odd ways…the idea of OTK speaks of intimacy and closeness and long, sensual, hand spankings…One day, I soar on the sensations He creates, and the very next day, those same sensations make me just miserable…Somehow, it never ever occured to me that being over His knee would be so physically intense, so immediate, so utterly intimate. Up close; melted into Him; feeling the blows He was raining down on my butt, intertwined with His caresses…If I promise to be good, would You spank me, please?...

I think there are nuggets of insight there.  For me.  Maybe for us.  Having it here, maybe I can find some way to make sense of it for myself...

swan

Spanking Bench

He's ordered a new spanking bench.  He's been lusting after this particular piece of bondage furniture for a very long time, and finally, there are dollars to spend...

It is being constructed to His specifications, and will be shipped whenever it is ready.  I don't know when that will happen.

He is all excited, and was all over getting my input about what sort of stain to choose, and what color leather.  I am ambivalent about the whole thing, and my general take is that it really isn't going to matter to me what it looks like.  I doubt very much that my interactions with it will involve much in the way of appreciating the aesthetics of its construction or finish.  It will get here and I'll have to figure out how to make my peace with it. 

I've never been particularly easy with restraints.  Sometimes I find it is comforting for the simple reason that I don't have to worry about staying in position.  Still, I struggle with the vulnerability it creates.  I remember that my very early experiences with being restrained with Master, were pretty scary.  I've gottten some better over the years, but it still scares me.  That is just the fact.  It doesn't change anything.  It is. 

swan

Snow!

We live in "Cincinnucky."  Our town sits right on the north side of the Ohio River, and our metropolitan area encompasses parts of three states.  While we live on the Ohio side, our regional airport is located on the other side of the river -- in Kentucky.  This is a city that feels like it belongs in the south, and while we aren't deeply into the south, our weather is generally pretty mild. 

Snow in Cincy is a rare thing, and significant snow accumulation is practically unheard of.  The whole place goes nuts at the mere mention of the possibility of "white death."  People swarm the grocery stores, buying up bread and milk and hunkering down as if the world might be about to end.  An inch or two on the ground is enough to cause all the schools to close and all the various government entities to declare snow emergencies.  The local news media all feed the frenzy, and the entire metropolitan area gets just a wee bit nutty. 

So...  you can imagine the chaos that ensues when these snow-phobic types are blasted with a seriously under-estimated winter storm that drops not the predicted 2-3 inches, but something on the order of 8-12 inches.  The whole town was shut down yesterday as the storm raged.  Today, much of the place remains closed, but there were a few brave souls out and about as the city worked to dig out. 

Our condo complex looks like an Alpine ski village with giant piles of plowed up snow everywhere.  I got home from school this afternoon, and took a little tour around just to snap some pictures.  Take a look...

swan

Things that Make Him Happy

Living as we do, in a city that flirts with being more southern than northern, it is unusual for us to get much in the way of winter weather.  Each year, as we trudge through the gray days and months, Master gets grumpier and grumpier.  He fusses at T and I about how there is never any snow, and winter is over, and it is just awful, terrible, horrible.  I always get a little bumfuzzled over these rants, because I have a lot of skills and talents, but I have never claimed to be able to make it snow -- especially when it is otherwise fairly warm and mild in this particular region.  It isn't very slave like (I know), but somedays I just want to look at Him and shake Him and scream, "and just what the fuck do you expect me to do about it, Sir?!"  Not to worry, friends, I have a better sense of self preservation than to actually go there...

Anyway, we have gotten a pretty good winter storm through our town, and we woke up on Saturday morning to a "Christmas-card" world all frosted in white.  It makes Him happy!  We crawled out of bed, had some breakfast, pulled on our warmies and went out to shovel walks and driveways and tromp around in the snow.  It was really kind of fun...  Here are some snowy pictures from our patio. 

swan

Birthday Spanking

Friday was my 55th birthday.  Master and T sent flowers to school which then caused my kiddos to sing -- very sweet.  I got presents and we went out for dinner early in the evening as a major storm was blowing into town.  It had been a busy day, and a very long week, and we were all tired, so we came home and bundled in for the night -- safe and warm in the midst of the snow and wind.

