One of My Perennial Manners/Etiquette Rants

I tend to be a stickler about "manners" at a certain level. I imagine that has to do with being a certain age, and being raised with the kinds of expectations that many of us were in the 1950's.

Children were brought up to be respectful, to understand that they weren't the center of the universe, to understand that there were limits and boundaries that they were to observe and live within. We refered to adults as Mr. or Mrs. or Miss. We said, "yes, Sir" and "yes, Ma'am." We were often "seen and not heard." When we were "company," we cleaned our plates, even when what was on our plate might be truly scary looking. We looked but did not touch. We didn't ask personal or intrusive questions, no matter how curious we might be, and we did not ask for treats when we were out away from home, and surely not from strangers or adults who were not "our" adults.

Likewise, I, being raised by Depression-era parents, have a whole set of social etiquette notions that can get stomped on in today's more "freewheeling" cyber universe where people are significanlty less formal than I tend to be about meeting, greeting, and initiating relationships. For example, when I meet someone for the first time, whether in person, or online, I EXPECT to have that first meeting allow for some time for us to get acqainted before we leap right into the areas that I consider to be "personal," "private," and "intimate." If, the first time that I encounter you online, the conversation goes anything like, "Hello, how are u, how often do u have sex?" I am likely to find that inappropriate, forward, cheeky, and presumptuous. At a minimum. Most likely I will treat you like a two-headed, ill-mannered, bottom- feeding, predatory, hairball. And I WILL get all bent out of shape.

Rude behavior is rude.

So, call me too sensitive and too touchy.

This week, I've been accosted by not one but two "out of the blue" strangers on Yahoo messenger. I don't know where these guys come from, or why they pick me. I do know that when they barely get past hello and the obligatory marital status question before they are asking "sex" questions, I find it offensive. I do not keep my status or my situation secret, and I do not put myself "out" as shopping for a relationship, so I am always puzzled by the come on routine. What's that about? With one of these guys, I refered him to Master because He indicated that he might be interested in meeting and playing at some point. That wouldn't be my call in any case, and so I sent him off to talk to Himself. Pretty soon, he was back, still pushing and questioning at levels of familiarity that were way beyond what I knew he'd discussed with Master only minutes before. Are people really that clueless, or is it really considered appropriate to just ignore limits and boundaries in today's world?

Maybe it is a function of how outsiders understand our declared practice of "poly." Is it because we label ourselves as polyamorous that people somehow assume that we are not deserving of the same basic courtesies that other people are afforded? I'm beginning to think that probably that is the case...

It just seems to me that many men online see that label "poly" and assume that I'm "up for grabs." They see "poly" and translate it to a whole thesaurus of synonyms: slut, whore, hooker, prostitute, tramp, hussey, floozie, loose woman, tart, ... The easy, dismissive labels seem to obviate the need for any sort of human to human contact or connective conversation. There's no reason to waste the time on "idle" chit chat. These fellows know at the outset what sort of "girl" I am, and they seem to figure that they won't have to invest a whole lot of energy in all that messy relationship building business with me. Blech!

I don't need flowers and chocolates and poems and all of that. But cripes! 'Hello' is nice. "How are you" (spelled like a grown up) is nice. A little bit of a personal biography that does not center on the length of your male member is nice. Pleasant conversation about things that you enjoy doing in the real outside world is nice. Act like a civilized person. Treat me like a person. I am not a walking life support system for female genitalia. And frankly, if that is all you want, you are barking up the wrong tree because, get a clue, I'm OWNED! DUH!

And, women, noting that we are a poly relational dynamic, often seem to assume that it is somehow ok to just waltz in and insert themselves in the midst of the whole business without so much as a "pardon me, do you mind if I have this dance?" Women who would never wriggle in between their monogamously coupled friends hardly even blink about flirting outrageously, making offers, carrying on with, and otherwise upsetting the balance of things around here. They see that word "poly," and just figure that it is open season. If there is something that looks attractive, interesting, appealing or exciting, then by all means, help yourself... No limits, no boundaries, no rules, no courtesies required or expected. Blech again!

That sort of move sets off a whole bunch of other stuff that just get me going, and keeps me going for days at a time.

