What's Inside

Traveler, in a comment on the previous post asked:

what benefit, what release, what resolve, comes by this for you? how have you, assuming you have, made peace with such seemingly difficult desires?

I have probably written all over the place about how this works for me; how it feels and what it means... Here, and at "The Swan's Heart," there's been a running internal monologue as I've mused about how SM and M/s works in my head and my heart and my soul and my body. If, Traveler (or anyone else for that matter), you are interested in a sampling of the historical ramblings, look here and here and here --

The short answer to the questions asked is that this is quintissentially who I am. I fight it, and I struggle with it. I fear it and I dread it, and there are times when I quite literally hate it and wish it might be otherwise, but I cannot be other. It is me. It is gift in very definitive ways. It connects me to the One that I am called to love more deeply than I can describe. When I am separated from this expression of my erotic nature, I am bereft and flat. I understand that to read of these encouters can be difficult and mystifying for those who do not feel these urges and these drives. I am aware that it can seem strange and extreme to those who do not have this kind of orientation... It is like trying to explain what "blue" is to someone without sight, or to explain a Brahms symphony to one who has never had any sense of hearing.

I get pain, and pleasure, joy and anger, fear and triumph, sadness and security, wonder and weariness. I learn and grow and doubt and know. I am forever unsure and absolutely certain. I am incredibly small and utterly expanded. I am nothing and everything. I chose once -- to have no choice again. It is a path I make in the walking.

swan

Fantasy... and Reality

It started sometime in the beginning part of last week. Or maybe it was closer to the middle of the week. I'm not really sure. a comment made in passing almost, early one morning as we were still in bed together. He told me that He'd been having huge fantasies about switching.

I felt my stomach clutch and my breath catch for just an instant, but I managed a question that served as the agreement He was seeking: "Will you hold me afterwards?"

From that point on, the impending switching was in the back of my mind as I flew through the rest of a very busy, very demanding, very exhausting week. We didn't talk about it anymore, but I knew it hadn't gone away. Each time it crossed my mind there was the dark fear mingled with just the passing bit of heat. Whippings, floggings, paddlings, canings, strappings -- there is nothing that terrifies me more than switching. There is probably nothing He loves more. I've only ever been switched once; in the spring when I visited before we were living together full time. We've come close a few times since...

Then there was Friday night. Late. He'd had more than a little Jamison's by the time we'd gone to bed, and the struggle that has been stirring between us for months finally bubbled to the surface. Spanking, paddling, caning -- did I find any of it erotic anymore? I struggled to find an answer. What's erotic? My body doesn't DO that anymore! Not like that. So is that the only way to talk about this?

"I still fantasize," I told Him.

Not good enough. He wanted specifics. "What kind of fantasies?"

"Spanking." I told Him.

Still not good enough. "Tell me how. Tell me exactly."

So, I told Him. About imagining being tightly restrained, unable to get away, unable to protect myself, and being flogged on my front -- thighs, belly, breasts, and cunt. Told Him how I imagined the whipping intensifying and my helplessness to do anything about it. I told Him that, in my fantasy, I would be turned over and then whipped and paddled on my butt, still unable to escape or avoid any of it. The whole scene, in my fantasies, ends in fantastic sex and the kind of release that I don't experience any longer...

All this spoken into His chest as I shivered and shook in fear. Fear, because I know that the fantasy, given to Him, will take me beyond my imaginings into realms that He controls; beyond pain that is for pleasure into pain that is dark. He told me to hold onto the fantasy, He would make it happen for me.

On Saturday, long weeks and months of playing at significantly restrained levels came to an end. The two fantasies, spoken aloud between us found their confluence.

We began, after a serious paddling, with an expedition out into a misty rain to hunt for switches. It took some persistence, but we eventually came upon a grove of willows and cut a number of good green switches. He even delighted in testing one out on me right there where we were cutting them on the edge of the thicket. It only took a couple of strokes to have me yelping in pain. We brought the fresh boughs home, put them in a warm bath, and I scrubbed them clean with anti-bacterial soap.

We set up the futon in the living room so that He could restrain me on my back there.

