O Self

Why I Write a Femdom Blog

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I’d really like to thank femdom resources, for deciding to add me to the blogger list. I really appreciate being part of the archive of resources in their collection, and I hope readers find me helpful, or if not helpful, entertaining.

OMissPearl exists, hopefully, not just as a platform for self aggrandizement (although there’s lots of that), but also simply to be another voice. In what was very few years ago, I remember when Bitchy Jones seemed to be the only voice out there, and Dan Savage was still telling novice doms how lucky they were they could go pro, and to look to advertising for porn that spoke to us. Her brilliant bitterness was really inspirational to me.

At 27, I’m finally old enough to start speaking retrospectively, although if it comes out awkward, blame lack of experience. At least, I’ve stopped being “smart for my age”, which I’d like to think happened due to an increase in age not a drop in smart. 😛

When I started this blog, I was also inspired by trying to put my porn out there after reading Little Submissions. At the moment the rant-to-erotica ratio has somewhat pushed these projects off the radar, but I’d have to say that I really appreciate your patience.

These days, what I have is both planted firmly on the shoulders of giants, and surrounded by taller giants still. Which is a sort of odd mental image, I suppose, and makes the whole thing sound like a mosh pit our of Jack and the Beanstalk.

Anyway I’d like to thank my readers, old and new. We passes 10K visits this year about two days ago, which for me, is probably the most attention a project of mine has ever gotten in a measurable, consistent way. There’s a few projects that are in the pipeline:

1) Reviews, when I can sound a bit more positive about the creative work of others

2) More direct commentary on scene and kink stuff that needs to be talked about.

On the latter point, I’m putting a shout out for content requests. What are things that you think aren’t getting enough love in the BDSM scene? In kink outside the scene?

My Buttplug Is Dented!

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Once in a while I get the urge to shove things up my ass. Only I’m next door to virginal with this, so that means small, carefully selected toys. And since the urge only strikes when I’m really, really horny (in this case a reaction to stress alongside breaking out and stopping eating), normally they live in a bland as hell cardboard box.

So I’d reached that point in a post shower masturbation session where my hair was making a puddle in the pillow while my fingers were making a puddle between my legs, when there was the itch to do it.

A while ago I bought an anal starter kit. It was the worst shade of lurid, Pepto Bismo pink, and on a steep discount over at pinkcherry.ca. But, Doc Johnson signed off on this, and since $20 is not a bad price to pay for a bunch of things I can’t see anyway…

So I’m deciding among my options: I have the condom to go over the buttplug (hygiene), the off brand KY, and go rummaging in the box for the “big” one. Lest you think I’m a size queen, that’s about the girth of penis at its widest point and that’s too much for me.

Only it’s not exactly smooth anymore. It’s gone all ripply. Like there’s a pinch, or a crease or a big dent. Well… it was $20 for a set. Looks like being stored horizontally was too much for the structural integrity and the soft core squished. So there I was, really horny, stymied by my own cheapness.

Don’t worry, anal explorations were not hampered by Mr. Dimple. 😛

Cum

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Cum tastes kinda like baking soda.

Sorry, that’s the non-erotic truth. Porn (especially cartoons, which have a lot of artistic licence)  generally go in for creamy, squirted cum shots like it had the consistency of slightly diluted dish soap, a couple of gallons at a time… Often it is things like soap when you see it in real person porn, and actors speak ruefully of getting a mouthful of Cetaphil more often than they’d like. Real life? Not so much.

I like semen. On me, on him.

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Horny Women: Turning Me, and Females (Animals and People) On

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With various corners of the internet talking about a book that just came out “What Do Women Want?: Adventures in the Science of Female Desire”, and the accompanying media articles, I suppose it’s topical to discuss my own relationship with the subject.

Thanks to Puritanical morals, human sex research has been greatly hampered. From the only recently formally discovered “internal clitoris” (circa 2009!) to decades upon decades of fucked up animal sex research because we assumed that certain human social models apply to the animal kingdom as the biological gold standard. As well as it not being polite to talk about all the gay animals until very recently, one of the things that’s getting talked about is female desire.

So… what do I think about my own sexual desire, as a woman?

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FemDom On a Work Morning

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Space invaders, winter of 2012, I'll be sad when it breaks.
thedrunkenmoogle.com

Morning. Wake up at 5:00 AM, flail a bit for my phone and check the time. Be not quite sure why I woke up that early, go back to sleep. Feel all fuzzy at 6:00 AM when I was supposed to wake up. Sort of flail around and semi doze for 45 minutes against my better judgement. Poke the sub, put the kettle on. Salted Caramel black tea in my Space Invaders mug (see image). Random internetings.