No birthday spanking on the day.  We talked about it just briefly, but we're old enough that sometimes there just isn't energy in the moment. 

But Master is a birthday spanking traditionalist, and in the years that I've been with Him, I've come to subscribe at some level to His belief in the importance of the annual birthday spanking.  While different cultures around the world observe the anniversary of a child's birth in a variety of ways, here in the U.S., the most common traditions entail birthday cake, candles, gifts, the singing of our commonly shared "Happy Birthday" song, and oftentimes -- a spanking.  Some children receive birthday "spankings", which were originally based on superstition, but are now more of a birthday prank or a joke. Hundreds of years ago, spankings were given for each year of the birthday child's life. Beyond that number, a child received another spanking to grow on, one to live on, one to eat on, one to be happy on, and yet another spanking to get married on. At one time, it was considered back luck if the birthday celebrant was not spanked because it was believed to "soften up the body for the tomb."

It is that belief that the spanking is necessary to ensure good luck in the coming year that is at the center of celebrating birthdays with Himself.  A birthday spanking assures good luck, and the more intense the spanking, the more luck one might expect -- so the business of counting years is just not IT.  Stopping at just 55 would not provide sufficient spanking to generate much in the way of luck after all.  I've bought into all of that to the degree that last year, when no birthday spanking occured (in the midst of traveling to Winter Wickedness and preparing for the impending challenge of dual bariatric surgeries), I noticed and sort of whined about it here. 

Yup.  Last year I had no birthday spanking, and wow -- did we have a run of miserable luck or what?!?!?!

Well.  He made sure that will not be an issue this year.  I had my birthday spanking yesterday, and it was plenty intense enough, thank you very much.  I'd actually been wanting it; looking forward to it; anticipating it.  I was happy when, after I'd graded papers for what seemed like hours and hours, He set up to take me OTK and spank me.  Although I struggled with panic at the very beginning, I did get settled in fairly quickly, and somewhere in the morning, I floated off into subspace where the sensations come at me from some different level...  In the end, He has me over the end of the couch, and continued with more hand spanking and more paddles and then... the evil switchy thing that I just hate.  HATE.  It hurts.  Miserably.  More than that it makes me furious.  Sigh.  Oh well.  He likes it so there it is.  Suffice it to say, I better have some damn good luck this coming year. 

For those of you who come here for this sort of thing, here are the obligatory butt pictures, and one of me still mired in misery and absolute fury: 

swan

Something Is Changing

It has been four years since my hysterectomy.  In December of 2005, my uterus, cervix, and ovaries were surgically removed.  I experienced an almost total cessation of my ability to be sexually responsive in the aftermath of that surgery.  I pursued fairly aggressive medical interventions to try and overcome the impacts of the surgery, and I fell into an intense depression when those efforts brought no improvement.  In the intervening years, I've passed through seasons of fear, hope, anger, despair, and resignation.

I've been lucky to avoid the vagional dryness and thinning of the membranes that many menopausal women experience.  We've continued to make love regularly through all these months, and while I don't often achieve orgasm, intercourse is not generally difficult or painful.  He and I have enjoyed the closeness it brings us, even as we've experienced disappointment with my lack of response.

Lately though, things seem to be changing.

It is as if something in me has awakened again -- or regenerated.  My desires, which have never disappeared, seem stronger.  Sometimes, in the last few weeks, making love with Him, I've been able to follow the rhythms along a dim, faint trail, and find hidden there -- my own release.

It always surprises me, and leaves me breathless and wondering.

I find myself lying awake in the night, grinning like a silly fool -- and hoping that whatever magic spell has been cast over me in these days holds.

It has often been said that "youth is wasted on the young."  Probably that is true.  I never knew, in those flush, lush days of my womanhood, that there would be years when I'd thirst for just a hint of the lustiness I knew once.  Now, wiser, I am inclined to treasure the precious glories of my own sex.  I don't scale the heights of pleasure very often or very reliably these days, but when I do get there, oh -- it is an amazing thing.

swan

And Now to the Stupid Ones...

