O Self

My Daily Life, Pride and Search Hits on My Awesome Femdom Blog!

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Self referential Saturday time. After the phenomenal fun I have with amateur investigative reporting, this is a much more quiet weekend, among many reasons because I have a sinus infection. What have I been up to? Well, most recently I just put banana bread in the oven. Drool subs.

I’m increasingly losing patience with my job. Despite my blog hits growing, obviously this is not ever going to pay off as anything other than a labour of love (I played around with adding a “call it anything but tribute!” tip jar, but I’m still undecided.) I’d really like something that was a better work environment as far as people culture- the work itself would be okay if I had better instructions. So there’s that.

On the other hand on the blogging front… I get really proud to get hits like “femmedomme society site legit” (hint, no) and “easy-going femdom” (preen!). “Feminist femdom stories” is another good one, although I am slightly suspicious this is about female supremacy fantasies of irate radfems castrating. But since getting the sitemaps thing sorted out, Google’s webmaster tools inform me that things are actually getting indexed. Hurrah for my femdom blog being read!

Mind you, you can’t win ’em all. I’m still going on strong for versions of “Vampire Rape Porn”, but I also have attracted “horny women with animals”. I don’t own any animals, nor have I ever wanted to fuck one. I suppose that happens when you write about sexuality including sex research into female animals people are going to get confused.

I’m also having a hell of a time finding porn to review. I mean I can find a lot of stuff I clearly don’t like. On the femdom erotica front, it’s not hard to find Wicked Wanda stories or amateur products. My challenge is that I want to write a review of something *good*. I don’t want to be the blog that you go to to hear the creative dreams of others be trashed. Suggestions?

Me & My Sexual Assaults

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Under Canadian law I’ve actually been sexually assaulted several times.

1) In middle school, a male peer decided my ass provided too great a temptation and held onto and forcibly humped me. I reacted by bursting into tears and never really understood why I wanted to make it a secret until becoming an adult.

2) My ass again provided too much temptation to my deranged grandmother. Groped. I generally see this as part of her ickiness.

3) And again, while bending to look at a counter of pastries. Difficult because stealth gropes can be brushed off as an accident. The worst part was having the conviction that I had been groped by no proof other than feeling it.

4) At a college dance, I say hello to a stranger, who proceeded to grab my ass. I forcibly remove his hand and get told “Don’t be an asshole!”

5) In the scene, a well known rope top decided that since in his demonstration of pressure points that since none of the other ones worked on me, he’d demonstrate on my nipple. He teaches an anti-rape class. I was… not happy. This was one of several incidents.

6) A male in the scene, as part of a hug, put a hand on my ass, justifying it that I’d been at a nude beach with him. Hand removed. Stammering self justifications from a man who was a literal peer of my father.

7) While on the metro, I smiled at a young man with  a passing resemblance to my gentleman. He proceeded to bump his crotch against me.

Rape victim, no. Nobody has ever forcibly penetrated me. I don’t like the term “survivor” either, which is supposed to make me feel empowered, but ends up making it feel like a bigger deal than it was, as my life was never threatened. It had an impact on me. I was victimized repeatedly by people who could not respect my bodily autonomy. But I never was torn or bled. It just… is tiring.

Up until very recently I didn’t see it as more than frustrating human social interactions, an assault the way that poking is an assault that you are unlikely to get a conviction on. It was actually weirdly embarrassing when I finally looked up what was against the law in Canada, to realize that I was actually sitting on a pile of legal violations. Like when you discover that the person you thought hated you had your back all along. And yet I feel, for some reason, like if I tell people this was sexual assault it’ll somehow be used as proof of how unreasonable I am for not wanting to get my body touched in a sexual fashion.

If I had a purpose in talking about this it is because the fact that I feel I should keep it to myself if the biggest stain these assaults have. Seriously, if people walked on my feet deliberately I’d be twittering that shit in rant caps. But it’s taken me this long to actually, at 27, say “Hi, I’m Pearl and these are the ways people sexually assaulted me.”

Hi, I’m Pearl. I’m legally a sexual assault victim.

Hi, I’m Pearl. Men and one woman has touched my body sexually, without my consent.

Hi, I’m Pearl. I can’t enjoy my buttocks as much as I’d like because other people treated it like collective property.

Hi, I’m Pearl. I have so little trust in society that I brushed off twisting my nipple as a “miscommunication” and took for granted he should have thought he had consent.

Hi, I’m Pearl. I don’t smile at strange men anymore as easily because I can’t tell when one is going to rub up against me.

