Words about Slavery

I was out driving somewhere recently. Perhaps I was headed to school or to the grocery; I can't remember exactly what day it was or where I was going. I imagine I was most likely listening to our local National Public Radio station, since that is my option these days now that we've lost our local Air America outlet here in the great conservative armpit of the midwest...

At any rate, I heard some commentary on the nature of slavery. I'd come into it at the very end, and I am quite sure that it had nothing at all to do with OUR sort of lifestyle at all. Most likely, the conversation was some sort of academic discussion -- probably a historical look at slavery in the U.S, or the Caribbean, or (even further back) maybe ancient Rome. Whatever the context, there was a single line that caught my attention: "the defining characteristic of slavery is the lack of the right to one's own self."

That's been echoing around in my mind ever since; banging up against lesson plans and chore lists and fragments of songs and leftover bits of dreams and menu plans and wishing for summer and wondering about the kids and assorted other odds and ends that float through my head on a regular basis.

I don't spend a lot of time thinking about slavery. I live it. It is my life and my identity. Still, I live a lot of my time looking kind of "normal" to most people, and I don't dwell on the slavery part of my life. It has come to be such a part of my life that I don't invest a lot of conscious energy into making it "real." It is real. Every now and then, though, I can get caught by something, or some confluence of things, that sets me off in a different direction in my thinking about it. These last few weeks have been that sort of space for me.

I suppose part of it is that there seems to be a lot of conversation in the places where I read about things like "rules," and "tasks," and "protocols," and "training," and the like. I understand what it all is, and I don't question the validity of any of those approaches in the relationships where they are employed -- and I am aware (sometimes vividly) that we don't do any of that; and really never have.

As I look back at our history together, I remember that our move to the place where we came to see ourselves as Master and slave was very slow and subtle. We met as members of the same listserve. Hardly knew each other at all at first. Eventually made some connection, and gradually hooked up to the point of seeking each other out for further contact. After all, we were living at nearly opposite ends of a very big continent. At first the relating was as friends and for the sake of a mentor/student sort of partnership. We moved into a casual, now and then play partner matchup, and eventually to the level of lovers and then to D/s. For a very long time, we resisted the labels of Master and slave, and all the lurid, fantasy realm implications of that appelation. In time, though, that dynamic grew between us, and the acknowledgement became one that we could not deny. We accepted the truth of what was between us because it WAS; not because we did anything in particular to make it be.


I am His, and I don't ever doubt that for a single minute. T is His as well. We are sisters, and we are different. We see our relationships with Him differently. He sees His relationships with each of us differently. We all define those relationships differently, using different labels. We have and hold different expectations, in some ways, but we are absolutely devoted to one another, and we absolutely understand the expectations within our family and our household. Sometimes, when I read about all the lists of rules and whatnot, I find myself a little bumfuzzled. It isn't so much that I feel judged or judging; it is just that I am a bit amazed. I have a difficult time imagining it in our world, to be honest. Our lives are so full and so busy. Most days, we are up at 5 AM, and there are many, many nights when one or the other (at least) of us is out at a meeting or event until 9 PM or later. Then, there begins the necessary business of dinner and checking in with one another and checking up on the various branches and bits of the extended and far flung family and keeping up with the health stuff and decompressing and politicking and householding and ... It's a whirl.


She and I do it together (like synchronized swimmers), and mostly smoothly, and entirely without rules or protocols or rituals. Goodness! He has no time or patience for such. He'd never stand for anything so demanding of His energies. When He's here, He expects to be able to relax, to enjoy, to be cared for, and attended to in the ways that support His comfort and well-being and happiness. We make that happen, and He most often never knows about a very great deal of it, although He tries to be appreciative of what He does notice. In turn, He can be loving and sweet and concerned and generous and almost boyish when He the mood strikes Him.

Returning to where I began this wandering ramble, that the defining characteristic of slavery is the lack of rights to one's own self; I was reminded of conversations that magdala and I went through oh so long ago about the responsibilities (or at least need) of a Master to somehow take care of that which was "property" if it was to be available for His use. There arises, when that discussion comes up, the ethical question, of whether a "slave" can be compared to an inanimate object like a table or a towel. Does it behoove a Master to consider the wants/needs of the slave, or can such be ignored as the slave simply remains available to be of service when and if that service is required?

My deep suspicion is that it is terribly difficult to remain in the place of a true and centered slave heart in the absence of those tangible things that indicate attentiveness from the Dominant partner -- rules, rituals, protocols, tasks... For a slave to simply do what is needful, appropriate, required, expected -- all without demand or rules or lists, requires incredible internal energy and self-control and discipline. Doing these things without external supports brings no assurance of any sort of reinforcing or rewarding feedback. Slavery carried out without the usual trappings becomes a naked gamble. It is all or nothing. There is no bargaining and no negotiation hidden in the details. It does not have the potential for the unspoken deal: "I will bow and serve IF You will tend to my needs for structure, pain, reassurance, etc..."