Look glumly at perpetual mess in the kitchen, make mental note to take trash out to avoid smells from Atlantic salmon steak last night. Decide to at least make mess a little better and empty sink for easier dish washing. What to pack for Lunch? Salad? With ham? Sandwich?  Clean inside of sink, wash a knife. Breakfast is at work, there’s still bagels left from the ones I bought yesterday. Salad-with-ham, also chopped fennel, pickled turnip, baby romaine lettuce, small cuke. Time to get groceries after work. Ham? Why not! Make a mustard based dressing. Put tupperware in platic bag to avoid bathing the inside of my purse in homemade mustard dressing. Because the sink is empty, wash all lunch related dishes. Pat self on back, put lunch in purse. Have forgotten this step more times than I’m comfortable admitting.

Sip tea pensively while looking for what to wear to work. Weather promises to be cool and rainy, meeting with boss today. am angling for a raise, need to look competent but knid of cuddly because this is marketing. Corporate manic pixie dream girl ahoy! Uhgh. Body is transitioning back down from progesterone peak (it’s the placebo week on birth control, whee) and I’m no longer a puffy Dom, just a spotty one. Black tights, over not so nice undies (reason implied) in last sentence. Okay, skirt day. Polkadot matron dress? Too formal. White blouse over new white bra, layer with plaid dress pinafore style. Workable.  Brush hair. Earrings are already in ears, pearl studs. Wet weather means freshly redyed (hides grey) hair has plenty of body but lots of poof. Debate buzzing my hair, non seriously. Wish sub a good day, hop off to work.

Femdom Role Model

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For me, the paucity of female dominants creates another problem. Specifically  as much as I argue against the idea that a mentor is a requirement, scarcity allows for definition of the role by the few, and this is a role with very few people in it indeed, the most vocal of which are paid to dominate.

So from the outside, way back before I got heavily involved in doing it, the whole thing looked, not like a barrel of fun and horniness, but somewhere between goth playboy bunny and indulgent girlfriend.

The pageantry  protocol and fetishware do no help to an outsider- while femsub gets constant reinvention (even if standards referenced by The Story of O still hold pretty fast for something first published in 1954 and translated to English in the mid-sixties). There is also, paradoxically  a lot more agency of actual women in building the fantasy. Gor might have been the wank of a male philosophy prof, but everything from Story of O through to 50 Shades has a female author getting her wank on, and one mustn’t neglect all the stops along the way in the highly fertile genre of romance, heavily seeded with women writing for female consumption.

But what about me, a dom?

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Bones and Flesh and Pressure Points, Sex.

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The photography is by someone called Pauline Darly

An almost half year dry spell marked my Divorce’s conclusion. For a variety of reasons I waited a long time to try all those basic aspects of the flesh. It was not without encouragement to the contrary, as friends and even Strong tried to coax me to find someone or something to fill the ah… breach. I got lectured on zipless, no strings fucks, coaxed to try dating again, etc… But the flesh recoiled at the thought. There’s particular ways it needs to be touched and more to the point, I need there to be respect and the time it takes to vet another human being for that sort of thing is extensive.

And yet, Saying sex and pain are, for me inseparable concepts, both makes me sound like I’m talking about chronic vaginismus and does not capture the nuances of how I experience it. I’m talking hands on sadomasochism.

So, sex. It’s about touch, really, light touches, hard touches, scrapes of nails, stinging slaps, pressure, joints straining and for me, the sort of push that digs to the bone. To have and be touched is a wonderful thing. And I’m enraptured by smell and texture, that clean sex musk, the veins beneath the skin and the softness of the skin that wraps a cock.

And for me, pain. To hurt and be hurt. I adore the way that after your body has been primed, the weight of the last hurt drags into even the lightest caress, so that your whole body sensitizes and touch becomes more than how it was before there was pain. And there’s the noises, the facial expressions, the changes of posture are all extremely erotic to me. Pain is such a raw thing to have, creating a suffusion through the flesh from where ever it has been triggered.

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Cupcakes and Streamers

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Not my cake, I had cupcakes I turned 27 at the end of last week. My living room is still festooned with bunting and balloons, rainbow dollar store streamers put up with tape, hanging in frothy swathes. Leftover high end cupcakes sit in tupperware, frozen because that much sugar in the half dozen in one go would stun a horse.