Tied tightly, wrists and ankles, it began. Not with the flogging I'd been playing in my head but with a leather paddle slapped hard to my tender breasts. It wasn't long before I was yelping and begging, crying and pleading for it to stop. Not long before He was well into the game. Paddling went shortly to flogging, and then from suede to rubber. He'd promised that there would be switches at the end. I quickly became hysterical. It was far more intense; far more severe than I'd imagined.

I am not a happy masochist, but I might be a sadist's dream. With the right push, I'll cry, I'll beg, I'll scream, I'll curse like a sailor, I'll sweat, and drool, and bleed. At some point, He let me know that the way to end the torment was to ask Him to put me into the stocks and give me a good switching. The battle was joined. I hardened my resolve, and tried to hang on. For awhile. But He always has more cards to play in that game than I do. It didn't take long before I capitulated: "Please, Sir -- put me in the stocks and switch me." Close enough.

He unfastened me from the ends of the futon, and then... flipped me over and refastened me face down over some pillows, making sure that I was securely fastened. At the last moment, He'd decided not to put me into the stocks for the switching. A small but significant mercy. I asked for a gag, and He easily agreed to my request. I could hear the blood roaring in my ears, and feel the darkeness dragging at my mind before He even started.

It is His belief that switching should be administered over a fresh paddling. I don't remember if that happened. Don't remember it, but I'm sure it must have. And then the switching started. Fire! Simple, plain, unrelenting burning. Over and over and over. No escape and no way out. Somewhere in the very early going, I hit the edge, and went over it. To pure and unadulterated fury.

I roared. I swore. I screamed. I cursed Him and threatened every kind of destruction imaginable. I'm sure that there was a "Sir" in there somewhere, because if there was any possibility that a "Sir" would have sprung me from that trap, I'd have surely used it. No dice. Thank all the mercies for that gag.

He wore out I don't know how many of those evil switches. Fewer than a million. Enough that the raging animal in my head and guts finally wore itself out. I felt the wave of darkness sweep in and engulf me finally and snuff out the tempest. When the light came back, He was there, holding me, as I knew He would be.

Perhaps that is the answer to His question -- THIS is not "erotic" in the usual sense. It is more that I need Him to guide me into the darkest reaches where I cannot safely go alone. There is no one else that I would trust to take me into that place and bring me safely through it. I know that He delights in my struggle, and simultaneously suffers in my anger directed at Him alone in those moments. For surely, if there is a "BEAST" it dwells within me and comes roaring after Him; intent on murder.

I know that in these long, weary, painful, sad months, He has held back from the hurting because He loves me. It is a difficult path when love is expressed in a dance of pain that unleashes power. We choose the path that takes us to the heights and to the depths.

There are more fantasies. Another day. There's time.

swan

Friendship

I've been in "hiding" pretty much ever since OLF. There's just been a lot going on in our lives, so it has been easy to not find the time to write -- to avoid coming here and struggling to get the words and feelings and ideas to take shape on the screen.

Something about the anxiety that I sense in what I've been reading on Taylor's site lately, as she has worried about the state of her various online relationships, has had me thinking about how so many of us characterize Friendship in this medium...

I can't speak for anyone else in this arena, and I've never been one to make or cultivate LOTS of friends. It wasn't my way as a child or an adolescent, and it isn't a pattern that I've ever managed as an adult. I just have never "gotten" the knack of attaching to a big gang of folks and then juggling all those interpersonal dynamics.

Still, one of the things that I've noticed since I began pursuing my interest in spanking and BDSM through connections online, is that people tend to connect and form intense relationships in this medium. Often, with nothing more than words on a screen, we create attachments to people in which we invest enormous amounts of personal capital. Sometimes we create friendships; sometimes we fall in love; sometimes we engage in power exchange committments -- the range of relating that occurs via this electronic connective facilitation is truly staggering. I know. I've done it myself. With a full range of degrees of success -- from joyful and fabulous partnering, to the most dreadful mismatched catfighting...

I am old enough to remember that "friendship" was once a thing that developed between two people who met face to face, and came to know and trust and care about one another over time and through shared experiences. There was a time, when if you were lucky enough to have a few good friends in your adult life, you absolutely knew that you could call upon them for just about anything, and there was nothing (NOTHING) that they wouldn't do for you. Friends, in that world, knew you for the long haul -- they knew your faults; your failings; your hopes and dreams; your kids; your parents; your siblings; your boss; and likely your hair dresser, banker, vet, and doctor... It was a world where friends often grew up together; fought each other's fights in school; stood up at one another's weddings, and carried one another's caskets.

