Retrospective 2018 On My Femdom Life

Blisters from my sexual journey.Let’s look at the metaphoric hiking blisters and holiday snaps from my sexual journey, shall we? 😛

This blog has seen me through four relationships, and a significant part of my adult life, almost a third of it, actually. It was started as an effort to put content out there that resonated with me, in a world that did precious little, for various reasons, to cater to my niche. I knew, for example, when I saw a scene in a movie where an attractive man was tortured I got very alert and excited, but there was a distinct lack of stuff explicitly made for my gaze and desire.

I started chasing this in 2008, with my move to Montreal. I slipped from turgid sex chats and online role playing to visiting munches, getting a fetlife account and playing with real boys (and real girls and then real nbs). The blog grew out of fetlife- it wasn’t my first foray into autobiographical writing or fiction online, but a very successful effort, cataloging my exploits, fantasies and trying to be a representation of femdom life.

I got semi niche famous. I’m still a leading luminary, albeit never the most important. The blog doesn’t really turn a profit, but book sales almost cover hosting and the odd freelance writing gig gained through it sort of balance it out. I imagine if I decided to put more dedicated effort into content churn, particularly ramping up the spank bank material we’d be a better business.

Now, about a decade of exploration later, I get to look back on what precisely what the hell all this means in the context of the now.

I am thirty two. A little thinner than my youth, with more grey hair and a few permanent scars on my skin and psyche and a few hard won pieces of confidence and honed skills. My writing is better through raw practice and editing.  I tackled some truly awful people in the local community of Montreal, battled all sorts of bad theory (Karma Sutra still has me blocked), ran a successful munch until I basically aged out, and can largely be happy with much of it even if I chafe that I am now what passes for an elder-mentor when I still feel like a hot mess. I think that’s a millennial thing- we’re all adults in a world where the meaning of adulthood exploded.

I don’t regret my kink explorations but I also remain wistful that one thing I wanted remains very much out of reach, long term sexual satisfaction in a loving, respectful relationship. I of course, always attract and prefer commitment oriented partners. I’m in a relationship and happy with him, but I’m still fighting to explain what I am and feel I am being understood and more importantly, cherished for it.

I’m still feeling like a freakish femdom unicorn.

I want things to be better.

It is still very hard to find a contextual niche about femdom that doesn’t cater specifically to being an object of male desire. This supposition is either that your power is based on limitless male longing, or that you are working within a selection of specific fetishes held by a male partner. The Mistress Manual is one of the better books about this (the New Topping Book is the inverse option that presupposes no gender and a buffet approach) , but the former’s premise is shit for a female dominant doing things for her own sake. (And fabulous for when he is the kinky one).

Sites like Femmedomme Society and Elise Sutton  now have enough practical adults willing to call out the fantasy nonsense for what it is, but the norms of the work, one where female dominance is somehow all powerful through pent up male horniness, still lingers, with the consumer model omnipresent. People still try to hire me as a service provider, or offer me porn inspired activities as “service” despite being perfect strangers (and my hoary old age in no way deters them).

The censorship of FOSTA and SESTA and crack downs on global social media ranging from twitter to instagram, and the perennial shittiness of the monopoly of credit card providers on what is acceptable sex-art will be a problem into the next decade.

It’s not all a bleak, joyless sex dystopia, however.

Shoulders are tits for people who like make bodies.Ava Ex Machina and Ferns continue the good fight in the field of femdom life blogging. The tumblr user curated porn remains excellent, and there are deep strides among the young folks through the niche called “Gentle Femdom” to pull people away from the client and dominatrix model of how this works. There’s a pile of male bloggers and writers plugging away with dynamics that function, and of course Dreams Made Flesh launched .

On a larger porn front, women are now actively being recognized as consumers. We dominate (snrk) the erotica market, as both consumers and creators, and happily consume all sorts of other porn.  Women write, read, watch and aggressively pursue sex in a way that was just not a thing in the previous century. It’s getting better.

I am actually confident that if I buy femdom porn I won’t necessarily come away insulted, disgusted and alienated. Performers like Lance Hart, much like the male sub bloggers, go further in breaking down the implicit external power dynamics of classic femdom porn. Sweet artists like GracyGimp or the flat out wonderful Yumine bring a certain lively coziness to what was previously more than a little cold. BDSM, thanks largely to the work of submissive women advocating on their own behalf, is mainstream.