Hi, I’m Pearl. And a part of me thinks that by writing this people won’t take me and my feelings seriously.

Hi, I’m Pearl. I know damn well I’m not alone.

 

How Miss Pearl Ended Up In The Middle Of A Findom Circle Jerk

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If half the stuff strange male subs promised was true, I’d be an MP right now with a swimming pool full of money. Long term readers know, I’ve made no secret of my lack of faith in findom. As a dominant female I get a regular trickle of stupid offers, and these always come with strings, usually that they get a great deal of control on what the money involves and what you can spend it on. I feel similarly about the men who offer “free” service acts. And today was just another example of that.

Sometimes I hang out on the collarme video chat. It’s not a frequent habit because it generally involves a string of turning nice and not so nice men down, usually with very explicit requests. On the other hand, or about the same reason, the website is also a source of comedy gold.

So, this morning, I got a guy proposing that he wanted me to pimp him out as a cam sub and sexual thrall to other people. He would “suck cock” and then collect money from his humiliation to give to me. A brilliant scheme, right? As usual, I turned him down, with the usual explanation that life didn’t really work that way.

But, since he was persisting in telling me about how he wanted it to be an active benefit to me. I told hi he wanted to have a wank, but it seemed time to do an experiment. I told him if he was so serious, he should consider an alternative proposal.

Get a shitty, part time franchise job. Work it for a month and donate every penny to he earned to his local domestic violence shelter. No rewards, no sexy pics or teases. No cocks, no sissy humiliation just doing something difficult and dull, and no reward of me saying “I spent this on sexy shoes!!!” or “My hung boyfriend and I bought dinner with this!”

Of course, from first proposal, as much as he ell over himself to agree, he seemed unable to handle that the money would not go to me. I kept telling him, repeatedly, the deal was not about what he wanted, but about what I told him to do. And then he said fine and that he would do it. He’d go find a job. And I said, fairly, I’d be seriously impressed if he could actually pull that off. Maybe I was about to be proved wrong!

Two minutes later another guy is messaging me- he’ll give the guy a job. Sucking cock, of course! But he wants to give the money to me. No, I remind him, I don’t want the money. And then another guy got on board with this! Loads of strange sub men trying to give me money for sucking each other’s cocks!

The guys wanted to hire each other for sexual services, as long as they could keep pushing that they wanted the money to go to me. At this point the chat moderator told me to knock it off because they only want findom transactions to take place in private. Which was not my point, but my point had long since been discarded by any of the people, including the enterprising bloke who wanted 30 minutes alone with my feet.

But I was let feeling that my participation was completely unnecessary. After all, these guys didn’t need me to “humiliate” each other, didn’t care one bit about what I want or said. Apparently they needed my presence to kick off their little party, but once they got off and rolling, for all I know they’re still doing it.

Which gets to the crux of why I think findom is silly. I think there are a few “whales” that make it a worthwhile concept, but I’ve never actually encountered a findom who didn’t work her ass off as a fantasy fulfillment object to squeeze out every penny. There is, after all, no such thing as a free lunch.

Daily Femdom Life and My D/s Neighbour Couple & Cuckolding

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I’m house sitting. It’s a welcome vacation, for a person who likes to get a change of scenery from time to time. I tell people I like travel and they think I mean exotic locations and museums, and I have a passport stamped with a dozen far flung places.

I mean I like hotels and mass transit, and airports and bus stations. And staying in the Cuckolds’ house. I talked about them before, I think, Professor Sub and his fiancée. They’re making the most of the waning summer, and seeing as we’re a close commute now, the male and sub half of the couple has given me custody of their apartment and cherished pet while they jetted off for three days holiday.

It’s nice, the normality of this. To care for their pet, and smirk at the subtext in the pictures in their hall. To come over in a bad mood and be plied with a Caesar, and break into an impromptu tutorial on face slapping. Single submissive men, life ain’t fair. My friend has two women slapping that smug look off his face.

I really am close friends a sissy cuckold and his hot wife. Although the cuckold part is being hampered, at least a little bit, by the teeny, weeny little detail that finding a “bull” is easier said than done.

They’re not the only couple with that problem in my life. The Mr Sub and Ballbuster are also looking for a bull and hitting the same wall- how do you find someone you feel safe and comfortable with, that you also feel attracted to, to make into a fuck buddy in a way that both parts of the couple can get off on it?