I got a very pleasant visit for my birthday (I shall speak more on that later) and integral part of assembling the day together. As a result I have more or less dropped off the map, which is pleasant, though I utterly fucked ordering the munch for this month. Still, it’s nice when everything comes together perfectly.

As far as how it happened, that was a matter of delegation and getting exactly what you want. On that note, I got asked by someone random “(what a) Domme would like to have for Her birthday from Her subs, slaves, friend, boyfriend etc…” I wanted a made-to-order birthday.

Given the choice of various gifts, this one pretty much fits exactly what I want. And at the end of the day that’s pretty similar to what I think I would have wanted as a vanilla person.

Cargo Cult Career

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I’m working straight through the weekend and I feel, overwhelmingly like I’m engaging in some form of cargo cult more than doing anything meaningful. I really, really want a Career with a capital C. Right now I’m underpaid, over worked and messing about with what the trappings I think a career should look like.

I have suits, but nowhere to wear a power suit to. I am doing all sorts of exciting things, designing a sales and marketing campaign, learning Google analytics in my spare time, working evenings and weekends… and I feel like I’m being driven by the idea of what a Good Job is supposed to look like and no idea if this is basically some sort of corporate shamanism where I align the bones and sigils in the hope of uncovering some sort of buzz word laden, money attracting magic.

Let’s face it, despite all the Christian Greys and fur coat having wealthy Venuses, the average dom doesn’t have a high power/high class lifestyle attached. I have no clue what class I am- I grew up on welfare and various government assistant programs due to regular financial insolvency in my family. At first that was the understandable consequence of being the kid of a single mother, but the rest seems to be inexplicable bad luck and quite a bit of mismanagement. On the other hand I’m relatively privileged  I got through shit thus far with a BA and no student debt.

To be honest I want a Career because of a deep seated financial insecurity caused by growing up at the mercy of other people’s employment prospects. I don’t buy into the idea of being an uber Dom with impeccable self control and yet… I want control and security in a wa that borders on pathalogical. I’m honestly really happy to have money, any money. I’m extremely materialistic, not in the sense of acquiring all the latest tech toys but thinking in terms of life being something that’s bought piece by piece.

This month, for example, I upgraded my bedding to something stupendously comfortable. I found an inexpensive bed spread to cover my beat up couch. Just thinking about this *stuff* makes me feel happier. It’s not a popular opinion, because I think you’re supposed to take this sort of thing for granted or be above it. And yet…

This leads me to second guess my romantic desire for dominance. In an ideal scenario, I want some sort of Career with a house husband or otherwise to me the earner, have money and be valued for making money. I also want to be the decider in my relationship beyond the bedroom and that makes me uncomfortable- am I doing it for them or for me, and is it fair to leverage this based on cash? Do I want that because it’s realistic for me, or because I distrust other people? This probably is just Worrying About Being Dominant and Being Guilty.

So not only am I worrying, careerwise, that I won’t be able to hack a system posited on fundamental inequalities that I’m not even sure I should support, but I have to wonder if the sort of inequalities I’m fetishizing are the very ones I’d rather shatter in reality. Never mind, I support amnesty international and have water boarded two people.  There’s room for me to become an evil suit… if I can just figure it out.

Sex And Housekeeping

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Images taken from here: The Perfect Housewife

At work, I’m doing two and a half people’s jobs, thanks to the quitting of the person one step above me on the ladder. The green of spring had really gotten going, which meant that copious amounts of tree cum are ending up my nose. There’s been shit tests aplenty, as part of my new job, from playing the game of “should I fire this person”? (No, you bloody well should not, I need them to do reports…) to whip around deadlines and new projects where people have no fucking clue what they’re doing. At a potent deadline around the 14th…

The demands of my high stress job really engender in me the urge to go home and really… take up control and really force someone into that submissive space for my benefit. It’s not a kick the dog thing, it’s a craving that has only gotten stronger with age to get into that comfortable, lofty little cloud that is power over someone else.

The other overwhelming impulse I get is to over buy food. You would not, going by the usual state in my kitchen, think that I was all that domestic by nature. I’ve mentioned in the past that nurturing is a really big part of my kinks, and it really extends to a certain sort of domestic fussiness that permeates my life. I’ve noticed that the one thing I’ll do as far as stress shopping is buying more food than I really need. Not eating it, but acquiring it like I was readying myself for winter.

So it’s been a few weeks of furious horniness and dominance cravings combined with over buying eats. And over buying, and over buying… While my house gets really cluttered because the other thing that happens with stress is not wanting to do basic tidying.