Things you will need:
Fear
Dread
Anxiety
Alarm
Horror
Unremitting agony
Implements of torture and misery
If necessary, a way to restrain your masochist
Begin the process of cooking your masochist by marinating it in fear and trepidation. You will want to start this step at least a few hours in advance of your scene, preferably an entire day before. The marinade should consist of a steady dose of panic-inducing suggestions, innuendos, predictions. At first, the marinade may seem to simply run off the masochist without affect, but don't worry: it's infusing itself into the bloodstream, creating a whirling, pounding sense of terror. Later, it will add a distinct flavor to the dish!
Right before you are ready to start in on your masochist, stir in some anxiety, doubt, and dread. Do this by reminding it what is about to happen to its body, mind and soul; what you have planned--and what you are still contemplating; and that while its survival is assured, everything else is basically still on the table. Reiterate that the pain they are about to endure might be your fault, but it was their choice, and that choice is about to fucking hurt deep.
Tie up your masochist so it's ready for the procedure ahead. This is not unlike trussing up a chicken, turkey, or pig. You can use rope, leather...hell, you can even use twine. The point is to keep exposed all the body parts you want exposed, and tuck away all the limbs you don't want getting in the way, so that the meat cooks exactly how you want it to. The masochist, feeling trapped at this point, may try to test its bonds by thrashing and flailing. Let it; the faster it realizes it's not going anywhere, the faster it will surrender to the pain ahead.
Now it's time to tenderize the meat! But, like my grandmother used to say, make sure you're using the right tools for the right job. If you want to warm the meat slowly and evenly, you'll want to start out with something smooth and flat. But sometimes the meat is acting tough, and will require a good pounding from the get-go to see any good results. The masochist may begin to tremble and strain, but this is all normal. Its endorphins are starting to bubble to the surface, and the more you let them escape, the better. Its smarting, aching flesh should slowly become a beautiful glowing red. It may also have purple areas, depending on your tenderizing technique; this is also nothing to worry about.
Once the masochist has been reduced to a tormented, runny mess, it is ready to be cooked. What's good about cooking masochist is that there are so many ways to do it. Masochist can be fried up with electricity and fire; it can be beat up with canes and floggers; it can be whipped with, well, whips; it can be baked with paddles and tawses. In its distress, the masochist will probably not remain quiet. It may even shriek, holler, gasp and scream in its throes of agony. Be prepared for this--have a gag ready, if need be. A ball gag works wonders. A small apple may fit in its mouth, too.
As the masochist cooks, all its juices will start flowing to the surface, and it will probably get creamy. Don't waste this soft sweet juice! Baste the meat liberally as the cooking continues. You can even remove the gag once in a while to force its juices back into its mouth. It may very well be crying at this point, too, and the juices mixed with its tears should make a unique tangy/sweet taste on its tongue. Don't be shy about tasting yourself!
Depending on the masochist, you will know its ready when it's thrashing has simmered down to a low, miserable quiver; when its skin is flushed and throbbing; when the bruises have risen nicely to the surface; and when it can do nothing but stare into dreamy space, utterly removed from its current torment. Do not base your decision on whether the masochist has had enough solely on the appearance of the body. Judge on its state of mind: basically, it should have no mind left. Once your masochist is incapable of putting coherent thoughts together, it is probably done.
At this point, the masochist needs time to cool down. Sit it in a corner, keep it still and quiet if necessary. Treat it like a soufflé: don't let it drop too quickly! This part can be tricky to learn, but with enough practice, I'm sure you'll get it.
By the time the process is over, your masochist should look great, feel great, and taste great. Good job! And remember: don't be afraid to experiment. This is just one recipe; have fun making your own!
Tuesday, July 30, 2013
Thursday, July 25, 2013
My Response to the Editors at Good Men Project
Dear Good Men Project,
I've always been a fan of your site. For one, it's eye-pleasing, and two, the content has always been above grade. And let's face it, with a name like "Good Men Project," and a lofty goal like "enlightened masculinity," how could women everywhere not love it, or at least condone it? You want to show your readers what it means to be a "good man." You want to lead by example.
So here's my question for you: What the fuck happened?
I'm talking specifically about this article. You know, the one written by the guy who admits raping a woman while drunk, then tries to explain it away, just so that he can justify his need to party.
Drunk. And raping.
Let's take on a few interesting points from the article you put up as your featured fucking content, shall we?
Even as he's telling this story, the author has to explain that it seemed ok to rape at the time.
The woman been flirting with him. Yes, actual flirting!
He was too blurry and fucked-up to realize a kiss is not an invitation for rape.
His friends were cheering him on. He had to please the crowd, damn it!
Her boundaries with her boyfriend were fuzzy...and everyone knows, no protective boyfriend=fair game for rape.
But here's the real kicker: he can't even bring himself to call it rape. No, it was a "particularly harsh third base."
It hurt her, physically and emotionally. He violated her body. But it wasn't real rape.
Which I guess is one of the reasons why he feels justified to "run the risk" of doing it again?
The author later goes on to say how it's even possible he was raped. He's not sure, of course. But it's possible! He might be a victim here, too! But he's willing to take that chance, and keep drinking and partying.
I've accepted a certain amount of rape as the cost of doing business, and so have most of the people I know.
And if he's willing to take the chance of getting raped, then by God, all the women he parties with should be willing to take the chance of getting raped by him. Because partying is what's most important.
I'm not surprised there are men like this author in the world. I'm not naive; I know plenty of men think rape is no big deal--did I say rape? I meant a particularly harsh third base--and women should just accept that if they're going to party, they have to accept responsibility for their actions. Actions that might get themselves raped. If rapists can take responsibility for their drunken misconduct--kinda--then the raped women should too, right?
This is the rape apologists' attitude, anyway.
But why is the Good Men Project defending it? For god's sake, why?
Oh, you put a disclaimer above the article, yes.
Do you really think this disclaimer absolves you? Let's take another look at it, shall we?
Editor’s note: This is a difficult article to read, and to publish.
Do you think it being "difficult to publish" exonerates you from doing so? You published a rape apologist article. You made that choice. You could have published an article like "Why I stopped drinking: because I raped" or "Why men need to stop blaming their actions on alcohol" or "I will never make up for raping while drunk." Or how about publishing an article from a woman's point of view? "I was raped by a drunk man at a party. Here's what happened."