But I am still having a crap time getting a partner to actually give me what I want.

There, I said it, that in large part pursuit of sexual satisfaction has been the fulcrum that moved me from various relationships, first out of one that was destroying me as a person, then into an interlude with Strong that notably petered out when the fetish fun times did, then with Wildcard, much more painfully, for he had a lot to recommend him. With Brick, it is no wonder I am fixated on trying to get it right, because my actions tell me this is clearly something that matters to me a lot.

My relationship, at the moment, has a huge pile of pressure to perform on him because a decade of experimentation and poking leaves some impatience.  I like to invest heavily in my partners- I would describe I am moderate-maintenance, but thrive when I can nurture my partner. He’s pretty and fun and smart and our hobbies that line up, but the figurative elephant in the room is my feelings around sex.

And it is really sucking to try to talk about what I am into with the absolute expectation of getting my needs met, because I keep second guessing that any communication fuck up is my fault. Now some of this is the gulf between fantasy and reality, for example there is no such thing as limitless submission or universal sexual chemistry.

Writing out that I am sexually unsatisfied, however, is an exercise in anxiety. What if my partners think I am judging them?  What if I destroy the hope my readers have? What if the collective judgement uses this as an excuse why being a female dominant is a condition we need curing from? What if, indeed the problem is me?

Heady stuff, in a world that isn’t sure if it needs to send you money and semen or off to jail by way of a psyche ward. I’ve made it my work to talk about the personal and a lot of why there has been a hiatus is that I did not think that the world needed more sad femdoms. Bitter girl blog is all well and good, but just like there is a relative shortage of our porn, there’s a wealth of female dominants in anger, misery and crotchety despair.

Then again, Fuck Fear.

I have to trust that if I put myself out there, a partner I can be happy with will understand me. This isn’t really what I wanted- I’ve been basically trying to “settle down” for the entirety of my femdom exploits, and the hard lesson, repeatedly taught is that settling down domestically with a person cannot be subsuming my own happiness to the enterprise, in the broken idea that this will make me happier. Unfortunately it’s probably living your own authentic self to accept that with age must come honesty, and the next fifty years are probably even more tactless.

I love, and will love, but I will also love my femdom self and above all things be honest, because if I cannot do that with myself, what hope might I have that others can?

There are commercial links in this post. They are not affiliate links.

Leash Fantasies for Him

My arousal is a suffusion from the nape of my neck to my knees, a warmth and skin hunger that buzzes away in my breasts and the softness of the inside of my thighs. I think about a thing he doesn’t want to do and it is erotic.

At the party, I took his necktie, parading him about with the enjoyment of my casual ability to inspire obedience.

Blame a friend joking, oh no now that we’re dating “[Brick] wrangling is your job” and that I got the leash now. I sent back that nobody told me there was a leash in full enthusiasm, kink hiding in the plain sight place we use humor to fig leaf.  Hahaha, you want your boyfriend in a symbolic costume of  servitude, a base state where you can pull a band and make him comply.

I think, naked. It’s my fantasy, though there’s a pile of edge play that in real life would be negotiated and blocked out safely, here I can have my audience to his helplessness.  Here I tell him to put the collar on and clip the leash in place and there’s no self conscious echo in my own head… but only if you want to, right?

Hey, it’s a fantasy, it doesn’t have to be real. I can put all sorts of scenarios. Porn likes losing bets to create this sort of thing, but I could have mind control powers I’m using to break him down if I want, make him helplessly watch as he does the thing he doesn’t want to do and fastens collar about his own neck. Kneel. Surrender.

Brick doesn’t like it. Doesn’t come easy to him, doesn’t know how a lot of the time, good natured about it, but not necessarily comprehending the depths of the metaphoric rabbit hole.

So he finds it distasteful? Tough. My fantasy, he has to.  Has to be naked on command because seeing even a shirtless picture makes me catch my breath a bit. Mine. Strip, slut.

I like the idea of leaving him with an in his head defiance, an awareness he is being forced into it. I like puppet play, where the victim knows what you are doing is wrong but can’t help it. I want it. Actually that real resistance becomes another toy in the toy box.

Trawl through my fiction from a young age and surprise, lots of tall, skinny redheads.  But the real? Fantasy screams to break him, tie him, chain him, find out what takes to make him beg.