Reported in the New Jersey Star/Ledger:

On January 27, six members of the Sigma Gamma Rho sorority at Rutgers University were arrested and charged with hazing after one girl was hospitalized from repeated paddling. The young pledge said she was told the beatings would "humble" her, that each flesh-rending strike with a wooden paddle would build love and trust between sorority sisters.

It wasn’t hazing, she said they told her. The women of Sigma Gamma Rho at Rutgers University didn’t condone hazing.

For seven nights the beatings went on, she said. In all, she was struck 201 times. On the eighth day — unable to sit, her buttocks covered with blood clots and welts — she went to the hospital. Then she reported it to the university.

I'd find a place in my heart to feel sorry for this young woman, and maybe even for all these young women -- except I can't keep myself from thinking, "well, that is just stupid!"

I've never been involved in the Greek system -- never joined a sorority; never wanted to join a sorority (nevermind that where I went to college, there was no sorority).  Nope.  I was part of the vast, unwashed majority who called ourselves "barbarians" -- "barbs" for short.  So, I have no sense at all of what might motivate a person to be willing to be hurt and humiliated for the sake of belonging to what looks to me like a social club.  That is just stupid.  To be sure, I absolutely "get it" if you are a person who is into being hurt and / or humiliated because it turns you on, scratches an itch, meets a need, feeds a hunger.  That kind of masochism is familiar turf, and I know the fires that power that engine.  But this -- THIS is not that at all.  This is a young person, presumably with a functional intellect, who agrees to be beaten repeatedly by the members of a private and elite club in the hope that she'll gain admittance and so be able to move up in rank and be able to become a beater rather than a beatee.  She went back for more, and then more, and then again -- for seven nights.  That's just stupid.

Ever since I first read this story, I've been all tangled up in reactions and responses.  It isn't a BDSM story.  This isn't about BDSM.  It is a sorority hazing episode pure and simple.  But then, there is the whole lurid fantasy that revolves around sorority and fraternity paddlings -- great, big, heavy, thick paddles that are more akin to clubs than to the best of our implements that are finer, safer, and much better crafted than those crude weapons.  Those of us who play in the BDSM realm tend to practice, study, and learn from one another.  We focus on not creating harm -- we know that our joy lies in giving and receiving pain, and we know exactly how to do that.  WE.  Together.  Consensually.  With knowledge and judgement and full consent.

The women of Sigma Gamma Rho were swimming in the deep waters of power-based relating, and we know that territory well.  The difference?  He had a choice.  I had a choice.  There never was a single moment of coercion in establishing the uneven power dynamic within which we live.  Coercion negates consent.  Hazing is not a practice that allows for consent.  It is abusive. It is assault.  It is just stupid.

Of course, stupid sorortity women are not the only example of this sort of thing among humans.  We seem to have a remarkable propensity for doing foolish and incomprehensible things --

What about the parents of the now imfamous "balloon boy?"
How about that stunningly self-absorbed pair that crashed the White House state dinner?
Or the Octo-mom?
John and Kate?

When it comes to stupid, it's hard to beat Governor Arnold Schwartzenegger stumping for "English Only" laws -- in his sometimes nearly unintelligibly accented English...
Or some poor fool who decides that he's got a bone to pick with the whole world, and so tries to explode his underwear on a plane high over the city of Detroit...

And, when it comes to stupid, sometimes a picture is worth way more than a thousand words:






Funny thing about it -- once I started to hear that "well, that's just stupid," refrain in my mind, I seemed to find stupid things going on everywhere.  I'm starting to feel like taking a page from comedian, Bill Engvall's book -- "here's your sign."

swan

Sleazy and Stupid

Our world seems engulfed in quiet (well, sometimes quiet) chaos, and a low-hanging, pervasive sadness -- all tinged with exhaustion.  That is not likely to change anytime soon.  We are mourning; each of us coping with our sense of loss, and working our way along the path of grieving in our own ways.  We are working to support one another, share the burdens, manage the work according to our various skills and talents.  So... we are pretty boring just now.  I believe that we'll come through this part of the journey in time, and when we've healed and recovered, life will begin to brighten up and sparkle again. 