As I think about it, I think it is all about the very first day of 4th grade. Yup. I'm pretty sure that's it. Her name was Dana Click, and she was every bit as cute and perky and perfect as her name would have you believe. She had penny loafers with two perfectly matched, shiny, brand new pennies in them -- both perfectly upright of course, and the most lusciously sweet and adorable pink fluffy sweater to wear over her Catholic school uniform. Her hair was flawless, as was she, in every single detail.

I, on the other hand (already too tall and a confirmed tomboy), was as awkward, gangly, shy, and rumpled as it was possible to get. With my clearly Teutonic "Zimmerman," I was relegated to the very last seat in the very last row, out of sight and mostly out of mind unless someone wanted to make jokes about the girl that most people (teasingly) called "Cinnamon."

Dana and I were on opposite poles from the outset, and of course, bound together by cruel fate for the entire rest of our school careers. Through elementary and junior high school and on into high school, I watched as she blossomed into a beauty. Her skin was purest ivory. She never got too tall. She learned every flirtatious and coy trick almost as if it was somehow bred in her genes, and perhaps it was. Long before I achieved any whisper of pubescence, Dana was fabulously curvy with a figure that caused every healthy boy within shouting distance to forget his name and anything else he ever knew about anything.

I on the other hand, made my way through junior high and into high school in full on geek mode. If there was ever a human embodiment of the "ugly girls at seventeen" song lyric, it was probably me. At 5'-11", I weighed somewhere close to 110 pounds. I had hair that wouldn't do anything civilized and a case of acne that, to quote my loving brother made my face "look like it had caught fire and someone had tried to put it out with an ice pick." I never ever did NEED a brassiere, although I finally did talk my mother into allowing me to get them just in time for gals to start burning the damn things. I had seriously buck teeth and the requisite mouth full of braces. I never, ever, even once dated anyone in all of my high school career. Oh yeah, AND, to make matters worse, I was smarter than most of the guys in my class, taking classes like honors English and calculus.

So, when some bouncy, cute, "I'm so all of that" chicky comes waltzing into my world and stomps into my stuff, I'm very easily tipped back into that seventeen year old space again. Nevermind my fully formed, very solid, nice, mature, steady, adult ego structure. What I want to do is run over every 24-year old hawty I see, leaving broken and bleeding girlys lieing lifeless along the roadways all over the city. Because anger is real and not reasonable. And people should have enough sense to know what is "their's" and "not their's."

Sometimes, when it all starts to pile up, I can get pretty over it. That's been the way I've been for the last few days. Not much in the way of social benefit coming from all this trail blazing, brave new paradigm BS. And then it turns around and bites me on the ass every which way. That can piss me off. I think the anger has burned itself out mostly. I've steamed and stewed and stormed and growled and snarled and cussed and spit until it is finally gone. For now, I'm done grousing about all the obnoxious people "out there" who are obviously just badly brought up and without an ounce of good breeding. But hang around for awhile, and I'll be back, doing my "Miss Manners" rag. Sure as the sun rises in the East, you know I'll get on a tear about this one again.

swan

Why I Hate Bob Deegan

A very long time ago, before I was even a glimmer on the horizon, He met a woman with many, many years of experience in the lifestyle as a Dominant. He was newly liberated from His marriage at the time and into what He views as a fairly prolific and random spanking phase of His life. She took Him under her wing, evaluating Him as somewhat more enthusiastic than skilled, and endeavored to give Him some technical training with a variety of implements. He tells how His first outing with a flogger resulted in the demolition of a nearby lightbulb in a table lamp. One of the assignments He was given was to practice turning light switches on and off with the flogger until He could reliably do the "lights on -- lights off" thing. T reports that, when she first met Him, all the walls around all the light switches were routinely black with flogger marks...

I owe that long ago Lady Dominant a huge debt. I can attest that He CAN hit my ass with a flogger. Every time. Without fail.

Along the line, He and we've attended dozens of workshops and listened to I can't even begin to count how many lectures about how to do this and that. It is good to learn about how to do WIITWD from people with experience. I've spent a fair amount of time in dungeons and watched people work with singletails, practicing moving bits of facial tissue across the floor and using ink to make patterns on paper and all manner of other techniques to learn how to do it.