Lust is a heady, heavy body grabbing sensation, a hunger I can self slake temporarily, but that wants to devour someone else.  I want to treat Brick like a sex object,  and while he’s used to being found an object of desire, I don’t think full on sex slave is part of the repertoire he’s tackled before.

No, no gimp suits, none of this boys are icky never gonna come while the bull fucks me. No, Brick’s the man other people see as their Bull. And you know what? I’m the girl who sees that and thinks about how to put a metaphoric ring through his nose.

I’ll lead you to market.


The image in this post was borrowed from here, where you can buy a leather english bulldog leash and collar.

My Take on Cuckolding Fantasies

Cuckolding fantasies are more than just cuck focused“So multiple people offered to throw in cash to get me to go to this event at $nerdhobby, I am so popular.” I’m not bragging, I’m surprised at my popularity and slightly bemused by the absurdity.

His reaction is to miss a beat, face going suspicious, “Oh really? Who?”

“The very gay $nerdhobbyguy, for one.” I know the implication, but I live with it and measure it accordingly. Boys offering you things is kind of par for the course as an extra level of social complexity to navigate. It sucks as an artist of any kind, because patronage is also how we wend our way, and nobody likes trying to suss out if you are trying to fuck me or support my writing. And I never apologize that men want me.

He’s not quite calm about it, not mad at me or displaying any sort of impolite or threatening anger, but outlined to me what it had always meant when he had offered to sponsor a girl, and then realizing that I might take offense either via implying I condoned really low wage sex work or was naive to the ways of the world, falls into repeatedly reassuring me that he trusts me.

Brick, you see, is a jealous man but not a controlling one. He’s liable to characterize it as “protective”, from the perspective that I need to be saved from all attention, pursuit and appreciation. On the other hand there’s a definite thread that we share a similar mean little desire to reject and trammel all over a guy. You’re never going to catch him as the forced bi bull shoving his cock down a would be rival’s throat, but there is a desire to emotionally and socially dominate other men (and in fantasy land probably beat the shit out of them) that pretty much occupies the same space a cuckolding fantasies do in the continuum of things men are socialized to have feelings about.

But, I like watching you fight them for me, even if I want you to win.

I am not one of those people who thinks that jealousy, or any feeling, in the abstract, is bad. I don’t think one’s feelings entitle you to automatically make the other party responsible for them, but I like the honesty and vulnerability in him getting possessive, the itchy fists and raised hackles. It’s hot. It makes me feel in control and turns me on. I enjoyed that Brick’s reaction was not compersion, that mainstay of the poly community, but murder.

I’m careful here, because this is a raw dynamic, which means that it’s his Real Feelings (TM) and could actually hurt him, so I’m not going to do anything to actually harm him or manipulate him. But I like that the script is there. I like the idea of using him as a tool of my sadism and dominance. I think he would get worn out and stressed if he thought that other men were constantly testing the boundaries of his relationship in a way that imperiled him, but I’m still going to enjoy it when it accidentally falls in my lap. And I have more thoughts on that… Read more

Honestly, I Need To Get Fucked

Fuck me.I need you to fuck me in a way that makes me want to shred your skin and bruise you. I want to see you vulnerable and helpless and there’s the ache and the little niggling tinge of fear for me because to want something is to let yourself be open to the possibility of not having it.

I want to be able to just take you. And to make you perform for me. I want to lure you in, to learn where all your buttons are, so that I can push them at will. It’s a potent, heady feeling when I zip up my leather boots and you get that look. Your tongue touches your lip and your eyes go unfocused and very focused all at once. If I could bottle that feeling, of knowing I’ve hypnotized you, I would. I could get drunk off it.

You know how it felt, putting your belt over your neck?  Looking at that band of black, bisecting your throat, book-ended by my curled fists holding it to the mattress? Lust. But the confidence you have to marshal up to put yourself out there, that takes being brave on my part. Not much of a come down from no. So much shyness on my side as well as I made you try the new sensation. What if you hated it?

It makes me wet to think about you helpless, but I need your consent. No, fuck that. I need your enthusiastic consent.

Every boy wants a dominant woman, you learn that pretty early. The belief that she knows what she wants, that hint of aggression and violence is catnip even to guys who think they are vanilla. But there’s a trade off, boys get pretty fucking lazy about your sexuality. They’re used to porn and pros, where she’s only so dangerous , always offering a menu he can pick and chose from or a program, neatly planned.