But no, you guys chose to publish an article written by a rapist who admits he raped a woman, knows he might do it again, and doesn't fucking care, not enough to take whatever steps necessary to not rape again. Because it feels too fucking good.
We at the Good Men Project do not endorse or support the author’s worldview
You don't endorse his worldview. But you published it as featured content. So what would you call it, if not endorsement? I guess if we can play around with words like "rape" and "boundaries," we can fudge the definition of "endorsement," too.
but it does speak to a very common experience that is often taken for granted
Yeah, it's a common experience. One that has to stop. That's not what this article is about.
We thank the author for being willing to speak openly about it, and share his struggle with his own experiences
I guess if you get a writer who's articulate and can write about a difficult topic poignantly, it doesn't really matter what his viewpoint is, does it? You'll publish the article. Because he's sharing his struggle with his own experiences. Only...it wasn't just his experience, it was also the woman who got raped. Remember her? And I really don't think he's struggling as much as she is. But hey! He's open and honest about what he did! He deserves a cookie!
we want to make very clear that we do not agree with his conclusions.
I'm so glad you don't agree with his conclusions. Seems kind of weird, though, you published the article anyway.
And that's the kicker, isn't it? You guys didn't agree with the "conclusions" of the article, and you felt the need to tack up a disclaimer...but you posted it anyway. Why? Because it's sensationalist writing? Because you knew people would be talking about it? Because you needed the publicity?
Well, mission accomplished, Good Men Project. I'm devoting a whole post to you guys. I'm letting everyone know how disgusting, abhorrent, and chauvinistic your featured content is. Your name is forever tainted with your readers. You are not the "Good Men" project anymore. You are the website that posted an article defending drunken rape, and sent a clear message to your readers that if you're a guy who rapes, but you feel kinda bad about it, and you can write well, then you'll have a platform waiting for you.
Is that the message you wanted to send? Good job.
But if not, then you guys got some thinking to do.
My advice: pull the article while you think, and offer your readers a damn big apology, because dudes, you fucked up.
I've always been a fan of your site. For one, it's eye-pleasing, and two, the content has always been above grade. And let's face it, with a name like "Good Men Project," and a lofty goal like "enlightened masculinity," how could women everywhere not love it, or at least condone it? You want to show your readers what it means to be a "good man." You want to lead by example.
So here's my question for you: What the fuck happened?
I'm talking specifically about this article. You know, the one written by the guy who admits raping a woman while drunk, then tries to explain it away, just so that he can justify his need to party.
Drunk. And raping.
Let's take on a few interesting points from the article you put up as your featured fucking content, shall we?
With what I’ve learned as an adult, I’m pretty sure I’m technically a rapist. Technically nothing. One woman told me herself. Our encounter was years before—I’d been in a drinking contest and she’d been drinking and flirting with me (yes, actually flirting) all evening. As blurry and fucked-up as I was, I read her kiss of congratulation to me as a stronger signal than it was, and with friends hooting and cheering us on, I pressed her up against a wall and… well. Call it rape or call it a particularly harsh third base, I walked away with the impression that it had been consensual, if not really sensible. (She had a boyfriend at the time, but their boundaries were fuzzy.)
Years later, she was in a recovery program—not for alcohol, ironically—and she got in touch with me during the part where she made peace with her past. She wanted to clarify that what had happened between us was without her consent, that it hurt her physically and emotionally, that it was, yes, rape.
Even as he's telling this story, the author has to explain that it seemed ok to rape at the time.
The woman been flirting with him. Yes, actual flirting!
He was too blurry and fucked-up to realize a kiss is not an invitation for rape.
His friends were cheering him on. He had to please the crowd, damn it!
Her boundaries with her boyfriend were fuzzy...and everyone knows, no protective boyfriend=fair game for rape.
But here's the real kicker: he can't even bring himself to call it rape. No, it was a "particularly harsh third base."
It hurt her, physically and emotionally. He violated her body. But it wasn't real rape.
Which I guess is one of the reasons why he feels justified to "run the risk" of doing it again?
The author later goes on to say how it's even possible he was raped. He's not sure, of course. But it's possible! He might be a victim here, too! But he's willing to take that chance, and keep drinking and partying.
I've accepted a certain amount of rape as the cost of doing business, and so have most of the people I know.
And if he's willing to take the chance of getting raped, then by God, all the women he parties with should be willing to take the chance of getting raped by him. Because partying is what's most important.
I'm not surprised there are men like this author in the world. I'm not naive; I know plenty of men think rape is no big deal--did I say rape? I meant a particularly harsh third base--and women should just accept that if they're going to party, they have to accept responsibility for their actions. Actions that might get themselves raped. If rapists can take responsibility for their drunken misconduct--kinda--then the raped women should too, right?
This is the rape apologists' attitude, anyway.
But why is the Good Men Project defending it? For god's sake, why?
Oh, you put a disclaimer above the article, yes.
Do you really think this disclaimer absolves you? Let's take another look at it, shall we?
Editor’s note: This is a difficult article to read, and to publish.
Do you think it being "difficult to publish" exonerates you from doing so? You published a rape apologist article. You made that choice. You could have published an article like "Why I stopped drinking: because I raped" or "Why men need to stop blaming their actions on alcohol" or "I will never make up for raping while drunk." Or how about publishing an article from a woman's point of view? "I was raped by a drunk man at a party. Here's what happened."
But no, you guys chose to publish an article written by a rapist who admits he raped a woman, knows he might do it again, and doesn't fucking care, not enough to take whatever steps necessary to not rape again. Because it feels too fucking good.
We at the Good Men Project do not endorse or support the author’s worldview
You don't endorse his worldview. But you published it as featured content. So what would you call it, if not endorsement? I guess if we can play around with words like "rape" and "boundaries," we can fudge the definition of "endorsement," too.
but it does speak to a very common experience that is often taken for granted
Yeah, it's a common experience. One that has to stop. That's not what this article is about.
We thank the author for being willing to speak openly about it, and share his struggle with his own experiences
I guess if you get a writer who's articulate and can write about a difficult topic poignantly, it doesn't really matter what his viewpoint is, does it? You'll publish the article. Because he's sharing his struggle with his own experiences. Only...it wasn't just his experience, it was also the woman who got raped. Remember her? And I really don't think he's struggling as much as she is. But hey! He's open and honest about what he did! He deserves a cookie!
we want to make very clear that we do not agree with his conclusions.