Sometimes, many times, as I read from place to place to place, I find myself imagining OUR world configured in the ways that I read about elsewhere. I wonder what it would be like to have those frameworks in place to form touchstones that I could anchor to on some sort of regular basis as I navigate the deep emotional waters of my days. I can feel the responsiveness that comes up in me -- that Rapunzel in the high tower sort of dreaming safeness, and I know that there lives in my heart the wishing for the fairy tale of the far off castle where I would never again have to go out and face down the world's dragons.

And then, I open my eyes, look around, and see my real life. And my real life is very, very good.

swan

Wanderlust?

If one asks to be led, then it is important to remember to follow.

Sometimes the routines of life can lull me into a sense that it has always been this way, and that as far as I can see into the future, it will always be this way.

I can forget that it was His simple command that brought me to Him from 1200 miles away over four years ago. Now, again, it may be that His vision could lead all of us to someplace totally new and far away from here.

I suspect that the current impetus toward movement has roots in the increasingly conservative tenor of things in our nation and here in our city. Too, there is the continuing foreign policy that keeps our nation at war, and so many of our young men and women once again at risk of death and injury in an endless and fruitless war. So, He looks northward toward Canada, and dreams of Nova Scotia.

He spent almost all of the day on Sunday, looking and looking at information about Nova Scotia - the promised land... I do not know what lies ahead, but I know that His vision often becomes reality. Often.

What will this mean? I do't know. I'm not sure, at this point that any of us really know. We are talking a lot. And this summer, perhaps, we will travel north and east to visit and survey the lay of the land and check it out. Who knows? At the very least perhaps the Clan Heron will get the chance to visit some of the local haunts -- this one looks intriguing for the "birds" around our place don't you think?

swan

Edge

We are dancing nearer and nearer to the edge together.

It is good.

It is very scary.

I know that there will be a day when we will take the leap, and I believe that it will be the day when I will finally be assured that I am healed and "back" again.

Still each step nearer to the precipice sends me flying into His arms, buried in His embrace, shaking and terrified, certain that utter destruction awaits me beyond that line that exists (perhaps) only in my imagination.

Before...

We shared the great joy and intimacy of vaginal fisting. It was a gift that He gave to me, early in our relationship, guiding me carefully and with a sure and experienced hand (forgive me the pun) as I learned to "do" it with Him.

Since my surgery, we haven't resumed it. I am, in every medical sense, healed. I have the opinion of the doctor, who sees me at the women's sexual health clinic, assures me that I "should" be able to fist without any problem.

No problem.

Except that in my head, there's a real problem. I'm scared to death -- terrified that He'll punch right through the end of what's left of my vaginal vault. After all, there's no "top" left at the top anymore.

And in physical reality, there's serious uncharted territory to be rediscovered. Our regular sex life does not involve deep penetration. There are places that have been left in unexplored darkness this last year -- places where scar tissue looms tender in my body and HUGE in my imagination.

We are getting better and better. Finding a new place to stand together. One day, very soon, we'll go together to the edge and leap into the darkness.

Wish us well.

swan

A Dangerous Woman

He sleeps with me wrapped up in a big bear hug; tucked in under His chin, all curled into a ball, His top leg thrown over mine, my arms crossed over my chest mummy style, breathing in the warmth of Him. It is, generally, a place of safety and security for me, and we fall into that spot quite naturally and happily most of the time.

The other morning, in the early, pre-dawn darkness, it paid off as I came screaming up out of a nightmare in full on attack mode.

I'd been in some sort of battle / confrontation with the ex-husband, out in some muddy, trash-strewn empty field in the warehouse district of some major city -- the kind of area where one would find rail yards and homeless wanderers and drug dealers and gang bangers and... I'd finally gotten away from the ex and started away from that highly charged scene when I came face to face with "The Scary Man" in the blue stocking cap. I kid you not, he looked just like the guy in the picture. For whatever reason, at that point in the dream, I was suddenly in a wheel chair, unable to move my legs. I tried to maneuver around and away from "The Scary Man," but he blocked all my efforts. I scrambled and I growled and I snarled. No dice...

Finally, the guy lunged at me with obvious malice, and I just went after him. I had every intention of killing the bastard if I could. If I didn't manage to kill him, I was sure as hell going to gouge out his eyeballs and rip his cheek open. I'm tall and I'm strong and I grew up with brothers. I was raised not to start a fight, but my Dear Departed Father always told us that if someone else was going to start it, we better be prepared to finish it. I was definitely going to finish it!

