Tuesday, July 22, 2014

My Story of Ultimate Humiliation

The Story of My Ultimate Humiliation
The other day, my friend d (yes we all call her d, with a lowercase d, because d is a slave and that is how she refers to herself) was not feeling well, and I was trying to think of ways to cheer her up.
Now it just so happened that the night before, her Master, the MotherfuckingSadist™, had made ominous threats online to turn my tits purple. (Why, I have no idea; it's not like I did anything to deserve such monstrous treatment of my delicate breasts.) When I told Husband about the online threats (and what I did to deserve them, which was nothing, I swear) the whole thing prompted Husband to break out into prose...if you can call it that. It went something like this:
Roses are red
Violets are blue
Your tits will be purple...
Then he stopped.
"What comes next?" I asked.
"I don't know how it's supposed to go," he growled at me. "Go look it up yourself."

Now, the other bit of backdrop to this story is that my second-to-oldest son was on a trip at the time, having the vacation of his life with his friend and his friend's mom. His friend's mom and I are also friends. She knows I'm kinky, but not to what extent, if you get my meaning.

So I send d a text version of the poem Husband gave me...only I didn't send it to d. I sent it to Son. And this is what happened.
 As you can see, I realized I had made a mistake as soon as I sent it. But as they say—too little, too late. My pleas for him to delete it fell on deaf ears...
And his version of "entertainment" began.

Of course, he had to fucking promise to show his friend, his friend's mom, and every other person under the fucking sun. 

I tried to lay down my own threats...to no avail. He knows me too well.

There was nothing I could do anymore, nothing but wish myself a hole to crawl into.
Son was not very sympathetic.
I have horrible children.
They take after their father.

Monday, July 21, 2014

This Is What A Munch Is Like For Me

In case you don't follow me on Fetlife....
I have a Top in my life who is a regular play partner of mine. He also happens to be quite a Sadist. For the purpose of this post, we will call him, mmm, MotherfuckingSadist™.

MotherfuckingSadist™has this thing about hot sauce; he loves it. Motherfucker loves it. He's actually called "The Hot Sauce Guy" on Fetlife.
But he hasn't earned this moniker because he likes to put hot sauce on his food, oh no. I mean, he does like to put it on his food, but that's not why he's called "The Hot Sauce guy." No, he's called "The Hot  Sauce Guy" because he likes to put hot sauce on women.
Specifically, women's sensitive bits.
Now I should tell you that he has never actually put hot sauce on me. Not yet. I have a feeling that day is coming. But he's aided Husband in my torture: he's the one who bought Husband the tiger balm.
He's a sick, sick bastard.

A while back, I was cruising through the internets, and I came across an ad for hot sauce. Here's a picture of the bottle, take a look:

And I thought it would be nice and helpful of me to send MotherfuckingSadist™a link to the ad. Because I am stupid.

MotherfuckingSadist™'s slave was not exactly happy with me. She took my helpful generosity as "throwing her under the bus." Which, honestly, had not been my intent, at all.
I swear it.

But my helpful generosity went south on me really quick when MotherfuckingSadist™ told me he's going to buy a bottle of this stuff as a gift—for Husband.
I tried to tell him that was quite unnecessary, but he was adamant; he wanted to return the thoughtful generosity.
The Bastard.
To make a long story short, there was a lot of swearing and cursing on my part, and a lot of sickening threats on his part, and we blew up the Fetlife feed with his innuendos and my attempts at denial. Everyone who was friends with both of us on Fetlife could see the "banter" going on, and many of them remarked how entertaining it was. It was all pretty maddening, frankly.

MotherfuckingSadist™promised me he would bring the hot sauce to the munch that week.
And Husband...that...that...man, straight out ordered me to accept the hot sauce with all due respect, and thank the MotherfuckingSadist™for it. Not just on his behalf, but on mine! 

The day of the munch came, and I  entered the room with my Mistress by my side. We sat down, and I realized that everyone was smirking at me.
Goddamnit.
As I waited for my food to arrive, one of them offered up to me a bottle of tabasco sauce that had been sitting on the table. "Hot sauce for your food?" He asked.
"No thank you," I answered, scowling.
"Are you sure?" Another inquired. "You don't want any hot sauce?"
"No!"
Sick bastards, every one of them.

I tried to make small talk with my Mistress. Something passed under my nose.
It was a bottle of tabasco sauce...with a pair of eye stickers glued onto it.
I tried to sound nonchalant. I was hoping if I ignored their cajoling, they'd stop.
They didn't. The collection of bottles of tabasco sauce with eye stickers glued onto them grew, right under my nose, even as I tried to ignore them.
Soon, everyone was just calmly and quietly passing their bottles of tabasco sauce to my place at the table, until I couldn't ignore them anymore. They looked like they were having a motherfucking party, like their own little tabasco sauce munch.