It’s either all in on his perfect fantasy, whether that is locked cocks forever or serving as someone’s stud stallion; or reviewing a pro-dom’s website and ticking off the boxes: smother me with your ass, slap me about but hold the cross dressing. It’s not fake, per say, in that any pro-dom who can stay in business knows how to get in a man’s head. And I can’t fault porn for doing its job well.

You’re not like that. You want to make me happy. Sure you like it when I zip into leather and I’ve learned a few of your other buttons. I’m good at turning people on- a part of this blog is the knack I have. But, I’m the one with the weird fetishes. Who’s pretty much started to believe that most men want to want a dominant way more than they want to have her.

A million blog posts and are extant on sweet talking a missus into a mistress, and here I am, trying to figure out how to fit you into my sexuality with the same sort of gung ho enthusiasm I have trying to cram the entirety of your cock down my throat.  You’re too big to swallow but I want it and I get what I want. I’m going to work up to it.

We trade what we can over video and pictures. I tease you with a little pleather dress that cost me $22 at Forever21 (They’re having a grunge/goth revival, all the stuff that was in when I was in highschool). You send me snapshots of your hand wet with your cum, I debate prying a little into that- I’m almost disappointed when you finish yourself,  unseen and un-commented on because I want to tease you more. That moment just before you come is when I feel the most power.

I’ve gone claw the drapes crazy over you, but it doesn’t make me submissive. Doesn’t even box me back into vanilla, not that I’ve ever been there. So yeah, you said you want me. I told you the whole of the deal, how I want to hurt you and own you. I’m both complicated and easy going enough that it isn’t automatic slave contracts and collars, though sometimes I wonder if this would be easier if I just had an uncompromising menu instead of this crawl-into-your-head-and-control it thing the sexuality fairies gave me.

Oh god. I need your desire.  It’s the best thing, the drug I’m hooked on, filling you up with want, and draining it from you. I want you utterly helpless.

You know that moment when you are most attractive to me is moments before you come and you’re opened up and really feel it when I call you my slut? Sure the sex is good, feeling your body slam into mine, sure I scream because it feels amazing. When I come with you it’s this odd vulnerable makes me feel all small and sometimes you saw I cried a bit.

Because it’s hard to want something this much.  Not just your cock, although that’s plenty nice, but to have you.  And have you want the entirety of me, not as things you have to make concessions to, but are excited about.

It’s really scary. Also I really, really need to get fucked.

Fall Changes, Forward Motion and Endings

Fall leaves with quote: "My life is changing as the leaves outside my window shift their shade."Lately it’s been a life lived in a general state of desire I’ve missed. I’m happy to have my lust back, happy to crave and want and not feel completely undesired although I have once again screwed myself (and not in the good way) via setting my wants on someone out of easy reach for their regular use.

I’ve endeavored to sublimate that desire into productivity. My not so stable office gig finally tipped over, commanding I look elsewhere. There have been  a few auspicious leads, but just starting the process. So career shift joins the other life changes that this year brought.

You already know I ended things with Wildcard. I also basically closed the door on my monthly munch, being more than a little burned out on the Montreal BDSM scene.

I need to focus more on me, although life doesn’t want me to do that based on the demands it keeps dropping at my doorstep. So I have been cutting away a lot of things that are not cooperative with that goal, because I will be sick and chronically unhappy all the time if I don’t.

I love autumn as much for the changes it signifies as the other aspects of the season.

Fall is my favourite season, my new year, as a student, with crisp clean new supplies and excitement about my classes, then as an adult for the fact that the parts of the year I like start. It’s my romantic time, when I get dreamy and cozy, and historically tend to fall into the dreamiest states of love. The light is prettier, the temperature finally less obnoxious so I can do things.

So with the extra energy, both from my kicked up lust, the season change and my commitment to myself, I’ve been doing more.

This has largely been a net positive. I’ve been writing a bunch, even some exclusive stuff for Dreams Made Flesh, who is carrying the mission that I started this blog for, that Bitchy Jones inspired me to take up in the first place, one step further. Actually it’s one of the hotter things (to me) I’ve ever written.