Until then -- perhaps our readers will forgive us if this space looks toward more abstract and theoretical topics, at least part of the time.

I've been peripherally aware of a variety of recent news items that revolve around public behaviors that seem, frankly, sleazy and / or stupid. 

I'll get to the "stupid" part of this, but let me first address the things that I find "sleazy."

Webster's dictionary defines the word "sleazy" this way:  "marked by low character or quality."  Perhaps it is a mark of my age, and I'm sure it goes to my upbringing, but I honestly find it shocking that seemingly normal, decent, socially prominent people routinely behave as if there were no customs or shared boundaries -- no taboos in our society.  Sometimes I wonder when it happened that we decided that there was no particular requirement for civilized and polite public behavior.

I am not a prude.  In my intimate life, I enjoy my sexuality, and His.  I love the ways we connect intimately, and I hope to be able to engage in those activities, and celebrate the connections we make for a long, long time.  Too, I've played in very intense ways in very public, scene-specific venues -- although we have never taken our lifestyle choices out into the "vanilla" public space.  We tend to hold to the notion that other people should generally be given the right to "consent" to participation in our kinks.  No consent means they don't have to play.  Period.  That's a foundational tenent of our BDSM practice.  And remember that society considers us "perverts."  If perverts like us can figure out the socially acceptable boundaries, then what excuse do some of these news hogs have?  Check it out...

Here's actress, Bethenny Frankel, on what I assume is a book signing tour.  I don't follow the reality TV craze, but apparently she's part of the cast for something called "Real Housewives of New York."  When He and I first saw this mentioned on the news, He was all perked up over the overt display of ass.  For my part, I observed that it seemed that her ass was more attractive than her face.  Whatever one thinks about that, surely most would figure this is a sleazy moment.  I much prefered a world where people were at least a bit coy about what they did or did not wear under their clothes.  In those "good old days," we universally wondered what a Scotsman might have on under his kilt? 

Then there is the whole sordid panoply of political folks of all persuasions that cannot seem to figure out what it might mean to behave with decorum or live lives marked by personal integrity and character.  We are therefore treated to the shameful antics of Jon Edwards and Mark Sandoval.  It isn't that I believe that monogamy is so essential to the living of a decent and moral life, but honestly -- if you espouse that as an ideal and a value for yourself and all the rest of us, then what on earth makes you believe that all of us should forgive you when you don't practice what you so vociferously preach?  Of course, those two are not alone in their pecadillos -- Bill Clinton. Newt Gingrich. Eliot Spitzer. John McCain. Rudy Guiliani.

Tiger might be a great golfer.  Maybe, he is even the greatest golfer ever, but he is right there with all the other sleaze-bags in public life.  The only salient difference, from my perspective, is that Tiger never has preached about the "rightness" of his proposed lifestyle choice. 

However, sexual infidelity, and ethical inconsistency is not the only form of sleazy behavior that runs rampant in today's society.  There's the kind of weird and entirely nasty sleaziness that is the stock in trade of media phenom, Rush Limbaugh.  Anything that Limbaugh hates is, by definition, wrong.  It isn't about some sort of "old time religion."  Rush teaches us that to be pissed off is to be morally superior.  Under the guidelines of ordinary, often religiously-based morality, we might consider the circumstances and burdens with which those who break the rules live. The poor, illiterate, and desperate, are pernhaps more sympathetic than ruthless lawbreakers would be. But since Rush never stops being angry, he never stops being right.  Like Sarah Palin, he lurks in the shadow of the human psyche, wallowing in anger, resentment, jealousy, and vindictiveness.  And, that is, in my view, sleazy no less than if the man were parading down main street with his dick hanging out.   

I'm not suggesting that we crack down on behaviors that some might define as lewd or crass or shabby.  I'd rather see greater freedom than less.  Still, I dearly wish we'd come to a place of personal and collective maturity that would compell us to determine that some behaviors, sexual and otherwise, are inappropriate for the public square.

And then there's stupid...  but I've gone on for a bit.  So, I'll save the "stupid" ones for another post.

swan