Then MotherfuckingSadist™walked in.
He waited to greet me properly...and then he pulled out of his case not one, but two bottles of motherfucking hot sauce.

And in front of the whole goddamn munch, I had to thank him for the bottles of hot sauce. Everyone snickered and laughed, especially one particular Dom who had overheard Husband giving me the order to thank the MotherfuckingSadist™. He'd probably been waiting all week to watch me get my comeuppance, the jerk.
THESE PEOPLE...THESE PEOPLE ARE PEOPLE I CONSIDER MY FRIENDS. Goddamn enablers, every one of them.

I named the "Ass Reaper" bottle Alistair, because it seemed to fit somehow. Poor Alistair suffers from an underbite, but it's an adorable underbite, I have to say. Makes him look really unassuming. (And yes, I've decided the hot sauce bottles are a "he," because anything with a long phallic neck must be a "he" in my book.)

P.S. I gave Husband the bottles of hot sauce as soon as I got home, which was yet another mistake on my part, because he promptly hid them, and now I can't hide them from him.
But will find them...oh yes, I will...and when I do, Husband's food will not be safe.

Wednesday, July 16, 2014

Christoph Kramer played with a concussion, and nobody cried "Personal Responsibility!"

Unless you live under a rock, you know that last Sunday was the final match World Cup soccer game, Germany vs Argentina. Since my Husband is South American, this was a big deal in my house. We all crowded around the tv, watching.
In the last minute before the game started, Germany's original infielder was replaced by a relative newcomer, Christoph Kramer. He played for about 31 minutes of the game.
He can't remember most of it.
About 17 minutes into the game, Kramer got hit in the head by Argentina's Ezequiel Garay. The blow knocked him to the ground, unconscious.
When he finally came to, FIFA trainers checked him out...and let him continue to play for another 15 minutes. Only when Kramer started staggering in his place, dazed, unable to keep himself steady, did they finally call the order to get him to stop playing and take him out of the game.
They had to escort him off the field. He couldn't walk in a straight line.
Now here's the funny thing about this. In not one of the articles I've readnot one—is Kramer blamed for continuing to play those last 15 minutes. Every article, everyone interviewed, agrees that Kramer is not the one at fault here. The ones at fault are the trainers, the coach, and FIFA.
There is not one cry of "Personal Responsibility."
Which is interesting, because Kramer could have refused to play. Yes, he was knocked unconscious, and once he came to, he was dazed and confused...but he obviously had enough faculty to answer fundamental questions and make basic choices. No matter what the trainers told him, he had the choice of refusing to play after that. Nobody was holding a gun to his head. He could have told them all to go fuck themselves, that he wasn't going to risk permanent brain injury, and just flat out refused.
He didn't do that.
Why not?
It's easy to understand why not. He trusted the trainers to know what they were doing. He trusted his coaches to do right by him. He trusted the people in power over him to take care of him.
He was also under a lot of pressure. This was his chance to play the big leagues, the World Cup; he didn't want to screw that up.
He didn't want to disappoint the spectators, look weak, get blamed for a bad game. He was probably also afraid if he made a big stink about his injury, the team would never want him to play again, and they would cancel his contract.
He was addled, probably flustered, afraid to disappoint, afraid to stop.
So the bottom line is, yes, he could have refused to play, but expecting him to have done so, expecting a player to make those kinds of decisions under those kinds of conditions, is decidedly unreasonable.
Do you see where I'm going with this?
In BDSM, when a Top and bottom negotiate a play scene, both need to be honest. Both have a responsibility to lay on the table what they can handle, what they can do, and what they know. And yes, ultimately, both have a responsibility to keep themselves (and each other) safe, even as the scene unfolds.
But once the scene starts, the onus is on the Top to take responsibility for what happens to the bottom. Allowing Tops to shirk and discard this responsibility does nothing but make for dangerous play.
We cannot expect bottoms to trust their Tops to know their shit, allow themselves to enter states of impaired faculty, get beaten, get manipulated, get induced into states of terror, and then take on the mantel of "responsibility" when things to go to hell.
This is how people get hurt. This is how we start to lose respect for Tops.
This is how we corrupt the game.
Five years ago, D.C. United defender Bryan Namoff suffered a career-ending hit to the head during a soccer match. He sued his former team for allowing him to continue playing even after he complained of debilitating headaches. This is what he has to say, and I think the quote is very apt:
"Oftentimes, players aren't self-aware of their issues. I thought I was fine to play...If a player is truly injured in the head or has concussion-like symptoms...he should not be put in the predicament of trying to determine whether he does feel good enough to play. We need...to manage what the most important thing is, and that's taking care of the player."