But Himself learned the basic use of the singletail from Bob Deegan. The good news is that watching Deegan use the single tail is like watching some kind of hybrid between a beautiful ballet and intense martial arts. He is awesome to see work. The bad news is that Deegan is of the opinion that, since people do not typically take pillows to dungeons, they shouldn't be practicing their singletail technique on pillows either. Gahhhhh!

What that means, in practical terms, is that every blessed stroke of the whip, for good or bad is aimed at my hide -- and every single stroke lands where it will.

I am not brave about the singletail. It scares the living daylights out of me. Sometimes, I can be fascinated by it, in that nutty way that is the wired part of being masochistic, but even that is still deeply tinged with real fear. I want to be "good" about sessions with the whip. I want to stay where He puts me, and I want to behave in the way I know He expects of me.

It is terribly difficult. The "Deegan" dictate means that there is no way for me to have any sense of what is coming. I can't predict which strokes will fall where. I can't predict the intensity. I can't predict the rhythm. Every second of the encounter is a pure challenge both physically and emotionally. By the time we're 15 or 20 or 3o strokes in, I'm panicked, begging, hysterical, hanging on by shear will -- or not hanging on at all -- just begging, pleading, anything to be allowed the rescue that I cannot obtain except by His mercy.

Sunday was like that. We'd started with a "warmup," that I knew was leading toward the whip. I'd tried to "prepare" if that's possible to do. I'd gotten myself into position, holding onto "the fluffy" and thinking that I was in a pretty good place. But then the whip strokes began falling all over the place -- backs of my calves and soles of my feet and middle of my back. Randomness is harder, in my experience, than the things you can predict, and this was just wildly random. It didn't take long for me to hit the point of wild begging: "please, please let me go... please, please, please!"

I think it didn't go on too much longer, actually. Not nearly as long as it might have. He was kind.

We'll do it again. Soon. We talked. About what was so hard. About the need to practice. About how much I'd like to run over Bob Deegan with my car... About what I'd been fantasizing about when I woke up on Sunday morning -- which was not getting whipped on my feet (LOL). He said that perhaps, for the sake of practice, He might have me wear my leathers and that would protect most of me. Then it would be like a target that would only "light up" if you hit it. So maybe Deegan will survive.

swan

Did you Take My Coffee?

We were off on Saturday afternoon to one of those "family" events. Or at least we were attempting to be off.

The youngest of "our" offspring was going to his senior prom with the lovely young woman who might, if appearances mean anything, be "the one," and his mother (our ex-wife) had invited the entire extended clan to be present for the launching. The young woman had been flown in, using mom's frequent flyer miles from Georgia where she now resides, and they were reunited for an adolescent magical weekend. We were to pickup Grandpa and be present to take some photos and give hugs and wave happily from the driveway as they drove off on the big night...

There is no surer way to set Master into stubborn mule mode than to give Him a time certain that He has to be someplace. It brings up an obstinate streak as wide as the St. Lawrence River from whence His people originate. In His view, only peons need bother with arriving according to the dictates of clocks. So set a time and the stalling begins. To further complicate matters, on Saturday, a dental crisis made the departure even more difficult as a temporary cap chose that particular time window to precipitously loose its grip.

Not surpsisingly then, as our appropriate departure time came and went, I was flying around attempting to prepare the things that I knew He would need in order to eventually be ready to leave -- gathering His odds and ends together, and collecting the far flung bits He tends to leave in His wake.

One of those items was His morning coffee mug which He tends to carry around with Him and leave wherever He goes. I'd picked it up and carried it back to the kitchen in my rounds. He almost always wants a cold drink when we travel in the car, and so I'd asked what He would like, and He'd given me His preference. He then asked, "Did you take my coffee?" To which I replied, "Yes."

Now, there is an interesting quirk to Master/slave communication. Those of us who live as slave tend to anticipate and "read" to a highly nuanced degree most of the time. On the other hand, we can sometimes be quite literal. I remember a class that He and I took on florentine flogging. Some of you may recall the story. I think I told it at one point. The instructor in that case, had asked for someone to demonstrate with and I was volunteered. There I stood in front of the room, floggers in hand. The instrustor, watching me get completely tangled up, finally looked at me, and wanting me to let my arms hang at my sides said, "Drop the floggers." Immediately both floggers hit the floor much to everyone's amusement. Well trained, literal slave, ask no questions, obedient sort of communication mode.