I'm so glad you don't agree with his conclusions. Seems kind of weird, though, you published the article anyway.
And that's the kicker, isn't it? You guys didn't agree with the "conclusions" of the article, and you felt the need to tack up a disclaimer...but you posted it anyway. Why? Because it's sensationalist writing? Because you knew people would be talking about it? Because you needed the publicity?
Well, mission accomplished, Good Men Project. I'm devoting a whole post to you guys. I'm letting everyone know how disgusting, abhorrent, and chauvinistic your featured content is. Your name is forever tainted with your readers. You are not the "Good Men" project anymore. You are the website that posted an article defending drunken rape, and sent a clear message to your readers that if you're a guy who rapes, but you feel kinda bad about it, and you can write well, then you'll have a platform waiting for you.
Is that the message you wanted to send? Good job.
But if not, then you guys got some thinking to do.
My advice: pull the article while you think, and offer your readers a damn big apology, because dudes, you fucked up.
Friday, July 19, 2013
My Other Jewelry
A story of last night.
It was a night of rare proportions: ALL THREE KIDS WERE OUT OF THE HOUSE. They were spending the night at camp, sleeping in sleeping bags under the moon and stars.
My youngest, the seven-year-old, has slept away from home without us, oh, maybe twice in his life. That's all. The older two teenagers have obviously spent many nights away, sometimes with friends, sometimes with relatives, sometimes not even sleeping, just going off to different places. They can do that; they're young.
But they don't always spend the night away at the same time. And in any case, it's not the same when just two out of three of your children are out of the house: you've still got one child left on your hands. Even if he's a sound sleeper, even if he goes to bed early, even if you know theoretically he's not going to hear a thing...you know he's there, he's your responsibility, and sometimes, shit happens.
But last night was different. Last night, all the kids were gone. No children. Nada. We had the house to ourselves.
"You want to go out for dinner?" Husband called to ask me as I was driving home. Another rarity: he had gotten home before me.
"No," I replied. "I'd rather stay in and cuddle."
"Sounds good."
"Naked."
"Sounds better."
When I got home, he was on his computer, and by the looks of it, I could tell he was dealing with something work related, and he would be on it for a while. I went upstairs, got naked, and washed (inside and out).
Later I called down, "Husband? How long are you going to be?"
"A few minutes."
This is always a lie. A "few minutes" is never a few minutes. Sometimes, it's hours.
Years ago, I would have waited for him, and resented him for it. Now I either wait for him patiently, with no acrimony...or I do something about it.
I got out the newest butt plug in our collection, a thick metal jeweled one, lubed it up, and slowly--oh so slowly--began to push it in my ass.
I wasn't in any kind of hurry. I knew Husband would not walk in on me; he was downstairs, doing his thing.
Metal butt plugs are their own kind of nasty: they're cold, and completely unforgiving. They fucking hurt. But I was determined to get this one all the way in, until the jewel was resting snuggly against my skin. It took a while, and I had to practice some breathing techniques, but I got it there.
Once I was done, I got up (that plug was not going anywhere), washed my hands, grabbed my cell phone--
and took a picture of the plug in my ass.
It wasn't the best picture, but when you're talking about an ass filled with plug, let's be real here: is there really such a thing as a bad picture?
"Honey?" I called down. "I just sent you a message...did you get it?"
"No?"
"No...? What do you mean, no?"
"I mean I didn't get it."
"But it was a picture."
"Oh? Let me check again...nope, still didn't get it."
"Uh oh."
"Are you sure you sent it to me?"
"Oh god."
I heard his footsteps on the stairs.
"Maybe you sent it to one of the kids?"
"Oh god oh god."
The door opened. I was on my side, my ass facing the wall, so Husband could not see the butt plug. I was also frantically checking my phone.
"No, I sent it to you," I said, relieved.
"Well, I didn't get it," he said. "What was it a picture of?"
I turned around and spread my ass.
"Oh," he said. "Nice."
He fucked me from behind with the butt plug in. That plug fucking hurt. I saw colors and bright lights as I came, it was that good.
When we were done, he watched me take out the plug, which turned into a process, as I was now extra tight, and extra sensitive. I grimaced and howled as I pulled the plug out. Husband smiled the whole time.
"Next time," he said, "I want to watch you put it in."
This morning, I asked him to check his phone again for the picture.
"I still didn't get it," he said. "Shit, I think I know..."
"What?"
He went to his computer, opened it up, and turned it on.
"I messed with the settings on my accounts last night," he said. "Your picture was forwarded to my computer."
There, taking up the full screen, was a glorious picture of my bejeweled plugged ass.
"Better erase that before your meeting this morning," I said with glee.
"Yeah," he said. "It's a nice picture, though."
Tuesday, July 16, 2013
Why I Need Discipline: Because No One Wants to Keep a Dog that Shits the Bed
Imagine you have a dog. She's an awesome dog. Cute, fun, and loyal as hell. There's only one problem: the bitch shits the bed.
Your bed.
It's not a constant problem. The dog doesn't do it all the time. Once in a while, maybe, like once a week--maybe even just once a month. I mean, shit happens, right? So you change the sheets, clean the mattress up as best you can, give your dog The Look, and carry on.
It's not that big of a deal, you think. Certainly not a big enough problem to turn around and punish the dog. After all, she's a great dog. Doesn't bark, doesn't knock things over, doesn't beg, comes on command, brings you your slippers and paper, sits at your feet in the evenings as you watch your shows...you wouldn't trade this dog for the world.
It just has this one small problem. It's a shitty problem, yes, but you can deal.
Except maybe the dog knows she's doing something wrong. Not exactly what, or when, or how; but she knows that once in a while, you turn around and give her The Look, that stare that says clearly "you are a bad dog. A bad, bad dog. BAD DOG."
And the dog doesn't like getting that stare, not one little bit. She wants to know what she did to deserve it. She wants to know what she did wrong, so she doesn't do it again.
Cause maybe, just maybe, the dog could be trained not to make the same mistake again. Maybe she shits on the bed because she doesn't know any better. Maybe she just doesn't understand how important it is to you not to do that. Maybe, if things were clarified a little bit, if some discipline were administered by a calm, dominant hand, she would be able to understand, and she would learn, and remember.