Strong keeps trying to encourage me to get laid for other reasons, and it again hits the same problem, although he doesn’t want me to cuckold him (or if he does he’s not admitting it) as much as a desire which borders on martyrdom to help me achieve sexual fulfillment.  There is a paucity of nice, respectful no strings men. Add that if you’re a dom woman you often don’t want the classic aggressive Bull anywhere near your bed, and you’re going to end up just like all those M/f couples looking for their unicorn-girl to finish their family.

But I guess this is also living the BDSM “lifestyle” at its best. So there’s that.

Why I Make A Big Deal About Not Being A Pro Femdom

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Last time I talked at length about how the pro femdoms are an important part of the scene and that they weren’t an inherently bad thing. This time I’m going to talk more about a problem: conflating what professional dominants and non-professional dominants are as if it were identical.

We need to stop acting like there is no difference between sex work femdom and fun femdom. And we need to stop pretending that clients are the same thing as sub boyfriends/girlfriends and husbands/wives.

Prodoms are to lifestyle as porn is to real people sex. Yes, many women who work as pros are just as much a dominant as I am. They are as capable of dominating as I am. I’m not better than them. But right now there is a serious problem between confusing the standards of their work with my dominance and it needs to stop.

Prodoms, if they’re any good, deserve their self title as experts. Many of them are good sex educators. I would turn to them in a heart beat for advice on topping techniques- and they’re a good source of how tos on safe ties and walloping people. I might, tentatively ask them about weird sub behaviour, like aftercare need variances.

But they really can’t represent me accurately any more than I can say I can speak for them as sex workers just because we both spank or fuck. And the conflation is causing problems.

Like, for example, prodoms face industry competition of errm, full service sex workers (generally sneered at as “hookers with whips”) who dilute their brand and encourage customers who want sex and dominance to demand both, or who offer less competent ‘budget’ approaches to dominance and fetish. They tend to have a degree of professional interest in protecting the parameters of what is and isn’t dominance. For example, as sex workers, the Gordian loops of the law in many areas often allow for fetishism, but smack down on people who move into more common sexual practices. And prodoms are very particular about minimal price controls- this is their livelihoods and they feel about their right to a salary the same as any working person. But this conversation is extremely alienating to non-pros. You see I’m kind of everything they talk about despising in a dominant.

I fuck, suck, snuggle and do things at the cost of a man’s love and submission, basically a price they can’t beat. I want dominance to be indistinguishable from fucking, because for me, it is. And I don’t want to be an expert. I don’t want to spend thousands of dollars on tools and equipment and for men to want me because I am teh expert. I don’t want to have subs expect me to know them in an instant and decide my dominance based on that (are you fucking kidding me?).  They are supposed to love me because I am Pearl, not just because I am Miss. But being a professional is about convincing people to pay you by the skill under which you embody being the Mistress. You might put your own spin on it- you could even be a hairy legged, queer femdom and there’s a niche for male pros who generally serve male clients. But at the end of the day, even if the person also does it at a hobby, it’s a job.

And It’s incredibly hurtful and tone deaf to be told that my sexuality exists to give subs fuzzy feelings, and I’m good if I can and am fucking up if I’m anything other than dominance embodied. Not as in “good lover”, but the whole of my sexuality has been hijacked into something that gets men off and measured in terms of how much a (random) man will pay for it and my skill in opening up a random dude’s head. It’s been so tainted with the expectations of being a good pro that it kept me from self IDing as a dominant until my early 20s. Because I can be a fantasy object,  but that’s uh… the sort of shit you’d have to pay me to do, and not really a job I want anymore than I want to be client support at a call centre. Because pro-dom client pleasing has zero to do with my sexuality.

And the typical guys, even the polite ones, trying to send out client requests to me also have zero to do with my sexuality.

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Having a Sub Makes Me a Better Person

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Subs get hugs

I’m the first to blow a raspberry at glurgey essays on how a Twue Dom is a magical paternal all knowing figure, and equally quick to whine about the pressure that gets put on subs and doms alike to live up to a higher ideal. I don’t think D/s is better than Vanilla. However…

From about the moment Strong wandered, perfectly innocently into my life, even before I thought of owning him as something “real” and was still trying to work through the ailing end of my last relationship, I’ve felt the compulsion to try to push for more. Quite frankly, his presence motivates me to deal with my shit. But, having him as something to think about is also valuable in examining how I approach the world.

For an example: I’m a fairly negative person, at least about how I talk about stuff. This often gives the impression I’m not a happy person overall. I have a few things that stress me out, but by and large, while I’m difficult to please, it takes quite a bit to wreck my day.