What drives US to call people who are mostly strangers "friends?"

I believe that it is because we are largely isolated. We live isolated in a highly mobile and disconnected culture -- out of touch with our neighbors and our families. Then, those of us who are in "alternative" lifestyles" and "alternative" families are forced into even further isolation to greater or lesser degrees depending on our perceived degree of exposure and risk. We live in hiding because society finds our way of life unacceptable. So many of us cannot have friendships out in the open in the usual way. We keep some essential elements of our lives shrouded and secretive. Not always, but often. Perhaps we have some community connections. Perhaps more of less, depending on where we live, and the circumstances of our lives.

We turn to the online community to find others who are "like us," who will "understand," and "accept us." Those people, once we find them, become the FRIENDS that we so desperately miss in our daily lives -- even though they are across the continent, or across the globe. Even though they impose (tacitly or otherwise) certain constraints on their acceptance and friendship. We don't talk about it openly. Sometimes we don't even notice it, but we all know about it -- and when we step out of line or the comments dry up, or people just go away, or say something sharp or critical or pissy or nervy, we react as if we've been slapped. We notice. We can't help it.

I know that I long for "companions" on this path. When I get lonely, frightened, confused, lost... I wish there were others who could see what I am seeing, hear the voices in my head, speak to my heart with wisdom and experience and calm. I wish there were mentors and guides. That is the one thing that I have longed to find as long as I have written in the online universe. Those people are as rare as hen's teeth.

On the other hand, I sometimes wonder what on earth people are thinking, or why they choose to do or say the things they do or say. I wonder what people think or feel about their lives in the context of the wider world, or how the things they do affect them in some context or other, but I worry that asking those questions will stir up them and their "friends," and so I just keep my questions to myself. I've begun to think that sometimes the layers of friends around people keep us from actually talking to each other -- or maybe it just keeps me from talking to some people.

I don't have a lot of "friends." I don't have many real time friends, and I have even fewer online friends. I need to know someone a long time before I trust them and value them that fully. Call me prickly and stand-offish. I am skeptical of the online "friendship" business. Too often it becomes the online "fan" business.

I think your friend will tell you that you are fucking nuts. I think your friend will sit up with you all night when your world is crashing around you. I think your friend will come and find you when you have lost your way. I think your friend will disagree with you even if they know it will make you furious. I think your friend knows your past and dreams your future. I think your friend loves you and trusts you and cares you no matter what. And I think you don't have to worry that your friend will change and leave you behind.

swan

Master's Judgement

It has been a time of adjustments -- of coming to terms with what is and is not anymore. For all that I have wanted to battle and rage against the advances of age, there is simply an inevitability to the march of years that I cannot deny for all that I am in remarkably good health. I know that, as I read around the circle, that there are many who are trailing me by some years, who are not yet to the stage of life where they have confronted the menopausal passages, either naturally occuring, or suddenly and surgically imposed as I did, and who are perhaps hoping to avoid the curse by simply not looking too closely. Having passed through the valley, I cannot say that I blame them...

There is loss and loss redoubled to be encountered and, somehow, encompassed in this part of the path of living female. It has not been easy. I have whined, and fussed, and obsessed, and surely I have mourned. I think, finally, I am coming to a place of acceptance. There have been choices made, and sometimes there were no choices at all. Whatever, there is no path back. There is only forward from here with the life that is mine to live. Sorrow and sadness does not seem a viable way to go on. I am alive and well and strong. What was is no more. What is, is.

I have worried that my inability -- incapacity to "play" at the same intensity that I once did seems to have gone along with my sexual prowess. I haven't the same tolerance for pain that I once did -- not the same "thirst," and not the same responsiveness... to anything much. 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.

There is, to further complicate the situation the (seemingly) irreprable damage to the tissue of my butt. It is An Old Story. We "played" so intensely in the early days, and without any respite between the sessions -- no time to allow for recovery or healing. I remember one of those "oh so gleeful and nasty" anonymous commenters who remarked that I was probably writing a "check that my body would probably not be able to cash." I brushed it off at the time, but it has come to be true. Now, with even minor and seemingly inconsequential impact, the scarred area breaks open and GUSHES blood. It isn't that it is terribly painful. In fact, that area is far less sensitive than most of the rest of my ass, and that in itself is alarming...