Learning how not to make the owner give her the BAD DOG stare would be good. Really, really good. And she's a smart dog; she can learn! She just needs time. Time, consistency, training, and discipline.
She wants to learn, because anything, even the harsh discipline, is better than the BAD DOG stare. The BAD DOG stare is horrible. The absolute worst of the worst. The dog would rather walk through fire than get the BAD DOG stare one more time.
The stare means the dog has disappointed the owner. Nothing--nothing--is worse than that.
The dog knows something else in the back of her small dog mind: nobody wants a dog who shits the bed. Not for very long, anyway. Sure, for a while, the dog's good qualities will please the owner enough to balance things out. But after a while, the whole "cleaning shit off the bed" thing is going to get old. The owner is going to get resentful. Eventually, he will begin to wish he had a different dog, one who didn't shit the bed.
But the dog does not want a different owner. The dog loves her owner. All she wants to do is make her owner happy. All she needs to know is how.
This is why it is often kinder, nicer, more dutiful, and more loving to discipline the dog. The dog learns what you want, what you expect from her. There are no questions; there are no doubts. Memories are made through lessons. Sometimes these lessons have to be harsh to make lasting reminders, but that is okay. The dog will accept discipline if it means becoming a better dog...whatever "better dog" happens to means for her loving owner.
What I'm getting at here is this: sometimes I need discipline. This does not mean I enjoy it, or crave it, or in any way look forward to it. But I ask for it, because I know it is how I learn, and what I want to learn is how to make you happy.
Because I know a dose of discipline now will save me from seeing disappointment in your eyes later. And anything, anything is better than that.
Did I just use an analogy comparing myself to a dog? Yes, I did, and I am surprisingly okay with that. Because, as Husband likes to say, I can be a bitch--but I am his bitch. :)
Your bed.
It's not a constant problem. The dog doesn't do it all the time. Once in a while, maybe, like once a week--maybe even just once a month. I mean, shit happens, right? So you change the sheets, clean the mattress up as best you can, give your dog The Look, and carry on.
It's not that big of a deal, you think. Certainly not a big enough problem to turn around and punish the dog. After all, she's a great dog. Doesn't bark, doesn't knock things over, doesn't beg, comes on command, brings you your slippers and paper, sits at your feet in the evenings as you watch your shows...you wouldn't trade this dog for the world.
It just has this one small problem. It's a shitty problem, yes, but you can deal.
Except maybe the dog knows she's doing something wrong. Not exactly what, or when, or how; but she knows that once in a while, you turn around and give her The Look, that stare that says clearly "you are a bad dog. A bad, bad dog. BAD DOG."
And the dog doesn't like getting that stare, not one little bit. She wants to know what she did to deserve it. She wants to know what she did wrong, so she doesn't do it again.
Cause maybe, just maybe, the dog could be trained not to make the same mistake again. Maybe she shits on the bed because she doesn't know any better. Maybe she just doesn't understand how important it is to you not to do that. Maybe, if things were clarified a little bit, if some discipline were administered by a calm, dominant hand, she would be able to understand, and she would learn, and remember.
Learning how not to make the owner give her the BAD DOG stare would be good. Really, really good. And she's a smart dog; she can learn! She just needs time. Time, consistency, training, and discipline.
She wants to learn, because anything, even the harsh discipline, is better than the BAD DOG stare. The BAD DOG stare is horrible. The absolute worst of the worst. The dog would rather walk through fire than get the BAD DOG stare one more time.
The stare means the dog has disappointed the owner. Nothing--nothing--is worse than that.
The dog knows something else in the back of her small dog mind: nobody wants a dog who shits the bed. Not for very long, anyway. Sure, for a while, the dog's good qualities will please the owner enough to balance things out. But after a while, the whole "cleaning shit off the bed" thing is going to get old. The owner is going to get resentful. Eventually, he will begin to wish he had a different dog, one who didn't shit the bed.
But the dog does not want a different owner. The dog loves her owner. All she wants to do is make her owner happy. All she needs to know is how.
This is why it is often kinder, nicer, more dutiful, and more loving to discipline the dog. The dog learns what you want, what you expect from her. There are no questions; there are no doubts. Memories are made through lessons. Sometimes these lessons have to be harsh to make lasting reminders, but that is okay. The dog will accept discipline if it means becoming a better dog...whatever "better dog" happens to means for her loving owner.
What I'm getting at here is this: sometimes I need discipline. This does not mean I enjoy it, or crave it, or in any way look forward to it. But I ask for it, because I know it is how I learn, and what I want to learn is how to make you happy.
Because I know a dose of discipline now will save me from seeing disappointment in your eyes later. And anything, anything is better than that.
Did I just use an analogy comparing myself to a dog? Yes, I did, and I am surprisingly okay with that. Because, as Husband likes to say, I can be a bitch--but I am his bitch. :)
Sunday, July 14, 2013
Folsom Fringe Presenter
There's a conference that happens the same weekend as Folsom, named (quite aptly) Folsom Fringe. It takes place the Friday and Saturday before Folsom, and offers free shuttle service to the fair itself.
So here's my big news: this year, I will be presenting a class at Folsom Fringe! The class will be on how to self-publish erotica.
I'm very, very excited. Maybe not so excited, I'm ready to start giving out socks to all my readers who ask me for them--
Ok, I gotta just throw this out here: why the fuck do so many readers ask me to send them my socks? Seriously, this is my number one request. Not signed copies of my books, oh no; my SOCKS are what readers ask me for. I don't get it. Seriously, it boggles my mind. I mean, none, NOT ONE, of my stories involve a sock fetish. Which does not mean there's anything wrong with that--you like to come on thick wooly socks, the sight of cotton anklets turns you on, then hey, sock yourself out--but it has never been delved into
(I had to get that pun in)
in any of my stories. So why, why do so many readers write me, asking for my socks? I don't get it. I really don't.
Anyway.
I am giving a class on self-publishing at Folsom Fringe, I am very excited, and I would love to see you there. I will also be selling autographed copies of my books.
So...come! To Folsom Fringe!
And, you know...come, in the generally understood sense of the word. Cause orgasms are always good.
It's just a suggestion, of course. I'm a sub. I don't give orders.