There was only one problem this time. There really wasn't any "Scary Guy." The poor unsuspecting victim of my sudden urge to KILL, was Master -- who up until that moment had been sound asleep. From out of the blue, the quiet, snuggly, warm, peacefully sleeping slave that He'd been hugging to His chest transformed into a wild-eyed, snarling, scratching, clawing, kicking, punching FIEND STRAIGHT FROM HELL!

There was that really weird moment of confusion when "The Scary Guy" disappeared and there was only Master, holding both my wrists, and saying, "Honey! Honey! It's alright! It's me. Calm down! Are you alright?" Are you dreaming?"

I dropped in a heap in His arms, shaking, trying to figure out where I was exactly, soaking up the reality of being safe and held secure, listening to my heart race, wanting only to know that I hadn't actually hurt Him in my panic.

In the end it was almost funny... Almost. Another piece of information. Master sleeps with a dangerous woman.

swan

Telling the Truth

I have a suspicion.
It is difficult to look at clearly. Because it makes me ashamed.
If you've read here at all for the last year, you have heard endless tales of my growing sadness and depression -- attributed largely to the aftermath of my hysterectomy a year ago, and the decline in my sexual response following that surgery. That hasn't been inaccurate exactly, but it also hasn't been entirely truthful either.
There was more to the story. There were secrets that I kept about my anger and my sadness.
The new year approaches and I want 2007 to be better. So it is time to begin as I mean to go forward.
What lives on in the archives here as "The Thang," but in my mind and heart as a terrifically challenging and intense passage, hurt me.
A person who approached me as a "friend" very quickly turned her considerable energies to building a relatinship with Master. Things intensified quickly and I did not adjust nearly as quickly as the evolving situation demanded. In the end, it all came to a very difficult and unpleasant conclusion. Our lives eventually settled back into our accustomed pattern and life went on.
For me, though, some of the wounds never healed fully. I sank into my own convoluted thinking and told myself stories that weren't necessarily true. I came away with lessons learned that have caused me real pain. I learned that people who claim to be friends may not be all that friendly. I learned that I can be dropped off the edge of an emotional cliff whenever the relational territory shifts, and I learned that can happen without any warning. I learned that all the rootless, unconnectedness of my life does not give me any claim to being held secure if what that requires restricts the "freedom" of the rest of the family.
All of that was there, still tender, still fresh -- and then the surgery knocked me down for emphasis.
I haven't played it fairly. Because I haven't told the truth about how hurt or angry I was. There it is.
My suspicion? I really probably have been depressed, but in some ways, being sad and depressed has given me control. I've kept Him close because He's been worried. It is a kind of power that comes from being weak and broken. A terrible inversion. Ugly and sneaky and destructive.
I want no more depression. I want no more anti-depressant medications. I want no more hours spent with the therapist guy. I want to live and BE again, whole and balanced and alive.
The time for living with an abiding suspicion of everyone who comes seeking friendship is past. The time for trying to chain Him down with my saddness is way past. I'll never get my chance to stomp the one I'd really like to stomp, and if it came to it, I'd probably not actually do it.
Time to let it go. Time to move on. Time for a new year.

swan

This Day

He and I have been off together this last week...and we've slept. All week. He's been ill with a nasty virus, and He has simply felt crummy. Many days, He has slept until almost noon, and then gotten up to eat something. After maybe an hour or two perhaps, He's gone back to bed and slept the afternoon away. There's been nothing much of any interest, and certainly nothing "exciting." We've wrapped up in each others' arms and simply gone to sleep. To be honest, I've been so tired, it hasn't been much of an issue. When I've been awake, I've tried to sort out the path that I need to follow in the next year so that things can be somehow more positive and less grim than this last year has felt. So the quiet days have been good I suppose. Not what we normally anticipate for these winter holidays, but probably needed...


By this morning, though, both of us were starting to feel some better. The possibility of some play and some sex had come back into the picture. When He woke up, He pulled me close and tucked me into His chest. There's a particular sort of "curled up" position He likes to get me into so that He can hump away on me. I'm warm and I'm cuddly and I'm really not supposed to do or say much in that mode. Just be still and let Him go wherever it is He goes in His mind ... I've learned (usually) to not think too much about it... I know He'll let me know what He wants next -- sometimes to make love; and sometimes to spank. I try to spend the time finding a quiet heart, getting myself into His rhythm. It isn't about me.