Wednesday, June 18, 2014

Kink Brings Us Together, But It Cannot Sustain Us

I often talk about how my kids act as cockblockers for Husband and I, often with incredibly frustrating (but hysterical) results. They curb our kink to an amazing degree.

I don't usually talk about how this can be a good thing.

When we have kinky friends over, we can't talk about kink in front of the kids. Munches, dungeons, so-and-so's-latest-picture-on-Fetlife, all of that's off the table. We are forced to contain our conversation to vanilla topics, things that are safe to talk about in front of minors.

And you know what? This is a good thing. It forces us to talk about our day-to-day lives, our thoughts on other subjects, how our families are doing, how we are. We delve into topics much more intimate and personal.

Our lives are not made up of kink. Kink is what we do, it is not who we are. "The scene" brings us together as Kinksters, but we are all of us so much more than that.

By taking the entire subject of kink off the table, we are forced to reveal other aspects of ourselves to our friends...and that is a good thing, because real friendship cannot exist solely on kink. There has to be more there.

Tuesday, June 10, 2014

We're a Bunch of Sickos

My summer is not off to a good start. I have two kids sick at home; one is missing the last few days of his school year. I have to go over to his school sometime today or tomorrow and pick up his stuff.

How do I explain to him, "You will not be able to tell any of your friends goodbye"?

At least they don't have to make up any homework or tests. So there's that.

I wish they would get better, and I'll be honest here, it's not just because I want my kids healthy. I also want some time to myself. Yesterday when Husband came home from work, I ran to the supermarket to pick up some more children's Tylenol, and let me tell you: walking down that aisle by myself was glorious.
Seriously, this whole situation is reminding me of life with a newborn. As time goes by, I'm missing those days less and less.

Son1 is on antibiotics. It's not an awful antibiotic, but it's strong enough to mess with his digestive system, if you know what I mean. He is spending a lot of time in the bathroom these days.
That fact is relevant to the conversation I just found out happened between him and his father.

Apparently they were both watching TV last night, when Son1 decided the timing was right to rib his father a little.
His exact words, according to Husband, were, "God you two make a lot of noise." It was said with the annoyed inflection only a teenager can make.

Now, If you've read my blog at all? You'll know—I would have died of shame at this point. But Husband did not get embarrassed. Husband does not get embarrassed by sex at all. It frustrates him no end how embarrassed I do get.

"If you don't like the noise, put on your headphones," he apparently told Son1 in reply. "You got those expensive headphones for a reason, didn't you?"
"But I could you hear you guys from the bathroom!"
"So?"
"So I'm not going to wear my headphones in the bathroom," Son1 said.
Husband couldn't argue that point. "This is how you came into the world, you know," he said instead.
Son1 quipped back, "I know, but I don't have to be constantly reminded."

"So what did you say to that?" I asked Husband as he was relaying to me the story from where I was rocking back and forth in a fetal position on the kitchen floor.
He said, "I basically told him to suck it up, cause this is the way things are."
"Oh my God. Just...oh my God."
"It's just sex, Wife," he said with a sigh. "This is what married couples do. He should be happy after all these years, his parents are still at it like a bunch of teenagers."

The truth is, I'm not just upset my kids are listening to us having sex. I mean, that would be humiliating enough; but that's not the only issue. The other issue is that they're not just listening to their parents having sex, they're listening to their parents having BDSM sex.
When I remember the other night with the tiger balm—did I write about that? I can't remember—how I was yelling 'no, no, please stop, please it hurts'...I wonder if Son1 was listening to that, and if he was...what he was getting from it.

My kids see their parents love each other. They see we're not in an abusive relationship, we respect each other very much, we don't keep secrets, we don't sneak around in any which way. But...does that translate to understanding that everything we do in the bedroom is consensual? That nothing coercive or harmful is going on?
We say in the scene, "We hurt, but we do not harm." Will my kids be able to tell the difference? See the difference in their parents' lifestyle?
I guess that's a larger question, one to face another day. Right now, I have to gather up the courage to deal with my kids. I know—I know—Son1 is going to bring up this issue with me, just like he did his father.
Unlike his father, I am an easy target. He will embarrass me.
I'm going to go back to rocking in a fetal position on my kitchen floor now.