Master worries that if we do not give that spot adequate rest between sessions; adequate time to heal; that we risk necrosis. So, we often go days -- sometimes a week or more between play. That touches our life together; impacts our relating. Changes how we are with one another.

Another thing that I did not do on purpose; did not choose; did not see coming -- another proof of advancing age that I cannot deny, cannot duck, cannot wish away, cannot cover with a cute little skirt or a flirty smile... The void it leaves in terms of the "need" He has can be filled. There are plenty of "stunt butts..." The rationale for the shift makes perfect sense. It is sensible and sane and reasonable. It is "safe." It denotes care and concern and love and all that is appropriate and wise.

It remains one more of those things on the path that I have followed to here that I cannot -- will not look back at. Choices made that cannot be unmade.

swan

Large Cups!

I have normal pressure glaucoma. It is an oddball variant of glaucoma in which intraoccular pressure is not elevated above the normal range (as would normally be the case with glaucoma). The diagnosis is made instead because visual examination of the back of the eye shows unusual "cupping" around the optic nerve. It is not certain. The diagnosis is only confirmed by noting changes over time, or as vision begins to measurably deteriorate -- so, in consultation with my opthamalogist, I opted to begin treating with beta blockers about two years ago. It is not difficult. I use drops in each eye twice a day.

I also see the eye doctor for regular eye exams, and each time, he checks that "cupping" at the optic nerve. My last appointment was yesterday afternoon. Master went with me.

After I'd been through all the preliminary folderol of reading eye charts, and following fingers up down and sideways, and getting drops for this that and the other thing -- and after I'd been completely dialated (hence rendered almost totally blind), we were, at last, ushered into the examining room. Intense young doctor, and equally intense male opthmalogic assistant enter and begin the exam which proceeds just fine. And I checked out without a hitch. We got to the very end, and were all chatting back and forth, and were almost done when the doctor remembered that he wanted to "draw my optic nerves." I commented that I had cute and interesting optic nerves, to which he replied without really thinking about it, "Well, you have large cups..."

Insert awkward silence here...

Master glanced across the room at me with a twinkle in His eye, and I just couldn't resist. I just had to say it: "I'm 51 years old and I think that's the first time in my life that anyone has ever said that to me -- it figures it would be my eye doctor!" The two of them sort of hemmed and hawed and shuffled nervously, and we all just let it all go, but it was priceless!

So, it is official... Large cups. Me! Go figure.

swan

More Thoughts in the Aftermath of OLF

WHAT I LEARNED AT A RECENT BDSM CONFERENCE

When you go down to the dungeon tonight
Whether you cane or quirt ‘em
Be sure you flog them Florentine
And for god sakes don’t you hurt ‘em.

When you go down to the dungeon tonight
Pick up a dozen partners
Today’s mystique's polyfuckery
Polyamory’s just for starters.

When you go down to the dungeon tonight
And in with all your toys you toddle
Know today’s new definition
S&M means "stand and model."

When you go down to the dungeon tonight
Whether you cane or quirt ‘em
Be sure to dress up really nice
And for god sakes don’t you hurt ‘em.

All the best:)

Tom

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

After OLF -- Lots of Thoughts

We went to OLF. That was a week ago.

There was so much bubbling around inside of me about the weekend when it was all over with. My reactions and feelings and thoughts and responses were so varied and so interwoven that it was hard for me to know what I actually wanted to say about any of it; hard to know where to begin; hard to sift and sort.

Then, bright and early Monday morning, I was in school for my graduate program -- a week of classes from 9AM to 3PM each day, with home work every night. This week, the topic was "geometry." Talk about mental whiplash.

Talking about OLF (or Thunder for that matter) seemed easier in other years "when things seemed simpler: when everything was new and "gee whiz;" when every workshop had something to offer that I hadn't known about before, or hadn't tried, or hadn't seen done before; when going to BDSM events meant getting naked in the dungeon and getting the snot beat out of me.