Sure I am stressed as heck about money (now would be a good time to offer me a writing commission! ) and not entirely sure what I am doing, but the last couple of months have been more productive than the year combined. Documents I have needed have been applied for. Legal processes started.

I was past due for this.

I may not stay in Montreal for very long, depending what happens with my employment.  Or it might be a year more if a really good job pops up, but I feel like I’m done with this city now and ready to see what else is out there.

Fall is a dying season but also time to harvest what I planted, and I’m going out there with my basket.

New York & Brick

I went to New York last weekend.

Three days, two sleeps, flying down to Laguardia, waiting anxiously at the airport for him to arrive and the meet up, full of bounce as weeks of anticipation culminated in the hard impact of bodies next to the baggage carousel. The heat off us and the mist of lust kept us cocooned as my hands stroked his chest, my lips met his and my body insistently pressed. He was already hardening just from my touch, there, gooey but not pushing the bounds of good taste in public too far.

We took a taxi to Manhattan, where our hotel sat just off Wall Street. I was in New York, one of my favourite cities and I didn’t care. The wedding we were supposed to was a fig leaf for this moment, getting him up into the room and the door closed so I could get my mouth on his cock.

I needed to be fucked. My body needs it, subverting all else, all thought but the moment when he is inside me. Even back in Canada, writing this, I put aside all thoughts, impractically, but how to repeat the experience.  I want him.

My lover:

He’s as pale as me, skin translucent, blooming red where the bite of my nails touch his back. He’s fragile and soft to touch, so much so that there is a certain sort of decadence in it- touching him is like stroking silk laid on butter; long boned limbs, shadowed eyes rimmed in red and the brightest blue I’ve ever seen on a person.

Metaphors fail me there: like stained glass in sun, like the ocean in the right hour of the afternoon when it catches a clear sky. He’s self conscious about the ruddy-blood bloom in his pale skin- some celtic ancestor’s gift, but I like the translucence that underlies it. I am known for my snow skin, part of the underpinning of the moniker for my nom-de-kink, but his a match for mine, on the face and inside of the wrists, where the sun hasn’t left him sleeved with freckles.

Six foot something, tall enough to exactly rest his chin on the top of my head, and I’m as wide as his chest at the shoulder. I’m tiny, and yet it’s more often his head folded into my chest to rest, myself curled onto his back to sleep. He speaks fast, many words, not one for silences, with a southern accent. His homeland is a strange, foreign place to me, full of firearms and personal responsibility to the point of fatality. He tolerates more than me, born of consequence of exposure but perhaps more patience than I have.

He comes when my hand’s on his neck and my voice is in his ear, telling him who he belongs to, reminding him that he’s my slut. Independent, leader, giving, brave… and yet under me his eyes get soft and gentle and vulnerable. I learn him, inside his head and outside, where my tongue can touch his nipples and make him whimper and how to meet his gaze with my mouth on his balls, so the combination of the visual and psychological overcomes him.

He delights in my “gleep face”, hands over my eyes like I am playing peek-a-boo as sudden waves of shyness hit. The dewy, cozy mind melt of love has hit us both, leaving us addicted and adorably besotted.

New York:

The heat of this false summer followed me down, but the buildings gave shade. Warm, perfect nights, out with two people getting married, her pregnancy pushing at her belly under her sari, vows exchanged, him praising her ambition and drive, her promising to care for him properly and listen to his perspectives even when she is sure she is right.

We’re among nerds, and I natter happily with them, making friends oh so effortlessly. The couple whose nupitals we hijacked to give us a convenient excuse to try to merge as one are so accommodating when we push myself past when I should have eaten on day one and I fold up all sleepy.

I meet his ex-girlfriend, small in stature, big in personality and we hit it off. His friends at the wedding feel out who the new girl is and gently tease him about him being a bachelor. We eat diner breakfasts in the morning, and lavish meals at night, pasta with extra sides compliments of the chef (note to self: add capers to my baked cauliflower next time!) , wedding fare that’s tasty and well picked,  and around the social time and the fucking we barely have time to see much else. We visit the 9/11 memorial and look over the depths of the reflecting pools. I take two fallen acorns and forget them in my pocket.

I dress for my comfort, on vacation, which is how I am touring about in black leather knee high boots and a glossy pleather mini. He enjoys watching men check me out. We’re some sort of exhibitionist- with a combined vanity- getting ready for the wedding proper  we take about as long to assemble. I slither into a stretch purple cocktail dress, himself a suit, very square in the style I have been taught is American, but no less flattering.