Tuesday, June 3, 2014

They'll Promise You the Fucking World

Contrary to what (cough cough) certain men want you to think, semen and male cum is not a cure-all. Oh, THEY will do their best to tell you otherwise. But do not let yourself be convinced! It's just a ploy. THEY will promise you anything and everything to get that white gunk all over you if you give them the chance.

So let's "debunk the gunk," shall we? Contrary to promoted claims, male cum does NOT:
  • Freshen breath
  • Whiten teeth 
  • Help a sore throat
  • Heal a burned tongue
  • Get rid of acne
  • Relax a bad back or stiff muscle
  • Cure headaches
  • Alleviate PMS
  • Stop hair loss
  • Ease shortness of breath
  • Bring down a fever
  • Moisturize dry skin 
  • Quiet a cough
  • Cure an upset stomach
  • Alleviate gas
  • Soften wrinkles
  • Make your nails grow faster
  • Make your hair grow stronger
  • Bleach your asshole
  • Heal a bruise faster
  • Stop a cut (or nose) from bleeding 
  • Clean out your ears
  • Alleviate rug burn
  • Make you smarter
  • Make you faster
  • Make you stronger
  • Make you a superhero (unless you give really good blowjobs, in which case you can call yourself SuperBlow) (Gags are your kryptonite)
  • Make you feel better when he is contractually obligated to do the dishes, and he still does not do them
  • Bring peace to the Middle East
  • Solve world hunger
  • Make your internet faster
  • Make you remember where you left your glasses
  • Return your library books for you
  • Stop the dog from shitting on the carpet (I really wish this one were true)
  • Clean the kitchen for you, or do any of the other household chores 
  • Help you lose weight
  • Help credit card debt
  • Stop telemarketers from calling you
  • Make the TV season longer
I'm sure more of a few of you can add to this list. I'll tack them on as they arrive to me. And remember: DON'T SUCCUMB TO THE PROMISES OF CUM! 

Monday, June 2, 2014

I Make Good Sandwich, TYVM

I'm going to start with the end:
It's going to be an interesting week. 

Yesterday, Husband was being an asshole. 
Now, before you start making conclusions, I don't mean a "real" asshole; I mean, he was being snippy at everyone—including our precious little cutesy wootsy five pound dog—griping about the smallest of shit, and basically just scowling at the world. 

The kids instinctively knew to stay away from him. Even the dog kept her distance. 
Me? Not so much.
"You need to stop being Mister McGrumpyPants," I announced to him (oh yes I really did). 
"Mister McGrumpy Pants?" He asked me with eyebrows raised. "Is that what you just called me?"
"Yes," I said. "You need to figure out something that is going to take you out of this bad mood, cause it's enough already."
He stared at me, and it occurred to me I might have gone a tad bit too far in my assertiveness. 
"Is there anything I can do to help you?" I asked, changing tactics. "Any way I can help?"
A cold gleam entered his eyes. He smiled. Then he got up, took my hand, and led me upstairs to the bedroom. 

He lay down on the bed and dragged me with him. 
"What are we doing?"
"We're snuggling." 
He pressed me into the crook of his arm, and I relaxed...for about, oh, five seconds. Then he grabbed the back of my hair with one hand while he started to pull down his shorts with the other. 
"I thought we were snuggling!" I said.
"We are," he replied, and shoved my face down his cock. 

He pumped my head up and down a few times by my hair before he let me go. As soon as his grip loosened, I lifted up my head enough to look up and say, "This is not snuggling!"
"This is my idea of snuggling," he replied with a laugh. 
"Well I don't think so!"
"Well I don't care." He grabbed me by the back of the hair again and shoved me down his cock, all the way to his balls, until I started making those choking sounds he seems to enjoy way too much in my mind. 
This time, even when he released his grip, I kept going. I had, after all, offered to help him with his grumpy mood.
He put his hands behind his head and made little sounds of pleasure as I worked. It didn't take long for him to come; within a few minutes, I felt the first spurt of creamy salt in the back of my throat. 

Now, I don't know how other women do it: but what I do is, I usually wait for Husband to finish coming, completely, and then I swallow. I don't like to take a bunch of mini-swallows as he comes. I like to take it all down in one big gulp. 
So I waited until I knew he was done, and then I sloooowly eased my lips down his prick while holding his come inside my mouth, ready to swallow once he popped free. 
Before he was even out of my mouth, Husband looked down at me and said, "You can go make me a sandwich now."

At this point, I could feel the mutiny rise up in my chest. 
I had offered to help him, true; but was a blowjob not enough? I had to make him a sandwich now?