This "coffee" question, it turns out was a similar sort of situation. In His mind, "Did you take my coffee?" was really "Did you take my coffee to the car?" It was not at all meant to be "Did you take my coffee mug to the kitchen?" It was not until we got in the car and on the road and there was no coffee that the variance in the two questions became clear...

Harrumph! Sometimes, this sort of thing can be just too damned difficult in the most annoyingly simple ways.

swan

IT Finally Happened!

Well, Dear Friends, IT finally happened. I went to visit my maternal parental unit yesterday. If you all remember from previous posts, MY MOM, is the wonderfully inclusive Mom. She is the one who welcomes all of her kids friends and tag-alongs, no matter who they are, and loves each of them as her own.

Sooooo, I went for a visit. And we were sitting in the living room talking and she was being particularly sweet about Tom, commenting about how she is so pleased that I have someone that loves me as he does. That, not just with words, but the way he watches me when no one else is looking, or how he will reach for my hand at a table, just the little things. And at that moment, Tom called. I said something like "Well, speaking of the Devil", and she laughed and I started talking to Tom. During the course of our conversation Swan's name was mentioned and my Mom pipes up in the background "You mean, Tom's other Wife?" I about fell out of my chair laughing! She slapped her hands over her mouth, her eyes grew to about 3 times their normal size, and she whispered, "Oh PLEASE, don't tell Him I said THAT!" Well, Of Course, I just HAD TO!!! And he was howling on the phone, too. She tried to explain it away by saying that Swan and I both just look at each other and seem to know what needs to be done and get to it around the houses and when Tom needs something, Swan is always available to help, if I am unavailable.

We have never told my family of our poly lifestyle. It has just not been necessary, because of their inclusiveness with Swan. We have always felt they probably knew there was more to our relationship than a married couple with a good friend who does EVERYTHING with them, but I just never felt the need to explain it all.

Seems it ISN'T necessary. My 70 year old Mother has IT. Who cares who else gets IT.

T

Is He...?

I've been writing about our lives and our dynamic for over two years now, here and at The Swan's Heart (my earlier blog). I've poured out torrents of words about Him and about me and about us. In all of that, I feel that people would have some sense of how we are together. Of course, not everyone reads this, or has followed from the beginning, and the words only give snapshot views.



I don't talk with a lot of outsiders about my life. I'm pretty "normal" looking (I think). I don't maintain an enourmous online correspondence, and I am seldom in contact with people I don't know well online. Still every now and then, I'll get started into a conversation with someone new, and that almost always brings up a series of questions. Some of them are predictable as I describe the nature of my life and relationship.



People almost always wonder how our dynamics work, especially in terms of our polyamory. It reinforces my belief that there are very few who actually DO what we do and make it happen with any degree of intention and success. We are as rare as hen's teeth. I can tell that simply by the kind of reactions I get when I describe our family. I'm accustomed to fielding those questions and they really don't stop me or slow me down. I know how to help people understand what our family is like and how we work.



The question that I have been getting more often in recent weeks or months, and which I'm finding that I just have never contemplated before is one that goes something like, "Is your Master very strict?" I find that the question leaves me sitting looking at the computer screen, blinking stupidly, like an owl hit with a searchlight out of the darkness.



I think I do not understand what it is that the question implies. It causes me to want to ask, "what do you mean, strict?"



I think that "strict" is perhaps situational. And relational. And a matter of taste.



I've said it before. Ours is not a Master/slave dynamic that is steeped in formal rituals and protocols. We recognize that there are those who practice those disciplines. We do not. So, I do not, for example, kneel to serve His drinks, or ask permission to speak, or routinely address Him as "Sir." He is not "strict" in that sense. These are not routines or protocols that He finds useful or appropriate to His or our life together, and so He does not require them (although He most certainly could do so).