This morning, out of nowhere, He stunned me, by beginning to PLAY with me. Not hurting me -- playing with me sexually. I understand, from an intellectual perspective, that this is always a possibility, but it is just so out of the norm that it surprised me and completely blew my calm. I was startled. Very soon, as He caressed my clit and sucked my nipples, I began to spin off into a place I don't remember being much in the last year -- a place I've almost forgotten. I don't think it took Him very long to have me whimpering and moaning under His hands and fingers, and then the wave crashed over me and carried me away completely and left me shaking and sobbing in His arms. Even then, He wasn't done with me. He continued to tease and torment my quivering body with His knife, tracing the sensitive and hungry contours as I floated on the sensations He was evoking. Even as He smacked my tender places with the flat of the blade, bringing forth cries and tears, I only clung to Him in straining hunger, as all the flood of need that has piled up this year poured out of me.


Only then, as I was reduced to jangling, quivering confusion, did He put me over the edge of the bed for a paddling and strapping. I was melted -- Until the first smack of the paddle. He hit me sharply with one of those nasty, evil Hanson paddles, and I came up screaming. Just for a moment, mind you... It only ever takes a flash of that fury and I'm back where I belong; back in position; back with the white hot fury leashed down tight and contained. He tried to talk with me -- I remember. I think I managed the required polite and appropriate responses. Mostly, I know that I was intent on staying on top of the volcanic anger that was threatening to drag me down. I know He started again. I know I was focused on "being good." And then it got dark. Dark. And I got lost. Somewhere in the darkness I got lost and scared and ...


I don't know much about it all. When I came back from the dark, He was there telling me to get back up on the bed. I was still where I'd started. I hadn't broken position. He said I'd been "noisy." I know I felt shaken and frightened and small. He held me. Used the rubber strap on me a bit, and let me calm down some...


Eventually, we did make love, and in one of those funny/magical moments that sneaks up on you when you aren't looking for it, I achieved the second orgasm of the morning even as He was finishing His own climax... He panicked just a bit and told me what I already knew: "I'm not in!" In the throes of my own very rare orgasm, I was (I'm afraid) not very concerned and replied, "I don't care -- it sucks to be you -- Sir..." and just kept on rocking. Somehow, lucky for me, and perhaps indicative of the desperately difficult time we've had this year, He found that hysterically funny. And so, we began this day.


swan

Nothing is Simple

I was awake early this morning -- 3:45, and unable to get back to sleep. Often in the last year, those wakeful, quiet, dark hours have given rise to spiraling and swirling sadness. This morning was calmer and more contemplative, as I looked back to the hours exactly a year ago when I was preparing for the surgery that has set me on the long path of struggle and discovery that has comprised this last twelve months.

I look back and I find it hard to sort and sift:

The things that happened because of the very real and very serious health concerns that created the move to seek out and agree to the hysterectomy in the first place -- and that continued even beyond the surgery itself, complicating and prolonging the recovery.

The initial lack of any sort of hormonal support or monitoring (on the part of my doctor) for potential hormonal impacts of the surgery. That left me completely unprepared for the disappointment that I encountered when I did finally get through the long recovery phase and then encountered the reality of a vastly diminished sexual response. It was at that point that I also discovered my doctor's lack of preparedness and/or willingness to address those issues.

So much "life" going on while all of that was happening: work stresses all around, health worries that just seem to keep on creeping into our lives in ever more insidious and increasingly tenacious ways, parents with all their various difficulties and needs and demands and issues, all the adult and nearly adult children -- don't we get to quit worrying about them eventually???, cars, clothes, teeth, plumbing, electrical, appliances, finances... Oh good grief!!!

We noted, pretty quietly and sort of in passing this month, that we've reached the 4-1/2 year mark of real time, full time, living together as a family. We've gotten "accustomed to" each other. There's a lot to be said for that. It is comfortable and mostly easy and predictable and mostly safe and secure. We understand each other and we know the rules and the expectations and the routines. There are more places where we are easier where each other. I suppose that seems odd to those who would imagine that BDSM (and M/s in particular) should not BE easy.

Perhaps they are right. I know He has left a very great deal of leeway for me this year. I'm surely not spanked like I might have been before. I know He is afraid for my well-being, both physical and emotional. He simply does not believe that I am sturdy. I've not been in the stocks for over a year. Not once. Perhaps in time. I miss it by times, but I'm afraid, too. If He doesn't believe in me, I don't believe in myself either. We spar more with each other emotionally, and verbally. I test more. I'm not as sure. I know that I am suspicious in a way that I never used to be. That is an artifact of our encounter with outsiders who, because we trusted and were open, were able to come into our lives in a very difficult and ultimately destructive way. It has made me afraid to seek contact with others, and that has led to further isolation.

I've come to the end of the year with a whole lot of new prescriptions. I am determined to end some of that as soon as I possibly can.

I've got myself a passle of paradoxes: woman without feminine sexual responses -- slave with an awful lot of choices -- mother without children -- spouse without marriage -- masochist who struggles with pain -- lonely wanting to avoid contact with other people...

Just not simple... not anymore. Maybe never was.

swan