Son1 was in the kitchen when I came downstairs. Husband joined us soon after, and lay down on the loveseat in the family room, watching me from afar. He watched me get out the bread and cold cuts, put everything on a plate, watched me make a sandwich....
And then he watched me eat it myself. 
It was a good sandwich. 

Son1 left the kitchen. Husband walked over to where I was sitting, happily eating my sandwich, and leaned in. 
"Is it a good sandwich?" He whispered.
"Yes," I said. "Very good." I grinned through a mouth full of cold cuts. He smiled back.
"That's good," he said. "You know what you have to look forward to now?"
"No?" I replied, my nervousness growing. "What?"
"There's a brand new jar of tiger balm sitting on our bathroom counter. You forgot?"
The truth was, I had forgotten. The tiger balm had been a gift to Husband from a fellow Top and Sadist. Husband had ordered me to put the jar on our bathroom counter so I would see it every time I went in there. But after seeing it for so long, just sitting there not doing anything, the jar had lost my attention. It had become one of those things that just exists in the room, but don't claim your focus anymore. 
I was focusing on the memory of it now, by golly. Focusing on it so much I started to choke on my sandwich. 
"There we go," he said, whacking me on the back. "Now you remember. And look, you're choking again."
"You're always making me choke!" I yelled, albeit hoarsely. "With you and your—your—"
"Snuggling?" He suggested. 
He laughed at my expression. Then he walked away. 

I have no idea when that tiger balm jar is going to be opened. It will probably take its time migrating from the bathroom, to my bedside counter, to the bed....but eventually, it's going to make its way to my ass. 
"Eventually" will probably come all too soon. Like, sometime this week. Probably when I least expect it. 

Like I said, it's going to be an interesting week. 



Sunday, June 1, 2014

Book of the Month: Training Ella

Dear Readers,
This month one of my books, Inside the Hotel Bentmoore: Training Ella, is Goodread's BDSM group's book of the month. I am very pleased and proud to say the least.

If you want to follow along in the discussion over at Goodreads, you have to join the group. You can get to the group by clicking here. Then you ask to join in.

Please consider joining the group—and please consider buying my book! The Amazon link is here, and the Barnes and Noble link is here. 

And happy reading!

Friday, May 30, 2014

A Commentary to the Comments I Got

Recently on Fetlife I put up a post titled "A List of 'Men's Rights' Issues That Feminism Is Already Working On." 
Now, let me be clear: I did not write the post. I stated that from the beginning. It turns out, the piece I saw (which, incidentally, I found on tumblr), was only a  piece of a much larger article, one that was originally published in the Jezebel, and written by Lindy West.  I invite you to read the whole article. In my opinion, it's great.

A group on Fetlife who called themselves the "Anti-Feminist League" found my post...and let's just say, they had a field day.  They got on their moral soapboxes. They took over the comments section—to let us women know why men really are superior! 
Here's the thing: I have a general policy that I don't delete comments on my posts, not one, no matter how ridiculous or hateful.
A bunch of people asked me why I don't delete comments. My reasoning is simple: I don't want anyone to be silenced. On the contrary, I want people's views to be available for all to see. I want everyone to be able to read how spiteful, disgusting, snide, contemptuous, manipulative, and whiny people really are. I want to expose their true natures to everyone who cares to have a look. 

They came. Oh, how they came. They worked themselves into a dither. As the comments degenerated, the statements  got more and more wild. 

First, there were the claims there's no such thing as patriarchy.
"I've never seen the patriarchy. It died with most of our great-grandparents. What we have is outdated beliefs that were inspired by the patriarchy, which no longer exists." I guess if you can't see something, it must not be there...kinda like how my eight year old thinks about the chocolate milk hiding in the fridge.

Then came the rants of how evil feminism is. 
"Feminism is a destroyer of families, children, marriage and women. Feminists only care about themselves and not the 'rights of men'."
"Feminists are angry, man hating lesbians or stupid women that can't think for themselves."
"Feminists think they need to rule the world. Just... stop it."
"Feminism had its place and served our world a great purpose. And now it needs to get back in the kitchen."
Oh, and my favorite:
"Feminists want men to lose everything, not just the children. If not laws wouldn't have been made to make men get raped by alimony and child support."
That's right: men are being raped by alimony and child support. How dare women expect men to pay for their children! It's exactly like getting raped! 

