Life’s carrying on well enough. Montreal’s wrapped in a blanket of humidity. Strong packed off, leaving a few lingering traces, I went back to my desk job and found little had advanced in my absence. There’s interesting challenges there, including tightening up my resume and planning my summer. I have pretty much all I want… in the planning/preparing stage of things.
So, linky-link time!
Submissive Guy Comics is worth a peek for their light hearted, cuddly and cozy look at D/s
Domme Chronicles has a great post written by Audio Diva on a happy D/s relationship to give F/m some positive role models.
Dumb Domme has some particularly amusing things to say about aftercare.
Dishevelled Domina, on the other hand is taking a hard look at the lumps that end up in her inbox, in several blog posts.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
So I’m the host to the 18-35 munch in Montreal at the moment, and we’ve been wildly successful and got very big. There’s some problems though. See this as a release of steam, I’m not mad at the munch guests.
1) The age thing- people trying to squeak under in their late 30s or older, or bringing an older partner. This is not making other people happy. I have to make a blanket ruling about this for the munches now.
2) Hosting issues- We’re too big for most venue’s reserved spaces. Everyone wants the cheapest possible drinks, a semi-private area, food and good mingling, but is opposed to space rentals. People are complaining it’s too crowded.
3) People behaving badly- I need to wrangle a harassment case, though the person making the complaint is stubbornly refusing to be specific. We’re getting big enough we attract creepers. There’s enough people that I’m now getting “too cliquey!”
4) I think it’s big enough to need to be a committee effort, but organizing that, alone, is also a headache.
Last Thursday was the 18-35 munch, an event that has exploded in size at this point, and now is pulling in quite the large group. We’re meeting in a larger bar now, and with our general scale I’m having to discourage older persons from attending.
We had a few old people slip in this time, and older gentleman get turned away, accusing me of being hostile when it’s his first munch ever- though there were a lot of folk of that age group so I’m not sure who of the older folk that was or even if the poor bastard was actually 34 and well weathered. The thing is, I don’t set out to make old people feel bad- the age limit is in place because gatherings of mostly 40+ aged people scare the 19 and 20 year olds away. And there are not so many options for the latter group. I’m not going to throw the 36 year olds out, but neither do I want this to turn into an all ages thing.
Especially sad, a lot of the older folk who sent me courtesy emails missed the point. Telling me that they liked younger people or looked young wasn’t really the subject for the limits- it’s not intended to be face control.
It’s an organization challenge. For one thing we’re pretty top heavy, with a big crowd, and everyone wanting something as cheap as possible, but with food and good mingling. A part of my fantasizes about saying screw it and not holding the event anymore, passing it onto someone else. And yet I might as well stick with it- it won’t organize itself.
I took care of some tax paperwork that needed doing, and followed up with the Ex so he knew that as far as cofiling for 2012, the ball’s in his court again. Next month I’m turning 27. Perhaps for that reason I’m filled with a particular impatience, as if nothing is coming at the speed it should.
And yet, I took a pretty big leap in January, to correct something that was demonstrably not a large sign of maturity in my life up until that point. I broke off an almost six year relationship, expecting to abandon everything that didn’t fit into a taxi. With my Ex, I’ve been particularly careful talking about it- his privacy deserves respect and nothing is worse than tirades about a person who cannot defend themselves.
Breaking up didn’t make me a happier person per-say, because I’ve always been particularly good at living inside my head, and from that point, manufacturing my own contentment. I think, to apply a lesson from that situation, the problem was not basic sexual incompatibility, because I was quite capable of finding him attractive. It wasn’t ideological issues, though we didn’t see eye-to-eye on a lot of stuff, because I again, tend to have that space in my head that generally lets people I’m close to be people. It was a fundamental lack of respect that was eventually starting to go both ways that was making it bad for both of us.
Again, I think I’m on pretty dubious grounds as far as telling the whole wide web, though I’ve also talked intimately of my sexuality in other posts so… I’ll try to stick to talking about me and not him.
A lot of people seem to think that being a D-type makes you magically able to pilot relationships to the point that a few lonely-and-delusional sub types will chime in about how you just need to put glue in the lock of the chastity cage and everything will come up roses, and yet I think this sort of problem is something that could happen to anyone, kinky or not.
Things I took into the relationship, that were pretty important, is being a survivor of child abuse, and being part of the addict-and-enabler song and dance. A lot of people have gone through what I did (there’s no apparent correlation between being kinky and childhood abuse survival) and it grinds a pattern into you that is so familiar and reliable that I can meet someone from the same weird world and just about close my eyes and run my fingers, blind, through the maze they’ve got embossed on their psyche. What does that have to do with my Ex? Learned helplessness is a bitch.
In the oddest way, kink did kill our relationship. Not basic sexual incompatibility but some older person on fetlife advising me that as I aged I would understand all those “[Sigh!]… whatever!” things women are supposed to give in response to their male partners. I find the idea horrifying. And, one of the prices of staying with the ex would have been fundamental acceptance that I would never be listened to, in any particular capacity- I’d rather be a crazy cat lady than resigned.
But independence is pretty amazing. I like having my own apartment. It needs work, but even the relative lack of resources that came as a trade off of not being in a shared household… does not seriously impact my quality of life. I have noticed that I am being treated like I am more attractive, which generally tends to go with being on the lighter end of my weight fluctuations and is a definite thing. People are shallow. Then again, I’m not living as much inside my head as it was, so that’s a positive trade off.
I engage in lots of little projects, as is my habit. Honestly, it keeps me occupied. Each month brings some small improvement. Not bad for someone who was sleeping on a pile of laundry mid January! This week’s extravagance will hopefully be updating my bedding, at least to get a nice duvet cover that doesn’t have the general texture of sandpaper.
And on the flip side, I’m enjoying the challenges of my job. Hilariously, my boss wants me to temper my “direct” communication style, which means code switching to utterly fake corporate cheerleader in all external emails. This is not challenging for me, but if I actually believes in True Dominance (TM) I’d claim it was my nature shining through.
Instead, insincere exclamation points.
This is generic stock art. No idea where it started out.
The large hall of the shooting range was empty except for six people, giving it an eerie ghost town calm. It was one of the places where Landfall taste was at war with the practicalities: no carved wood and patterned wallpaper, just dull, unreflective ricochet tile on every surface, swallowing every sound, before it could reverberate. The range was lit by bright beaming, ugly shatter proof lighting. By size alone, the room should have been echoing and instead it was stifling, and everyone looked grey skinned and more strained than they were.
They’d left the exclusive residential district of the Harrington townhouse and gone to one of the new but respectable suburbs of the city. Phillip had found he was half dozing, carrying the damage to his body quietly, sitting on the floor or the car. Annette stroked his head distractedly and her two closest guards stayed alert in their seats, expectant. He felt slightly feverish and very tired.
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.
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 
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Last Thursday was the 18-35 munch, an event that has exploded in size at this point, and now is pulling in quite the large group. We’re meeting in a larger bar now, and with our general scale I’m having to discourage older persons from attending.