In reality I actually can get rapturous about raindrops and light dappled leaves once you get me out the door, and I may be liable to painfully twee “Good morning postal worker! Good morning grocer! Good morning Hassidic father with stroller!” style neighbourhood interactions, but in before I get out the door I don’t like leaving the house just a little bit, and tend to talk about stuff with friends like some kind of agoraphobe. Naturally, one of the sadistic things I tend to do to Strong is give him a stream on consciousness rundown of everything I get up to, what I’m feeling in the immediate moment, etc, etc.. He stoically puts ups with this. So he was getting regular grumbles about the audacity of my friends and them daring to invite me places.

And, he was really starting to worry about me. My litany of whinge would get met with a patient: “Try to have fun, Miss? Please?”

I had to assess something. I committed myself to clear communication with him, as one of the things that one does to try to make sure that one’s relationships are healthy. But sometimes it’s just as important what your words are communicating and I was painting a very dreary portrait.

It’s one thing to let yourself be Eeyore like, but when someone else cares desperately about you being happy, that can effect them. So, I decided to commit myself to communicating the better parts over the doomy and gloomy. After all, 15 minutes of whinge often prefaced hours of fun. Students of psychology know where this is going…

Of course the less you focus on little irritations, the less they effect you. It’s silly, and a little embarrassing, but watching my mouth to make sure I was representing reality accurately cut back on the pre-event grumbly feeling. It’s one of those feedback loop things.

It’s also made me a lot more confident about making the effort to assert myself, and much more focused on achievement. I’m generally pretty live-and-let live about life. But as much as I’m not sure if it’s based on wishful thinking and fantasies, I feel responsible. Like I need to get a nest feathered and ready as soon as possible.

Maybe it’s also because I like the idea of a kept man, someone being had and held for my pleasure, so I tend to be more in the school of thinking of someone as being mine to do for not as a more traditional gender role based desire to be done for, but it’s like a sub is the best possible acquisition who needs a nurturing space.

Goodbye June, Good Riddance

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There’s been a dozen abortive attempts to write about June, and three deleted posts thus far. Particular for me it’s been a real test of my endurance and resilience because I feel like it nudges up against something I have as a personal challenge, but also because it’s something that you have to let digest before running off and making rash commentary.

And yet, a lot of what makes other dom writers valuable is not just talking about the minutiae of safe rope ties and punishment ideas, but spilling their guts about their relationships. From Ferns frustration that finding a good match is hard; to watching Bitchy Jones go from ecstasy to agony as things almost worked but fell apart; to D’s bitter-sweetness in finding what she wants with all the transitory limits that implies; or even the non blogger but frequent Fetlifer mod, Carolyn, sharing older person married life, these people help us decide how it works realistically.

For me,  June presented a chance to look at a place where I’m soft and delicate and downright fragile.

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Lipstick, Tease & Denial

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So I recently discovered a lipstick fetish, and I’ve been having a lot of fun with it.

Smear!I put on lipstick because he doesn’t like it. Not as a torture, but because I enjoy the duality of my mouth made more sexualized by a slash of red, and yet un-sexualized by locking it down under a coat of paint- as much as we use lipstick marks for a kiss symbol, it’s the least  sexy mouth option in practice.

It’s a bit of a surprise to find myself smearing faintly flavoured red paint on, because I very seldom wear makeup. It’s a tool for me, but right now it’s really playing into the chastity aspect of tease and denial.

I’ve talked before about the problems with managing desire by other people- for example the obvious interest of the guy in charge of my driving school does not thrill me the way that captivating a room can. I like that my sub is attracted to my body, but knowing there’s physical fetishes of his that I don’t fit does not trouble me unduly, because they are things that are not earned or done, but come naturally to a woman. Actually, for Strong, this has unsexed my mouth.

But the lipstick… it smears across my lips, creamy, first the thickness of the bottom lip and than twice darting to the highest points of my top lip. I press my lips together, and push left to right, right to left, pressing the pigment. Sometimes I blot it until a clean, precisely folded tissue blushes, reapplying thin layers to build up a brightness, and sometimes I leave a single bold coating. You can feel it after, if you think about it, like paint that never dries perfectly.

But I like that it’s false colouring, an angler fish lure. It demands to be looked at and yet… my lips are sealed.

God Damn It Breasts!

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Angry little tits...

Lately I haven’t been impressed with my endowments.

My tits generally behave with the same maddening ability not to give a fuck that characterizes the rest of my obviously female bits. They’re like the roommate who is forever yo-yo dieting while you carry on in your balanced way.