Fucking Brick:

I have waited until now to see his cock. He shyly offered, before our meeting, to share it after I teased him that over dozens of pictures exchanged and shared orgasms over the phone, I’d still seen no more of him than his chest. But I wanted the surprise.

Oh god, he is big. Not monstrous, but later my friend will ask if my jaw dropped when I saw it, and I will fire back the bon mot- “Only when my mouth was already full”. I can’t swallow all of him yet, although that’ll come with practice- I can get my nose to his pubic bone but only with a naked good inch out from angling my head. Some of this is shyness, as deep throating takes build up and our fucking is so new, as is this connection- this isn’t porn where I am entirely comfortable with all the noises and adjusting to the risks and vulnerabilities… yet. I want a few good hours without the pace of many things to do to practice.

My cunt, so long unstuffed, at first is clamp tight. One of the times I mount him, sopping wet mess I am, he sees my face and cautions “give it a moment”.

The comedy inherent in this makes me smile.

I tell his more vulgar prying friends he is “hung like an artillery shell.”  He himself notes the way my cunt acts like it’s going to take complete possession of him by pure grip. I expect it to hurt more. It does not, and I find myself resilient. It doesn’t sting, just a swollen warm feeling.

I leave my boots on for him to fuck me from behind and feel completely and utterly full. That is at the limits of my comfort, but masochist me would rather have that sexual power as I find his favourite position and add it to my tool kit. I like seducing. I want to know all his buttons. I want him. Mine.

I provoke him, constantly, testing him. I am a dominant. I need that poke of control and power. He finds even though he’s by far the stronger, I am full of tricks, using the blanket to trap him. In one return to the hotel I undress him, taking off his black belt and laying it over his throat, hands on either side holding him down, and I can see his mind struggle with a new sensation of being this kind of vulnerable.  He’s shy about this, alien territory.

He worries if I hurt him his instinct will not be to curl up whimpering and vulnerable, but fight.  I want realness.  I likewise show him how I can tell between his well meaning efforts to act submissive versus those moments where I have made him weak, for real. There will be no by the book rote service. I would rather have him raw and rebellious, to seduce him to heel, than polished and empty perfection.

It’s a question mark, can he satisfy my dominance?

He wants to get it right, desperately. If you asked him my pleasures and particulars he’d repeat it back by instinctual memorization. He is a giving partner.

On our last day, I say I want him to try giving me head, again. Long term readers know I dislike it- my tiny clitoris doesn’t benefit from direct contact, and the wrong touch of tongue is just unpleasant. But, I have opened myself just as I seek to engulf him, to accept all things and allow myself to be pleased.

Dominance, is after all, the supreme vulnerability of allowing another person to make you happy by force of your ego applied over theirs.

He hooks the black cotton of my panties to the side and I lie back on the hotel bed. His tongue and lips touch. I could say feather lightness, but that would imply tickling. It doesn’t, no nerve-raw-burn sensation, no excessive wet, just warmth. It starts to build. I feel one of his long fingers slide into me, anchoring everything. He keeps going.

I come. Not big fireworks, like the orgasms I give myself, but at no effort to myself, there he as given me a pleasure no longer alien to me.

This is going to be interesting, won’t it?

Trans-Mortem

Breaking up with Wildcard was hard!The whole process of my breakup is not done. We are still in awkward close quarters, negotiating the logistics of the seperation as we each move into our own household. Lots of crying. He took a week off work to grieve and has been pretty much high half the time. I have tried to get out of the house more and took up archery.

I have developed a sort of insomnia as well, a rarity, and stay up late writing this. What have I learned?

This isn’t a post mortem, but a trans-mortem. Things are still going. Or rather, still falling apart.

What do you do when you love someone but they fundamentally want and need different things? Obviously breaking up with Wildcard was not a choice I made easily. This blog contains a detailed description of much of the ways I cared (in sticky intimate detail) and because of it, I know that we developed a reputation as the cute couple.

Caring comes easy. Leaving is harder.

Literally everyone but my closest friends were shocked as hell to find out we had a problem. Mrs. Castle was probably the only one who called it, but Mrs. Castle probably has the broadest perspective into my life.