There was a time, writing about it all, when I just thought what I thought and said what I said, and didn't contemplate that any of it had any reach or any significance or any "political" or "social" impact. Nowadays, I've learned (to my chagrin) that I sit here at my keyboard and think my thoughts and people imagine that I'm taking pot shots at them -- and all hell breaks loose all over cyberspace. Mercy! It gives me pause, and slows my thinking some; complicates my processing.

But, the truth is that I've got lots of things that I want and need to say about the experience of being at OLF last weekend. I want to be able to process the experiences for myself, and I don't want to filter that through some sort of set of edits that will keep everybody "out there" happy or calm. I am finding that the weekend was deeply evocative for me on a number of very deeply personal levels that touch on my history and my orientation and my thinking. As I've contemplated that, I just know that what I think and feel about a lot of those things are rooted in who I am, and clearly don't reflect the thinking or experience of most other people. Nonetheless, I NEED to be able to express what it all looks like and feels like to me. I want my responses, and I am fully aware that there are some who may find them difficult, challenging, judgemental, or even offensive to read. I regret that. If I could find a way to talk about what is in my head and my heart without taking that risk, I'd do it.

That's the only disclaimer I'm going to make, and I will make no apologies. What is here is not aimed AT anyone. If you read further, you have the responsibility for your reactions.

First, I want to extend my sincere gratitude to those who have invested their time and energy and hearts and minds and beings into making Ohio Leather Fest happen for so many years. There is no question that it has been an event that has touched my life, and changed it forever. The simple fact is that, without OLF, our family quite possibly would have never come together; would not have met face-to-face, and none of the ensuing magic would have occured. Year after year after year the volunteers who have labored to bring Ohio Leather Fest into being have made magic things happen for me and for us -- they've connected us with wonderful vendors, put together great play spaces, brought in some interesting (and occasionally terrific) presenters, and made it possible for us to live openly in the community for precious glorious brief days. This last year, once again, they reached out to the rest of the community and provided an environment where we could all gather together and celebrate the unique gift of who we are with one another.

Another pretty simple thing to report is that there are some new toys in the arsenal. This is a tradition when we attend these kinds of events. Actually, the unusual occurence this year is that Master only purchased two items (to be honest, there just weren't that many vendors at the event). One is a three-pronged, rubber coated rattan cane from Spank N Cane, and the other is a rather unique quirt with a handle made of the same sort of material from which many dog chew toys are made. I will attest that both are wicked. He contemplated the purchase of a thing that is something of a cross between a cat and a whip, but that has been defered for now. The purveyor lives here in Cincy, so I'm imagining that it will not be far down the road that it will come to live with us...

There was a hospitality suite on Saturday evening, hosted by NLA Columbus . In a world that tends to look at us and consider us too old, too square, and just too whatever, this group never blinked. They invited us in, got us refreshments, made us welcome and comfortable, and simply visited with us like we belonged. It was the most amazing experience.

We found (and this is not an entirely new experience for us) that most of the workshops were less than stellar. There were exceptions:

• Arcane did a darn good, hands on training on "florentine flogging," where his patience with my particular clumsiness was remarkable and notable. In the end, I probably got enough of a sense of how doing it feels that, with some practice, I could likely do it. The only real question is probably one of "why?" There was a funny moment when Master gave me to him to use in showing someone, who had come late, how to move through the steps. He seemed more than a little stunned when his direction to "drop the floggers" resulted in them both immediately hitting the floor. He, of course, didn't mean that quite so literally, but I am unaccustomed to "interpreting" such statements. "Drop" means drop. It gave the whole room a chuckle.
• We also found Michelle Belanger to be a very talented, dynamic and informative, not to mention, intriguing, presenter.

On the other hand, we attended a workshop on polyamory that left us shaking our heads. To be fair, poly is a difficult topic, especially if a presenter is faced with trying to cover it in a very short time frame -- say an hour or an hour and a half. A very large challenge, in my view, is that the word "polyamory" encompasses so much territory. There are almost limitless relational variations that can be defined as "polyamory." In any given roomful of people, it is likely that you will find people of all sexual orientations, all levels of committment to each other, all sorts of living arrangements, all levels of experience, all different ages, and all sorts of expectations -- all calling themselves "polyamorous." So, trying to talk about "poly" in any sort of generic sense is a gargantuan and daunting task. On the other hand, we find that our family is quite often "glossed" over in most poly discussions. In most gatherings, we are the odd ones: the only ones that are a heterosexual, committed family grouping that actually LIVES together. Add to that the fact that we are of a certain AGE, and we tend to make most folks a little nervy. Sometimes we warrant a mention, but then folks tend to go on, and sort of hope that no one pushes it too much. A lot of our conversation in the aftermath has been about our sense that perhaps there would be something of value that we might be able to offer to the community about the business of actually living in a poly family -- if you were interested in doing it from the standpoint of living as family rather than "getting as much as you possibly can in as many different places as you can."