Friday, July 12, 2013
A Message To Tops Out There
You know how in some movies, there's this girl--
She's fat, she's ugly, she's downcast; she's made fun of, mocked, humiliated and berated?
I was that girl.
I was called stupid. I was called fat, ugly, awkward, and ditzy. I was told I looked like a boy. I was told I had funny teeth. I was told I had a weird face. I was told all the other girls were prettier than me, that of all the girls in the class, I was the ugliest.
Ugly. Stupid. Fat. Ugly.
I was an embarrassment. Unworthy of friends. Unworthy of respect. Unworthy of anything but ridicule.
I grew up. My face changed.
I look in the mirror now, and I know, on some level, that I am not ugly.
I also know--deep in my heart I know it--that looks have nothing to do with love, or respect, or worth.
But I cannot change the lessons of the past. The lines are etched in the soul, little scratches made not with a pen--my implement of power of today--but with harsh words, and the grating laughter of everyone around you.
The scratches bleed.
Not a lot. Tiny drops of blood that fall like tears. But enough to stain. Eventually, the scratches are deep enough to form scar tissue.
You grow up, you cut the scar tissue away...but the skin beneath will never be the same. The lines etched with shame are carved too deep for any amount of healing to reach. Smiles become your mask, to hide your disfigurement.
You laugh. You amuse. You try to entertain.
But in the back of your mind, you wonder...are they laughing with you? Or at you?
Will you ever be anything other than an object of pity?
Weeks ago, I went to a party. I had a clear expectation in my head that I would get some play. I didn't know how, or from whom...but the expectation was there. Perhaps that was presumptuous of me.
The party went on, and I realized my chances of getting any kind of play were growing dim.
A male friend was there, a well-reputed, well-respected Dom. He saw how unhappy I was. He asked me what I wanted. I was honest with him: I wanted a spanking.
He offered to give me one.
I argued with him about it for a while. There wasn't enough space; there wasn't enough time; there wasn't enough freedom in the room for two people to engage in their own little scene. But the real reason why I was arguing with him was this: I thought he was offering to spank me as a favor. Not because he wanted to, but because he was willing to indulge me.
If there is such thing as a pity fuck, then there is such thing as a pity D/s scene...and I was afraid this was it.
Perhaps it was the look in his eyes that finally told me he was serious about wanting to spank me. Or perhaps I just really, really wanted it, enough to throw dignity to the wind and accept a pity pounding. Most likely it was a mixture of the two. But in the end, I did get my spanking.
He leaned me against the wall, I lifted my skirt, and it was the best spanking I could ask for, exactly what I needed. Not too heavy--I still needed to drive home--and not too light. It was the perfect balance of sting and slack, bite and bend. It was full of gooey satisfaction, and I thanked him afterwards for his consideration.
But I still wondered, walking through the parking lot on my way to my car: had he really wanted to spank me? Had he done it to please him as well as me? Or had he done it simply to do me a favor?
Had I been his "good deed" of the day?
I know--
I know, because I keep telling myself--
I know he wanted to spank me, and wasn't just doing me a "good deed." I know because of the light I saw in his eyes; and because, when I think about it rationally, this man is not a man who would do anything he didn't want to do, even to do someone else a favor.
Even give a girl a spanking.
But the self-doubt, the shame, the disbelief...it runs deep. Shame, like water, can cut through the strongest bedrock, the deepest conviction. It can seep into the smallest corners of the heart, until every bit of confidence has been washed away.
Some of us need to be told that you want to play with us; you want to slap us, spank us, do nasty and delicious things to us, make us cringe and squeal and flinch and moan, because if you do not tell us, we will not assume.
And even when you do tell us, we will assume you are lying. Because you cannot possibly want to play with us. How can you want to play with us? Ugly, fat, awkward, us?
That is what some of us masochists tell ourselves.
At least, that is what this masochist sometimes tells herself.
I am working on this. I am.
But sometimes it feels like the work will never be done.
She's fat, she's ugly, she's downcast; she's made fun of, mocked, humiliated and berated?
I was that girl.
I was called stupid. I was called fat, ugly, awkward, and ditzy. I was told I looked like a boy. I was told I had funny teeth. I was told I had a weird face. I was told all the other girls were prettier than me, that of all the girls in the class, I was the ugliest.
Ugly. Stupid. Fat. Ugly.
I was an embarrassment. Unworthy of friends. Unworthy of respect. Unworthy of anything but ridicule.
I grew up. My face changed.
I look in the mirror now, and I know, on some level, that I am not ugly.
I also know--deep in my heart I know it--that looks have nothing to do with love, or respect, or worth.
But I cannot change the lessons of the past. The lines are etched in the soul, little scratches made not with a pen--my implement of power of today--but with harsh words, and the grating laughter of everyone around you.
The scratches bleed.
Not a lot. Tiny drops of blood that fall like tears. But enough to stain. Eventually, the scratches are deep enough to form scar tissue.
You grow up, you cut the scar tissue away...but the skin beneath will never be the same. The lines etched with shame are carved too deep for any amount of healing to reach. Smiles become your mask, to hide your disfigurement.
You laugh. You amuse. You try to entertain.
But in the back of your mind, you wonder...are they laughing with you? Or at you?
Will you ever be anything other than an object of pity?
Weeks ago, I went to a party. I had a clear expectation in my head that I would get some play. I didn't know how, or from whom...but the expectation was there. Perhaps that was presumptuous of me.
The party went on, and I realized my chances of getting any kind of play were growing dim.
A male friend was there, a well-reputed, well-respected Dom. He saw how unhappy I was. He asked me what I wanted. I was honest with him: I wanted a spanking.
He offered to give me one.
I argued with him about it for a while. There wasn't enough space; there wasn't enough time; there wasn't enough freedom in the room for two people to engage in their own little scene. But the real reason why I was arguing with him was this: I thought he was offering to spank me as a favor. Not because he wanted to, but because he was willing to indulge me.
If there is such thing as a pity fuck, then there is such thing as a pity D/s scene...and I was afraid this was it.
Perhaps it was the look in his eyes that finally told me he was serious about wanting to spank me. Or perhaps I just really, really wanted it, enough to throw dignity to the wind and accept a pity pounding. Most likely it was a mixture of the two. But in the end, I did get my spanking.