Functional issues stemed from being his rebound after a really horrible relationship. Hell, not rebound. Rescuer. For me, I was inclined to focus on helping and patience because I knew we had a problem, but I trusted his belief that it was a him problem I just had to help him through. I don’t think it is a problem anymore, just his personality and preferences.

I got what I deserved. I am the woman who barreled into his life and dragged him out of self imposed hell towards the life he wanted. Only the life he wants is not the one I do. It is a fuck ton more poly and switch focused than really is remotely compatible with me. Oops.

About a year ago I accepted it wasn’t going to get better. Then it was if I could live with it as the price of admission. I looked about for other outlets. It… Did not help. It made the dissatisfaction worse. The enthusiastically waggled penises of dozens of men looking for something other than service topping provided a stark contrast.

I don’t think he was ever into me sexually like I wanted. That stings.

A part of me feels like I just blew up a great thing out of being too picky, because Wildcard is loving, kind and generous.

Maybe in a smaller, less people’d world we would have been ok and I would have sucked it up and dealt. But also I was starting to wonder if resenting the missing stuff and the stuff I hated was healthy. I try to have perspective that 100 years ago, I would have 8 kids and polio, but it doesn’t help.

So I told him I wasn’t getting what I needed. And… Cue the sadness vortex.

My life is now apartment hunting and furniture logistics. Everything upended. Everything examined now “do I really need this?” From clothing to volunteer work, it is one non-stop rip down.

I don’t know what the hell I am doing. I am scared and unhappy about the chaos. But…

I would rather end up a bitter old maid than end up resenting him for something that isn’t really a flaw. And actually some of the change is not so bad.

Sickness and Idleness


It’s been two weeks since I went into the emergency room, my stomach so pained that I was crying with it. Two months of hurting, escalating from a week of bad things pushed on me.

They scoped me out, found nothing in my guts by MRI, and a non-threatening cyst on my left ovary. I had the worst time in the hospital- the IV caused a vasovagal reaction and dry heaving, then the fluids used to make my guts show up of course make you even more ill. It’s not sexy, but it is my body.

The doctor called it stress. Stress so intense my appetite’s shuttered and I wake up in pain every morning. I’m thirty-one. I lost 15 pounds in 2 months. I don’t even feel hungry anymore.

I’m on sick leave. Temporary disability (paperwork ahoy!) paid for out of premiums I was just signed on for at tge job I am tired of.

I miss wanting to eat, I miss having stamina. It’s Canada so all of this is free.

Wildcard, who lives to feed me cooking that would make a professional jealous, watches with wary, sad eyes. He doesn’t know how to help me. He wants to help.

I spend about an hour every day in the shower. It relieves the cramps and turns my brain off under the thousand drop prickle massage of the water. I do laundry because I hate being useless.

I will get better, I think? I’m mending slowly.

Post Mortem 2016

This is "Zozobra" a spirit of pain and despair ritually burned at the change of the year.2016 was not a sexy year. It was a year where I had a very complicated relationship with the Montreal BDSM Community (which is a nice way to say I shouted about sexual assault allegations) and also a year when my libido decided to take a nap, helped along by a cushioning layer of medications for various health problems.

Outside of the context of kink, I took on a vanilla project where I kicked butt, but it ate every scrap of my spare energy.

Other stuff happened in large volume. Some of it was simply a bunch of changes that manifested themselves at the very end of 2015 (moved, got promoted), some of it was background family things (my brother got very sick).

On the safety front, I accomplished a lot, and I accomplished sweet fuck all.

I got enlightened to the HerrK mess and reacted to it. A person I was previously close to decided to get excessively handsy with other people to everyone’s detriment. I yelled at a person who has other assault allegations including my own against him.

People mostly listened, but unfortunately this isn’t a movie. My former friend is on the edges of my social group as many people decided not to cut ties.  HK dramatically quit, and then slunk back into the background of the Montreal BDSM community, moving to separate Urban Dungeon from Opal and carry on as if nothing ever happened. Yelling at the guy who fondled me was about as effective as yelling at the sea, but… at least there is little room to pretend that people don’t know about that shit.

Various event organizers in Montreal were made aware and took approaches ranging from outright denial to taking it as the safety tip, although the vast majority decided that unless there was an iron clad court case with arrest records it was a dramatic mystery. I even got lectured about how poorly I handled this, as if anyone was bothering to touch this shit elsewise.