Sometimes their big, sometimes they’re small. If I’m on hormonal birth control they are usually big-ish compared to non-pill size, but still vary in that range. If I ever have babies for real, instead of synthetic simulated pregnancies, I expect to join team D cup for more than a day or two. In fact, there’s so much cup variance in a given month, that the next person who tells me in glowing tones to get a bra fitting will be strangled to death with one.

I mean, I like my breasts. They don’t even take any sort of acceptance of unconventional beauty. They seem to think that pointing straight forward is a good idea, and I have just enough nipple not to be insecure. they’re a really pretty pale colour. But they do mean needing to own bras in several sizes, because I range from being able to slip a finger into the cup, to spilling out in that cheap stripper trick to look bustier. I also cope with padded bras, not to look insecure, but for a slightly better fit in my clothes.

I’m also broad shouldered, for a woman, which means they’re wide set. Forget just finding a band size that fits and my official letter, instread there’s all sorts of cup placement fussiness. and, TMI time, did I mention the small amounts of proto-lactation? Perfectly normal, and I think I take after my mother, who after three kids, lactated up until menopause. But, I’m pretty sure given the bizarre behaviour, thus far, if I reproduce also I’m gonna be one of nature’s milk cows. Or they’ll shrink down to As and go as dry as the Sahara, just to prove they are free spirited and unpredictable.

Despite tit problems, they’re also fairly durable and perky- while I’m not a big fan of someone trying to twist and remove my nipples, I really appreciate, during sex, having them compressed, wrung, slapped and squished until the skin blooms with a misting of little red dots, provided it’s from the base and on the meat (err, fat) of the breast. Although, although bondage fans have tried, they slip out of  rope like bloody Houdini. And, grow or shrink, they bounce back without the sort of concerns that seem to dog weight loss. My breasts are thus far immortal.

And, hormonal birth control has one other thing going for it- they are now co-ordinated properly. Basically everyone with breasts has one that’s a bit bigger- humans are not symmetrical and right handed people tend to have slightly bigger pecs on that side. But remember how I talked about them going up and down in size like some sort of squeezey toy? Well, they used to do that on only one side too. It looked something like this:

oO

Where’s your God now, bra fitting evangelists?! 

What Does This Femdom Do With Her Time When She’s Not Dominating?

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No matter how many hours of a day you want to devote to BDSM scenes, there comes a time when you probably need to go do other things like groceries and paying the electric bill or bathing. I mean, perhaps some of you shower dominantly, I honestly don’t know. However, for me, 99% of the time I think life is indistinguishable from anyone who IDs as vanilla.

I’m a bit of a home body. Lately, my time’s been spend on little projects like re-learning CSS and brushing up on some languages. I’d like to say that I spend my time with a finger on the pulse of the kink world, but actually I’m more likely to spend time on Code Academy or Duo Lingo than Kink.com or Fetlife.

I also spend time doing catch up housework. A lot. It’s not that I like doing housework, it’s just that I tend to neglect things until they urgently need taking care of. And I’m not exactly the most organized of people, so only the most simple organizational systems get any sort of useful result. As this is being written I’m getting myself out of dishes debt, one dish drainer full at a time and getting caught up on the laundry.

And yet, I’m not a complete disaster on the domestic front. The other mid-blog interruption is preparing a whole roast chicken alongside and oven tray of lemon-savoury vegetables- that’s onion, carrot, button mushroom and potato prepared with savoury and lemon zest (as well as a drizzle of sunflower oil). Somewhere in the six months after leaving home in my early twenties I developed from rudimentary ability to put edible things in front of other people, to the ability to turn random ingredients into something satisfying.

Of course I have other little projects. The visual art bug hasn’t bitten in a while, but it’s not atypical for me to go through a torrent of doodling and sketching, and then chuck the sketchbook when I’m done. And there’s a half dozen novels- there’s Catamite, which you can read here, and other things less erotically focused. And way more time than I should in internet slap fights, bastions of free and unhindered speech where the watchword runs- I disagree with what you have to say, and I think you should be put to death for saying it.

I round that out by being painfully and unabashedly nerdy. From running around in minecraft to LARPing, I’m past shame about this. It’s fun, and it’s as much a part of my heritage as other families who gather together for a Big Game or go to church every Sunday. My parents met each other, and their respective spouses, through the SCA.

It’s banal, but it’s important because that’s what I decided to invest the bulk of my finite life in. And to be honest, those parts are more the longevity and attraction predictors, more so than mere kinkiness, for finding partners.

So what is the other 23 hours of the day, for you, when it’s not about sex?