He leaned me against the wall, I lifted my skirt, and it was the best spanking I could ask for, exactly what I needed. Not too heavy--I still needed to drive home--and not too light. It was the perfect balance of sting and slack, bite and bend. It was full of gooey satisfaction, and I thanked him afterwards for his consideration.
But I still wondered, walking through the parking lot on my way to my car: had he really wanted to spank me? Had he done it to please him as well as me? Or had he done it simply to do me a favor?
Had I been his "good deed" of the day?
I know--
I know, because I keep telling myself--
I know he wanted to spank me, and wasn't just doing me a "good deed." I know because of the light I saw in his eyes; and because, when I think about it rationally, this man is not a man who would do anything he didn't want to do, even to do someone else a favor.
Even give a girl a spanking.
But the self-doubt, the shame, the disbelief...it runs deep. Shame, like water, can cut through the strongest bedrock, the deepest conviction. It can seep into the smallest corners of the heart, until every bit of confidence has been washed away.
Some of us need to be told that you want to play with us; you want to slap us, spank us, do nasty and delicious things to us, make us cringe and squeal and flinch and moan, because if you do not tell us, we will not assume.
And even when you do tell us, we will assume you are lying. Because you cannot possibly want to play with us. How can you want to play with us? Ugly, fat, awkward, us?
That is what some of us masochists tell ourselves.
At least, that is what this masochist sometimes tells herself.
I am working on this. I am.
But sometimes it feels like the work will never be done.
Friday, May 31, 2013
Euphemisms
When you're kinky, sex and play become this kind of huge metaphorical amusement park, filled with mind-bending rides, laugh-soaked shows, and breath-catching thrills. Some of the rides are short, quick, and heart-pounding; some are long, slow, and relaxing; some you go on once or twice, and decide you'll never do again; and some are so amazing, you want to go on over and over and over. Each ride is different. Each one is unique in its own small way.
When you're kinky and have children, you still want to visit the amusement park pretty often. But you don't want your kids to know you're looking forward to a trip to the amusement park, and you certainly don't want them knowing which ride you're looking forward to the most.
So, if you're like us, you start making up names for the rides. Names that sound innocuous, but hold a much deeper meaning between the two of you. Names that can be placed into an innocent statement, but signify something else entirely, something much more kinky.
Like, let's say, oh, Doctor Who. If you're a long-time reader (or a twitter follower), you know I LOVE Doctor Who. You might also know Husband does not love Doctor Who (he once called my obsession with the show "retardis"). So when Husband says he wants some "Doctor Who," he is not talking about the TV show. He is talking about a specific sex position, a mode of play we enjoy. (How the position got this name is a story in and of itself.)
Now, Husband also likes beer. He doesn't indulge all that often, but when he does, he does not ask me to get him a beer. He gets up and pours it himself, mainly because he has a specific set of glasses he uses, and a specific way of pouring the beer into the glass, one that I can never seem to get right.
So when Husband says he wants me to "get him a bottle of beer," I know he's not talking about drinking a beer...well, he's not only talking about drinking a beer. He's talking about another sex position, another mode of play. (Again, how this position got this moniker is a story unto itself--although, if you think about it long enough, you could probably figure out what he's doing with the beer bottle.)
We have all sorts of names for all sorts of kinky ways of play. Besides "Doctor Who" and "Drink a Beer," we have "La Jolla," "Get the Butter" (which does NOT involve butter, thank god, butter does NOT a good lubricant make, no matter what Marlon Brando would have you believe) (just FYI), "You Won't Be Able to Reach Your Phone," "I'll Mess Up Your Hair," "You'll Be Typing Standing Up," "Go Food Shopping in the Vegetable Aisle," and others.
In this way, Husband and I can have all sorts of conversations in front of the kids that sound completely reasonable and chaste, because only he and I understand the deeper context. Conversations like the one we had last night in the car, which went kinda like this:
Husband: So you have anything going on tonight?
Me: No...why?
Husband (smirking): I'm thinking I should have a beer.
Me (refusing to play along): Go ahead. Have a beer. Just don't drive anywhere afterwards.
Husband (frowning): You know what I meant.
Me (trying not to grin): Yeah, I know.
Child Sitting in the Back: What did you mean, dad? You're gonna get blitzed?
Husband: No, I am not going to get blitzed. And what kind of word is that?
There is a pause now, as Husband is a tad annoyed.
Husband: Maybe while I'm drinking my beer, you should watch some Doctor Who.
Child Sitting in the Back: Oh! There's a new Doctor Who?
Me, turning to Child Sitting in the Back: No, no new Doctor Whos until Thanksgiving.
Child Sitting in the Back: But then you've already seen them all.
Me: Yup, I've seen them all. But I don't mind watching some of the episodes twice. You want to watch with me, kiddo?
Child Sitting in the Back: Naw, I have better things to watch. But thanks for asking.
Me (doing some of my own smirking): Sure.
Husband is now gnashing his teeth together.
Husband: When's our next trip to La Jolla?
Child Sitting in the Back: End of summer, dad.
Husband (murmuring under his breath): Not for your mother.
Child Sitting in Back: What?
Husband: Nothing. Nothing. (Turning to me): Wife, do we have enough vegetables at home?
Me (afraid now): I...think so?
Husband: Are you sure? Cause it's never a bad thing to have a well-stocked vegetable drawer. Maybe you should go to the supermarket later, and buy some.
Me: But...but we have vegetables.
Child Sitting in Back: We're out of the cucumbers, mom.
Husband (triumphant): There you go, Wife. You need to buy cucumbers. So why don't you go to the supermarket later, and get some cucumbers? And while you're at it, get some other vegetables, too.
Me: Fine. Fine! I get it.
Child Sitting in the Back: What do you get, mom?
Me: Nothing, kiddo.
Husband: You're mom's just a little afraid I'm going to mess up her hair before she goes to the supermarket.
Child Sitting in the Back: Why would you do that, dad?
Husband: Cause I can't help it. (He reaches his hand around my head to pull me closer, giving me an innocent head-hug.) You're mom's hair is so beautiful, I need to touch it all the time.
Child Sitting in the Back: Well, you can just fix your hair, can't you mom?
Me: Yes, kiddo. I can just fix my hair. But I would rather your father KEEP HIS HANDS OUT OF IT.
Husband: Are you sure, wife? Are you sure? Cause I don't think so. I don't think so at all.