The other thing that was sooooooo interesting about the weekend for us was the dungeon experience. We played two nights in the dungeon -- Friday and Saturday.

On Friday, there were only about five or six stations being used when we set up to play. Honestly, I can't give much of a sense of the dungeon that night. We played together, and from my perspective, we might have been the only ones there. He restrained me to a spanking bench using our hand-made macrame restraints. The station was in the center of the room, and I had momentary, now and then, flashes of the people standing around the room, but for the most part, my focus was on Him and the sensations He was creating. I don't actually know what all He used that night, although I am quite sure that the new toys were certainly part of the percussion that He went through on my backside -- there is no way He would have missed the opportunity to try them out at the first opportunity. When He finished, I was ecstatic, and flushed with joy at the connection that seemed to surround us.

Saturday was tougher. I was stricken in the early afternoon with an intestinal beasty that had my insides in an uproar. I won't burden you with the gory details -- suffice it to say that this is not a circumstance that lends itself to feeling sturdy as one approaches a heavy session in the dungeon... Nonetheless, it was the last OLF ever. I was determined to not wimp out. So off to the dungeon we went. This time we ended up using a St. Andrew's cross in a far corner of the dungeon. T did her usual supportive bit, guarding the space and handing toys to Master. She tried really hard to take care of me -- handing Him the bunny fur paddle at every opportunity. She's so cute! I really struggled, unable to focus, unable to take energy from the room, unable to hear, just trying to hang on. I bled very quickly. I got terribly panicked. I got angry. I sobbed my despair. I just tried to hang on and remember that it was the "last ever OLF." At one point, He came to check on how I was doing, and while we talked, T packed the toys -- just that quickly. I don't know how long it lasted. It seemed to me that I was not as good this night as I was the night before -- that the session was not what I had hoped it would be. That was a judgement that was in my mind, not one that was imposed on me. Still, when some time had passed, the welts and bruises told a different story -- it is only now, tonight, that they have finally, mostly, faded.

When we were done, we took the toys back to the room, settled a bit, put a very tired T to bed, and headed back down to the dungeon to watch awhile. That is what got really interesting. Master and I must have sat around in the dungeon for another two or even three hours. Things are just different. There's an apparent ethic in dungeons these days that makes it uncool to hurt anyone -- unless you are talking about women tag-teaming men. Some of those scenes got pretty intense, but in most other cases, it seems that the style is to make sure that Tops keep bottoms comfy and happy. There is also an awful lot of very pretty bondage going on in the dungeon these days. One fellow spent the better part of an hour and a half with a lovely lady perched on top of a spanking bench while he constructed an elaborate rope harness on her. When he was done, he very pains-takingly untied her, helped her down from the bench, and they walked off -- hand in hand. OK. One sort of exotic looking lesbian wench spent a lot of time tickling her partner, who screamed the entire time. One couple chained the woman to a frame so that her wrists were in cuffs in front of her -- then he proceeded to use a very impressive (and expensive) collection of single tail whips, while she smiled placidly. You see, he never did more than tickle her. Right at the very end, when he actually did make contact and she whimpered and squirmed a bit, he quickly unchained her, took her off to the side, covered her up and sat and rocked her for about 45 minutes. Good Gravy, Grace! The longer we sat there the sadder I felt. Dungeons have always been places that were enlivening; places that felt full of energy; places where I found myself supported and upheld and strengthened. What I found, in this dungeon, was a narcissistic, party atmosphere that seems very far from the edgy realms of BDSM the way I learned to love it and embrace it.

That feels judgemental. I know it. Can't help it. The reaction is there. I know there is nothing wrong with what IS going on these days in the dungeons. It just feels tame and less elemental. And that feels sad.

swan