Likewise, He does not engage in the business of setting out "tasks" for me or for T. He does not feel that I need to be "reminded" of my submission to Him with a list of things to do each day from Him. He expects that I am submissive to Him and that I will remember that regardless of where I am or what I am doing, and that I will handle myself and all my work/activities in a way that honors that reality. Again, others practice differently, and He could decree a different approach at any time. This is the norm for us as of now.



He expects that things will be done in His household as He likes them to be done, and that He will not need to have to expend energy to make that happen. He expects that T and I will take care of His needs and His desires and that will happen smoothly and seamlessly for His comfort and happiness. He wants that done without His needing to intervene whenever possible. We do that without His direction, and mostly without His noticing -- except to be glad and grateful.



He is "strict" in terms of SM play. He wants my submission to be complete, and my behavior to be completely within the boundaries that He defines in that realm. There, we do have clearly defined rituals and protocols that we do observe, and which are not "bendable." And, the level of formality intensifies if we are in a "public" setting as opposed to playing at home. I suppose some would say that, in this area of our relationship, He is "strict."



So, I don't know. When I think about things, there are all kinds of little things that are simply part of my life that might seem "strict" to an outsider. I call Him when I arrive at work, and again when I leave. I never go anywhere without telling Him where I am going and where I am and when I will be home. I don't turn on the radio or the TV in the house when He is there, and I don't turn them off -- and I never make a channel change (we watch or listen to what He chooses). I check with Him about what He would like to have prepared for dinner each day. I keep Him notified of all my appointments and make sure He knows about my work calendar. To me, those things are not "strict," they are parts of being connected and cared for by Him. They are how my life has worked for a very long time.



When I tell Him about these questions, He responds that there is no need for Him to be "strict" with me because I'm not "bad." That's another realm I suppose. The issue of behavior management and self-management. I understand that it is my responsibility to be for Him, and to not require Him to put energy into my slavery. I do know that He has the right to mold my behavior in any way that suits His taste, but my slavery is not dependent on His pouring energy into it. When "bad" behavior on my part requires Him to react to me in affirmative or intensively "strict" ways, that has created a deficit that detracts from our life together. That is not a condition that I seek to create on an ongoing basis.



So, "strict" is an interesting question. I am not sure that, when the question is posed to me that I know how to interpret it. I think it means many things to many people. I think that people hear that I am "slave," and envision a life that is restricted and constrained and enormously limited. That is not the way that I experience my life. Slavery is, for me, the expression of my self and my love and my highest truth. It is freeing and joyous and connecting. Somehow, "strict" does not go with that...



swan

The Princess Pat

We don't often speak of the woman who bore me into this world. When we do, we usually call her "The Princess Pat." It is a title given to her by T, and refers, sort of sideways to the silly song of the same name--

The Princess Pat (Egyptian hand movement & hips)
Lived in a tree (Arms up over heads, making a tree bow)
She sailed across (wave hands over water)
The seven seas (Seven fingers, wave hands over water)
She sailed across (Repeat hand wave over water)
the Channel too (thumb and finger channel, two fingers)
and took with her (sling bag over shoulder)
a rickabamboo (hands wave down move hips)

A rickabamboo (hands wave down)
Now what is that
Its something made
For the Princess Pat (repeat Egyptian move)
Its red and gold (hand on right hip)
and purple too (hand on left hip)
That's why its calleda rickabamboo (repeat motion)

Now Captain Dan (stand at Alert)
and loyal crew (salute)
They sailed across the channel too (as above)
but their ship sank (hold noses and move body down)
and your's will too (point out and finger two)
if you don't take (sling bag over shoulder)
a rickabamboo (hands wave down)

The song and the music is the song of the Princess Patricia's Canadian Light Infantry. Princess Patricia of Cannaught was the daughter of a Governor General of Canada 1911-1914 and a grand-daughter of Queen Victoria and Prince Albert.The rigabamboo is correctly the Regimental Camp Colour, affectionately known by the Princess Pat's as "The Ric-a-dam-doo".

The reality is that my Princess Pat is most likely what Clarissa Pinkola Estes would call an unmothered mother. She simply has no role model for how to do the mothering thing and she has never been any good at it. I don't think she ever really wanted to do it in the first place, but I suspect that, in her day she was a serious looker and a terrific slut, and well things just got out of her control and there I was... Damn! After that, there were three more pregnancies, some of them terribly difficult, and she was quite sincerely stuck. Mix in some significant quantities of alcohol and a decidedly narcissistic bent, and you have The Princess Pat.