There were a few comments about how society doesn't need feminism anyway, because it's not really necessary. 
"Women these days are practically untouchable legally and socially, so one needs to advocate for men if one wants to fight for actual equality right now." You hear that? Women are untouchable! It's the men being raped and oppressed by society! What with all the child support bullshit and stuff!
"You're making women look like victims, not helping make things equal for everyone." Because pointing out how women are victims of sexism makes them look like victims...oh wait, that's the point. They are victims of sexism and genderism. Oh, I forgot, no they're not, they're untouchable. 

But even if women are the victims, it's their own fault., and no one else's.  They should take personal responsibility for what happens to them. 
"There was a post regarding a date rape drug in the previous comments. First of all, I hope your friend is fine. But the extremely rational side of me is asking this question. What on earth happened to personal responsibility, and going out with your friends to reduce the odds of bad things occurring?"
Women should own the fact that they are responsible for their own assaults and rapes. If they can't watch their own damn drinks, they deserve what they get, right? Also, they probably dress provocatively, too. 

So what can we do about these pesky women who just don't get it? What we need is for women to understand they are inherently different, and therefore deserve to be treated like the inferior creatures they are.
"For the first fact. Women ARE naturally better caregivers. This isn't from some sort of 'patriarchy' bullshit you claim, but by millions of years of evolution in our animal kingdom." 
That whole equality in the workplace thing? Women shouldn't be in the workplace, they should be home watching the children. 
"Men and women are inherently fundamentally different physically mentally and in social interaction. To deny this is to deny science and self evident truth." Self evident truth we can all watch in porn, I guess. Women expect to be treated like crap; it's in our natures.

The fact is, sexism is simply the way this country works. It's always been that way, and it's working, so why stop now?
"My rights are established by natural law, are self evident, and were best codified and defended by a bunch of men in the 18th century. Men have been defending our own rights for thousands of years. So all feminists can feel relieved that I don't need some self described "woman" to do what comes natural to me. Feminists just want to remove the yoke of one burden and add much more in the form of their big brother quasi communist agenda where all men are forced to act like females and where society enslaves them to the collective "good". Feminists are here to enslave men if not in chains but in bondage of societal rules and structures that almost no true man wants."
That's right, feminism is not just about rape, it's about slavery now, too. Kinda like what all those men in the 18th century believed in for their own rising wealth and power...oh wait, that right stopped being defended in 1865.

Apparently—and I did not know this, I thank the commentators for educating me—many if not most of the ills of society can be blamed on feminism. Like, the national suicide rate!
"The suicide differential has almost doubled since the 70s, from 1.9 to 3.5. If that isn't evidence that our society is becoming more and more anti-male, I don't know what is."
That annoying correlation does not equal causation rule? That's a fallacy. We'll ignore that.
And anyway, if it's not suicide, it's something else killing men; feminism can be blamed for all of it. "Young men are still being pathologized. Men are still dying; on the job, in war, and by their own hand, same as ever."
Feminism can even be blamed—and HOW COULD I NOT KNOW THIS BEFORE?—for breast cancer! Yup, that's right!
"Breast cancer is now a 'business' making billions each year. If you think they are going to cure it even if they could you are crazy, to many people living off it already. I think this was started by GASP ...a woman!"
That's right: feminism is the cause of cancer.

I didn't respond the comments very much on the thread. I didn't see the point. Like I said, the commentators were doing a very good job making themselves out to look like moronic wackadoodles. 
But then...they tried to silence me. They had Fetlife take down my post. I had not gotten express, explicit permission from the original author to quote her post, you see. Technically, that is against Fetlife rules. Is it usually enforced? No. But that doesn't mean they don't reserve the right to enforce it when they deem necessary, and now, the anti-feminists had found a way to remove my post completely. It wasn't enough I was giving them a way to argue against them; they wanted me gone. 

Sorry, not so easy to do.

I got on twitter, tracked down the original author, Lindy West, and asked her permission to keep up the post. She gave me her approval.
(I also emailed the people over at Jezebel, and they gave me permission, too. But in the end, all I needed was Ms. West's okay.)
I contacted Fetlife, sent them a screenshot of Ms.West's tweet, and the post was back up.

It got more feedback and comments for another couple days. Then it died down, as posts on Fetlife typically do. 
I got some hate mail. I had some personal snide comments thrown my way. Nothing terrible; nothing I considered a direct threat. (Yeah, I've gotten those in the past, too, and entire posts and tweet rants vilifying me, as well. ) That stuff doesn't bother me, and for two reasons:
One, none of the asinine comments were made by people who actually know me. They were all made by strangers, people who exist in Netherland, who spew forth their hate-filled tirades behind the safety of their computer screens. It shocks me sometimes how these people think I actually give a fuck what they think. They don't know me; so why should I care?