Eh, it really soured me on a lot of the general Montreal community, because I held the opinion that most people were just unaware of the severity of this and I discovered that given intelligence about a risk most people doubled down hard on the personal responsibility front.

Otherwise…

I did some writing, but not a lot relevant to here. I gained a lot of twitter followers, which meant deepening my connections to online people, and gave my website a much needed face lift.

Wildcard and I ticked through another year in a shared home, this one picked out as a mutual thing at the end of last year. It’s got a lot of floor space and is still located in Canada. We hosted parties of the kinky kind, which I generally failed to document except as stubs of drafts.

Eh, feeling better and not being quite as medicated, I can tell that I was not engaged with my sexuality at all. I think I was averaging an orgasm a month at best, and being pretty rabbit like in my usual habits,  this was quite shocking.

I mean I have pretty impeccable control when I want to, and have been known to match hapless orgasm denial suffering subs so that when they whine I can point out how tough I am. (Old trick from my ex military aunt, never assign a punishment you can’t handle, up to being ready to do push ups right next to them).

Photo source – npr.org

 

 

The Crown & Home Cooking

It was a Tuesday, but not a #PunishTuesday.

I came home and I don’t think he’d left the bed since I went to work that morning. It’s his vacation and I want him to rest, but like many humans with a streak of perfectionism, idleness is deleterious to his emotional well being. As a person with a chronic physical ailment, not having the energy to do things is an all too common experience for him.

For myself, my mood has slipped a notch since the last week of October. What is generally the favourite part of the year for me has been marred by a heavy measure of frustration, anxiety and sadness over various things. It’s given me less time to notice that Wildcard’s been a bit droopy too.
He’s not been on the outs, health wise, but my persistent battery at the norms of looking the other way in the Montreal BDSM scene when someone is (allegedly, always ALLEDGEDLY) sexually assaulted has been his burden to carry as well as mine. It’s really hard, you push and push and people call you a hysteric, a liar and a monster.

I mad November about inaction and self care.  If he was too under the weather too cook I’d let him rest. I’d bought piles of vegetables the night before and went about sorting out the long skinny egg plants, enoki mushrooms, bright crisp carrots and all the appropriate other things for putting together a stir fry. By the time I was sectioning the eggplant into neat diagonals, he’d rallied.

I still helped him, asking questions every step of the way, while he added other things to the process, mincing and mashing garlic, creating two bowls of fresh and savoury vegetables and tofu on rice.

Afterwards, we cuddled up on the couch for Netflix & “The Crown”

I’ve been watching The Crown, and intensely self-indulgent Netflix series about the early reign of Queen Elizabeth II. It is of course, very obviously one of those made-by-math stories, like House of Cards was a product of looking at how popular Kevin Spacey and the original series was. I am being pandered to with lush, vintage sets and darling but relatable female characters.
Someone crunched the numbers regarding who was spending their time on The Kings Speech and Downton Abby, and decided that what we needed was to feel intimately the challenges of a woman who wears fabulous clothes, is waited on hand and foot and wants her husband to kneel to her.

I do not mind. It is good to be pandered to.

I think that the series occasionally suffers from attempting to worship everything it touches with a reverence that occasionally shades to the absurd. I also feel a little odd being presented with a real (living) person’s life, as an object of objectified and packaged desire. But there hasn’t been any sharp notes from the Queen’s press office about depicting her husband as a fuck object, so I can assume she is unruffled by this love letter to the monarchy even if the Royal Consort’s body is being showcased as a perk of the job.

It is not a femdom story with whips and chains and beatings. But it is a meaningful examination of women and power, and this is something missing from contemporary femdom. Everyine talks about making your sub happy, but very little time is taken to look at a femdom’s personal complexities and vulnerabilities.
That night’s episode was about feeling empowered and rife with little femdom hat tips and jokes, as we watch the new Queen get a measure of control in her intimate life and the subtle yet central role she plays in sustaining her government. For a while we forgot our respective black moods, and the post show cuddling turned to kissing and giggling.

Femdom life is like that. I don’t know anyone who really has orderly protocol 24/7. I know FLRs where she has ultimate say, but even so, there is more of moody cooking and cuddles on the couch than titles and slave positions.

It’s a good life, if you can find it.