Me: I think so!
Him: How's that chair doing in your office? Still good? It's nice to sit in, isn't it?
Me (panicking): Uh, I meant, I TOTALLY THINK SO. Yes.
Him (thoroughly satisfied now, in the most irritating way): That's what I thought.
Do the kids get some idea we're talking about things over their heads? I'm sure they do. But they won't know exactly what we're talking about. They'll wonder, but they'll never know. And this way, Husband can convey his information to me and get his point across without having to wait until we're alone. He can make me wait and worry and freak the fuck out even longer.
He doesn't have to wait to implement a good mindfuck.
When you're kinky and have children, you still want to visit the amusement park pretty often. But you don't want your kids to know you're looking forward to a trip to the amusement park, and you certainly don't want them knowing which ride you're looking forward to the most.
So, if you're like us, you start making up names for the rides. Names that sound innocuous, but hold a much deeper meaning between the two of you. Names that can be placed into an innocent statement, but signify something else entirely, something much more kinky.
Like, let's say, oh, Doctor Who. If you're a long-time reader (or a twitter follower), you know I LOVE Doctor Who. You might also know Husband does not love Doctor Who (he once called my obsession with the show "retardis"). So when Husband says he wants some "Doctor Who," he is not talking about the TV show. He is talking about a specific sex position, a mode of play we enjoy. (How the position got this name is a story in and of itself.)
Now, Husband also likes beer. He doesn't indulge all that often, but when he does, he does not ask me to get him a beer. He gets up and pours it himself, mainly because he has a specific set of glasses he uses, and a specific way of pouring the beer into the glass, one that I can never seem to get right.
So when Husband says he wants me to "get him a bottle of beer," I know he's not talking about drinking a beer...well, he's not only talking about drinking a beer. He's talking about another sex position, another mode of play. (Again, how this position got this moniker is a story unto itself--although, if you think about it long enough, you could probably figure out what he's doing with the beer bottle.)
We have all sorts of names for all sorts of kinky ways of play. Besides "Doctor Who" and "Drink a Beer," we have "La Jolla," "Get the Butter" (which does NOT involve butter, thank god, butter does NOT a good lubricant make, no matter what Marlon Brando would have you believe) (just FYI), "You Won't Be Able to Reach Your Phone," "I'll Mess Up Your Hair," "You'll Be Typing Standing Up," "Go Food Shopping in the Vegetable Aisle," and others.
In this way, Husband and I can have all sorts of conversations in front of the kids that sound completely reasonable and chaste, because only he and I understand the deeper context. Conversations like the one we had last night in the car, which went kinda like this:
Husband: So you have anything going on tonight?
Me: No...why?
Husband (smirking): I'm thinking I should have a beer.
Me (refusing to play along): Go ahead. Have a beer. Just don't drive anywhere afterwards.
Husband (frowning): You know what I meant.
Me (trying not to grin): Yeah, I know.
Child Sitting in the Back: What did you mean, dad? You're gonna get blitzed?
Husband: No, I am not going to get blitzed. And what kind of word is that?
There is a pause now, as Husband is a tad annoyed.
Husband: Maybe while I'm drinking my beer, you should watch some Doctor Who.
Child Sitting in the Back: Oh! There's a new Doctor Who?
Me, turning to Child Sitting in the Back: No, no new Doctor Whos until Thanksgiving.
Child Sitting in the Back: But then you've already seen them all.
Me: Yup, I've seen them all. But I don't mind watching some of the episodes twice. You want to watch with me, kiddo?
Child Sitting in the Back: Naw, I have better things to watch. But thanks for asking.
Me (doing some of my own smirking): Sure.
Husband is now gnashing his teeth together.
Husband: When's our next trip to La Jolla?
Child Sitting in the Back: End of summer, dad.
Husband (murmuring under his breath): Not for your mother.
Child Sitting in Back: What?
Husband: Nothing. Nothing. (Turning to me): Wife, do we have enough vegetables at home?
Me (afraid now): I...think so?
Husband: Are you sure? Cause it's never a bad thing to have a well-stocked vegetable drawer. Maybe you should go to the supermarket later, and buy some.
Me: But...but we have vegetables.
Child Sitting in Back: We're out of the cucumbers, mom.
Husband (triumphant): There you go, Wife. You need to buy cucumbers. So why don't you go to the supermarket later, and get some cucumbers? And while you're at it, get some other vegetables, too.
Me: Fine. Fine! I get it.
Child Sitting in the Back: What do you get, mom?
Me: Nothing, kiddo.
Husband: You're mom's just a little afraid I'm going to mess up her hair before she goes to the supermarket.
Child Sitting in the Back: Why would you do that, dad?
Husband: Cause I can't help it. (He reaches his hand around my head to pull me closer, giving me an innocent head-hug.) You're mom's hair is so beautiful, I need to touch it all the time.
Child Sitting in the Back: Well, you can just fix your hair, can't you mom?
Me: Yes, kiddo. I can just fix my hair. But I would rather your father KEEP HIS HANDS OUT OF IT.
Husband: Are you sure, wife? Are you sure? Cause I don't think so. I don't think so at all.
Me: I think so!
Him: How's that chair doing in your office? Still good? It's nice to sit in, isn't it?
Me (panicking): Uh, I meant, I TOTALLY THINK SO. Yes.
Him (thoroughly satisfied now, in the most irritating way): That's what I thought.
Do the kids get some idea we're talking about things over their heads? I'm sure they do. But they won't know exactly what we're talking about. They'll wonder, but they'll never know. And this way, Husband can convey his information to me and get his point across without having to wait until we're alone. He can make me wait and worry and freak the fuck out even longer.
He doesn't have to wait to implement a good mindfuck.
Sunday, May 19, 2013
Integrity
This weekend there was a pretty big local event here, the NorthwestLeather Conference, or NWLC. It’s sponsored by smOdyssey, a group of which I have just recently become a member. I did not attend the conference. However, there was a separate event yesterday being held in a private room of the hotel, open to everyone, registered
conference attendee or no. Husband and I came to that.
I had the
opportunity to walk around the hotel a bit, say hi to some of my friends, and
see what all the fuss was about. I’ll tell you right now—next year, I’m buying
at least a Saturday day pass to this thing. The conference schedule looked amazing, and I’m sorry
I missed so many amazing classes (not to mention a kickass party Saturday
night).