The second reason is, in my opinion, more relevant, and more sad.
Nothing said in comment to any post on Fetlife is going to change a damn thing about anything. Whether it's a logical, reasonable, civil comment or not, whether it makes sense or not, whether everyone agrees with it or not, it's still just a fucking comment on a  Fetlife post. 

It's not going to change the fact that women get paid 77 cents on the dollar for every dollar a man makes.
It's not going to chaange the fact that after graduating college, on average, men make $7,600 more than women.
It's not going to change the fact that female workers made up just 6.2 percent of the top earning positions of 2010.
It's not going to change the fact that 60% of minimum wage workers are women, and almost 2/3rds of part-time workers are women.
It's not going to change the fact that 83% of sexual harassment charges come from women. 
It's not going to change the fact that only 15% of the entire U.S. Congress is made up of women.
It's not going to change the fact that about 1 in 3 women in the military say they were raped.
It's not going to change the fact that 75% of women who are raped or assaulted in our military do not report it.
It's not going to change the fact that courts are continuing to rule against women's rights in the workforce. 
It's not going to change the fact that women face gender bias in medical treatment and medical research.
It's not going to change the fact that people see what they want to see, hear what they want to hear, and believe what they want to believe. 

It's not going to change my life. No matter what any of these commenters said? I'm still going to be afraid walking around alone at night. I'm still going to ignore men who give me cat calls on the street. I'm still going to walk a little faster, and be a little more weary, around men who give me creepy stares. I'm still going to hang onto my drinks with the assumption if I look away for one minute, there's a chance it's spiked with drugs. 

I'm still going to trust people I've learned to trust, and be suspicious of those I have not. 

But if this experience has taught me anything, it's this: there are a lot of wackadoodles on Fetlife. They will attack you. They will try to silence you. They will bring in their friends to help them. 

They are still all wackadoodles.
Even wackadoodles can be entertaining, I guess, even if they remain irrelevant to how the rest of us live our lives. 











Sunday, May 25, 2014

Dancing: My Saturday Night Scene at NWLC

This post is written with permission of the Top I had my scene with, Tailstrike. It does not do justice to the complexity of the emotions involved, nor does it adequately describe what I went through. But I realized if I force myself to wait until it's perfect, I will never hit publish. So I'm forcing myself to put it out here instead, flaws and all.

When we entered the dungeon, the first thing I noticed was the cold. Dungeons are supposed to be warm places...but not this one. This one had me shivering, and the skin all over my body tightened with goosebumps.
As I reacted to the cold, a thought entered my head: the dungeon felt like the inside of a morgue. Morgues are cold places full of dead bodies, chilly skin and icy stares full of stories untold.
I will not die, I reminded myself. I have been promised I will not die. 

He walked me to our station, a large wooden structure, the gallows. In fact, it looked exactly like the gallows you see in old pictures of executions, complete with chain hanging down from the middle of it, ready for use. I knew it would not be my neck hanging from that chain...but I was still scared.
I will not die. I have been promised I will not die.

He bade me to come forward. I shook my head no.
"This is not a take-down scene," he said, his voice as soft and as cold as fresh snow. "Now come here."
My mind balked. I thrive on the take-down; it is my bread and butter of foreplay. I don't just enjoy it, I need it, especially in anticipation of a scene like this one.
He was going to deny me this, too?
Yes. Yes, he was; and in doing so, he was setting the tone of the whole scene before me. He was in control. He would do what he wanted. Promises would be kept, but beyond that, everything that would happen was up to him and him alone.
I will not die. I have been promised.
I stepped before him.
"Get undressed," he said, and I did.

He began to wind chain around my wrists. He would go halfway around a wrist, link the chain, and come back the other way; link the chain again, come back the other way. I didn't understand then why he wasn't just making circles around my wrists, but now I think I understand: he didn't want to risk injury—at least, not the kind of injury I didn't want.
Protect the joints, protect the bones, give her the bruises. He knew I would be expecting those wrist bruises, would love looking at them for the next few days.
(And I did.)
The chain felt too tight the first time he did it; I protested. He went through the process of winding the chain again. It was still too tight. He fixed them again, even more slowly, taking his time, making sure he got it right. As I watched him wind the chain around my wrists, felt his fingers brush against my tingling skin, sensed his single minded focus, a part of me succumbed, even as my fear grew.
He fastened the chains to the gallows, and I was secured.