I spent an awful lot of years trying to figure out how to "win over" The Princess Pat. It wasn't until about a year ago that I finally gave myself permission to just quit. I would exhaust myself and aggravate myself and work myself into a frenzy over the meannesses that she was capapble of. All of it would lead nowhere of course, because she was endlessly wrapped up in her own stuff, and none of it was ever about me -- nor was it ever going to be about me. About a year ago, I just quit calling; quit writing; quit. I just turned her loose and forgave her for what she could not ever do. If set me free.

It was sad in a way, but surprisingly painless. For me. Not for her. She mourns. Every now and then, in odd ways, there will be some random contact, and I can hear the sorrow in her. I feel bad about that, but I understand that it isn't mine. I cannot mother my mother -- not anymore. That is a path that leads me nowhere. She has two of my brothers that are still willing to do the dance with her. It will have to be enough for the three of them.

I have the gift, at this late juncture, of Master's mother. She does not know who I am. She doesn't know who anyone is, really. But she knows that I come and visit her sometimes. We talk about whatever comes up. A lot of the time lately, it is about flowers and gardening. She used to love to garden, and was really very good at it. It is something that is lost to her now as a physical possibility, but she seems to wander in gardens of memory, and those she happily shares with me -- geraniums and lilacs and roses and whatnot. Mostly I sit and smile and nod and encourage her with smiles and happy chit chat about anything and nothing at all. Simple pleasures shared and quiet moments that are really hers and really not mine. Except that it warms her and heals me. She is, in those moments, simply, joyfully, willingly loving with me in a way that my own mother never has been. She wants nothing more than my time and my smiles and a loving hug. She doesn't care who I am or what I'm doing or how I might be related to her or anyone else in the whole family constellation. For her, it is enough that we are together in this time and this place, talking about the flowers that are pressed in the pages of memory.

And so, I release to time and the seven seas, The Princess Pat. I wish her smooth sailing and fair winds. I hope that someone, somewhere along the way will enjoy her, as I am now enjoying the mother who wasn't mine, but has come to be mine in these last few months of her own voyage. How very glad I am that I have had the pleasure of her company.

swan

I know it is the Middle of the Night, But...

I often wake up at about 3:30 AM. I imagine that I am part of a cohort of women around the world lying awake in the throbbing darkness, hot and flushed, awash on the shores of the post-menopausal tidal storms.

I am surprised, these days, by my newly awakened sensualities, drives and desires. I am wanting spanking again, and at 3:30 in the morning, I am not at all sure what to do about that...

He sleeps at 3:30 in the morning. Not surprisingly. People really should be asleep at that hour of the day.

Still, the other morning, I considered the possibility that He might be amenable to suggestion. I rolled over and, ever so gently, caressed and stroked the somnolent penis.

I'm pretty sure the critter rolled over, checked it's watch, glared at me, and growled: "Hey! Do you have any freakin' idea what time it is, woman?!? Can't you see I'm trying to sleep, here! Leave me the fuck alone!"

OH. OK. Nevermind. So... I tell myself stories -- about the times He pinches my tits, and smacks my cunt and whips me. I imagine His hand on my ass. I am still hearing the echoes of the speculation He voiced that perhaps I needed to sleep with the whip. I am waiting for the new collar to arrive in the mail. All of it fires my imagination and burns in my brain. I did eventually go back to sleep. I think it was about an hour before the alarm clock went off.

Maybe if I could get a bedtime spanking sometimes...
Maybe that would help.
Maybe I just need to give up and take some kind of sleeping pill.
I just don't want to deaden these feelings.
They seem healthy and good.
I'm willing to live with the wanting. I'm glad to have it back.
I know that the weekends come along, and there will be Saturday morning.

In a few more weeks, it will be summer, and the sleepiness won't matter. I won't have to manage all those bright-eyed kiddos everyday. I won't need to rise and shine at 5:30 and 3:30 won't be such a big deal... Until then, the late night stories are working to wake me back up, and bring me back to who I was. It is a fair trade.

swan