But he wasn't done yet. He got out a mask next.
The mask would not cover my eyes or nose; it wouldn't even cover my mouth. The mask was nothing but pieces of leather fastened around my head and locked on tight. It had no purpose but one: to remind me who was in charge.
He wanted to get me into a mask; I did not.
He put the mask on me anyway.
He got out the spreader bar next.
Like the mask, he had warned me in advance he would be using it. That didn't stop me from kicking away from it as much as I could. Knowing something is going to be done to you is not the same as living through it; anticipation is a powerful thing, but not as powerful as cold hard steel. He caught my legs, put me in the spreader bar, stretched my legs wide, and let me squirm.
The spreader bar felt monstrous between my feet. It shortened my stance, and with my wrists chained up the way they were, I could barely put both feet down at once.
It didn't matter, it turned out: most of the scene, I wouldn't be standing. I'd be dancing.

He got out a pain implement. What was it? I have no idea; my mind grows foggy now on the specifics. I know he told me what he was using—I think he even showed me.
I know I panicked. I know it hurt, hurt like hell, and I screamed. He hit my thighs with it, over and over, and I turned in circles under the gallows, begging him to stop.

He got out his whips.
The whips...the whips are like nothing else. They slice, they bite, and they burn like no other implement can.
He didn't start out slow. He struck me right across the back, hard, letting me know what was coming. My mind didn't just resist, it repelled the idea, unable to yield to what was happening, to what I was allowing to happen...even as another part of me, a part I still hardly know, began to awaken in hunger.

He whipped me for a long time. Not just my back, oh no; he was dancing too, moving around my body, choosing which side and swath of skin he wanted to aim for next. One leg, then the other; one thigh, then the other.
One must keep things symmetric, you see.
I started to hurl insults at him, starting with the old standbys: "motherfucker," "son of a bitch," and "Satan's spawn." I told him I was surprised he even understood me, since I'm not speaking Asshole. I yelled that I hoped he woke up with hemorrhoids. I think I even said I hoped someone would cut his cock off and name him Reek. I grew exasperated when I realized he doesn't watch Game of Thrones. (I insulted him for that transgression, too.)
He laughed as I threw insult after insult at him. He laughed and whipped.
I screamed and danced.

The scene took an imperceptible shift, as scenes like this are wont to do. It began to descend into territory that was darker, scarier, more stunning to the senses. He was taking me to the edge of what I could take. Every step of this dance was now laden with a dose of incredulity.
I was continually making a choice, you see. With every lick of the whip, with every scream ripped from my throat, I was asking myself: Do I cry yellow, and keep him from pushing me over the edge?
Or do I move the edge itself?
This is the mental dance we bottoms experience, but only if we're lucky, only if we play with the right Top. The opportunity comes, like a bright beacon flashing before us—the moment to decide what we can accept, and what we cannot.
Sometimes, if we're lucky, we surprise ourselves in wonderful ways.

There were a couple moments I decided to cry yellow. Each time I did, he gave me a reprieve, let me gather the shattered pieces of my mind to myself and hold them close for a moment. But then he would continue, as hard as before; and with each lash, I felt myself break apart a little bit more, felt the energy explode, that power that manifests between flesh and whip, Top and bottom.

We talk about Power Exchange. Most of the time, we're talking about the power the Top and bottom bring with each other before a scene. But there is a third power there, something sublime but ineffable: the power they create between them.
We danced in this power, He and I. He was the lead. He is always the lead. But we both dance.

I started to sob inside the mask. The end of the whip licked right across my nipple, and I screamed like never have before. Or at least, I think I screamed; my mind rebelled.

"I can't, I can't, I can't...." I said the words in litany. But even as I said them, I knew they would not help me, and do nothing for me. They were not my safe words. My safe words were yellow and red.
(What would he do if I cried red? I don't know. He's never taken me that far. I think it would surprise us both.)

I have no idea how much longer we could have gone on, how much more I could have taken. As much as we tried to ignore it, the dungeon had been filling with people; too soon, the DM was coming around, tapping his watch, reminding us it was time to end our dance and free up our station.

He released me from the chains, and let me fall gently to the floor. I lay there as he cleaned the area up...and even as I lay there, marinating in pain, I felt my fingers graze my cut and bloody nipple, and I smiled.

I had been promised I would survive. The promise is a lie, really. Who can promise another human being they will survive anything? No one can promise you another minute of breath; death comes always on tipped toes.
But to take the responsibility of your own survival and entrust it to someone else, to feel your own mortality in your hands, to dance on the edge of this delicate existence we call life...
That is where true power lies.
When we are lucky to have scenes like this, my Top and I, he leads, and I follow. I am on a path of self-discovery; but the path is mine, and I pave it with my own blood.