Of course, not being a registered attendee yesterday, I was unable to
enter many of the rooms and suites set aside for the conference. One of the
rooms I really, really wanted to check out was the vendor space. Literally
every single one of my friends who entered that blocked off room came out with
something amazing! I couldn’t even ask them to take pictures for me, because
photography was not allowed.
I asked at the register table if I could have permission to go into the vendor space. They
said no, not without a pass. I asked if there was a special pass I could buy, just for the vendor space, and they said no—I would have to buy the whole day
pass. Seeing as how Husband was already on his way to pick me up from the hotel, I declined.
Outside the vendor room, standing with a circle of friends, I bemoaned
my unhappiness (and jealousy) of my friends buying such cool stuff. More than
a few of them offered to give me their passes from around their necks so I
could go into the vendor space. I refused.
“Just put it on and go in,” they said. “Nobody will know the
difference.”
“But I asked if I could go in, and they said no,” I explained.
“They told you you need a pass. Take mine for a few minutes. It’s not a
big deal.”
“It’s not right. They told me I need to pay.”
“That’s silly. Here, just take it,” they said.
I still refused.
“It’s not right,” I kept saying. “I’m not doing it.”
After I made it clear I was against doing it because of the principle of
the thing, one man, a friend of mine, said to me, “you would do it if
your Husband told you to.”
I thought about it...for about a tenth of a second. “He never would,” I
stated. “He is my Dom, and he would never ask me to go against something I
thought was wrong. It’s one of the reasons why he’s my Dom.”
“He would never ask her to go against her integrity,” another friend
interjected.
This woman, someone well-known and well-respected in the scene, had
managed to say succinctly what I had not been able to, and the rest of the
arguments finally stopped.
The whole episode got me thinking, though. Would I have taken someone
else’s pass and used it for my advantage if Husband had told me to? Probably. I
would have assumed he must have a good reason to tell me to do such a thing.
Given that he knows I would be morally against it, and given that he respects
my sense of ethics, I would trust he would not order me to do such a thing
unless he was privy to information I was not, information he would later share
with me to assuage my guilt.
But, the truth is…Husband would never ask me to do something like that.
In fact, he would be angry with me for going against my better judgment, and
giving into peer pressure.
He expects me to hold myself to certain beliefs; that is one of the
reasons why he chose me as his wife. I hold to these beliefs, with or without
his say-so, and he expects me to continue to do so; that is one of the reasons
why I chose him as my Husband.
My Dom would never ask me to go against my core ethical beliefs, because
I would never allow someone to be my Dom who could do so.
If your Dom, Master, Top, Whathaveyou, if this person is asking you to
engage in behavior you find immoral, unethical, or basically goes against your
better judgment, that is a major red flag. This person should no longer
have that kind of influence over you. A D/M should never ask you to behave badly
in a way you’ll later regret; a D/M should always expect the best of you, so
you can be the best person you can be, proud of who you are, happy in your own
skin.
Now, do I think it’s a stupid rule that NWLC doesn’t allow non-conference-attendees to check out the vendors' space? Absolutely, yes. I think the
vendors would probably benefit from more people—aka, more potential
customers—checking out their wares. I think, in the future, the conference
should think about selling cheap badges that would let people at least see what's for sale.
But my opinion on the wisdom of the rule doesn’t change what I was told.
I was told I could not go in, so I did not.
When I came home, I told Husband what had happened, and what I did. He was pleased. He always likes to hear when I conduct myself well. It makes him proud.
His pride in me is the best reward there is.
Friday, May 10, 2013
To My Sister: Do Not Read This Post. I'm Serious. Don't Read It. [Blood Play]
Social media always leaves me with the feeling other couples find new ways to spice up their sex life by reading magazine articles while looking at the accompanying pictures, usually the stick-figure or cartoon variety. (See: Cosmo magazine.) I also get the feeling it's never the men who are looking for new things to try in the bedroom, but it's somehow the woman's sole responsibility; as if to say, women need to push things up a notch if they want to keep their man's attention occupied, otherwise their men won't be looking to magazine articles for help, they'll be looking to other women.
The sexist attitude inherent in our culture is a topic for another day.
Husband and I don't work that way. Yes, sometimes we find inspiration through tumblr or Fetlife. But more often than not, we learn our way through real life conversations, interactions--
And often, by accident.
The other night, we were enjoying a rare evening when all the stars happened to align in our favor: the oldest two boys were out, the youngest was fast asleep, and we basically had the house to ourselves. Kinky sex was on the horizon, but how that would play out, exactly what we would do with our time? That was still an exciting mystery.
Husband decided he wanted to watch the end of a movie he had started a couple days before. Assuming it would take at least half an hour for him to watch it, and having no interest in watching it with him, I decided to go downstairs and watch one of my own shows on the kids' TV.
Now, the way our house is set up, the family room has the biggest TV in the house, but the kids also have a pretty nice TV downstairs, facing an old futon. This futon actually used to be our couch, back when we used to live in a small apartment. This was pre-kids.
Husband and I had many fun times on that futon.
About ten minutes into my own show, Husband came downstairs to find me.
"I thought you wanted to finish watching your movie," I said.
"I decided I could find better entertainment down here," he replied.
He sat down next to me, grabbed my hand, and pulled me over his lap.
The TV show was forgotten; play had begun.
Here's something you might not know about a futon: the angle of it, the deep slope of the seat, makes it perfect for the-woman-on-top position. She can really snuggle into the man's thighs, push in deep, and grab onto the back of the wooden frame for support.
So when it was time, a while later, for the real fun to begin, it made sense that Husband wanted me to straddle his lap.
But here's something about me: when I'm in deep surrender mode, I can't deal with that kind of power. It feels wrong. My hips don't want to move; they want to be grabbed, squeezed, and restrained, not allowed to move about freely and do whatever they want. I can't come that way.
So Husband quickly turned me over, pulled me on all fours, and took me from behind. It was a tight fit for me. I was all scrunched up there, my ass poking out, my face squashed against the futon. Every time Husband bucked into me, I had to hold my breath; my mouth and nose would press into the black velvet cotton futon cover, making it impossible for me to draw air.
It was awesome.
When we were done, I rested my face into the crook of my arm, giving myself a minute to recover before I tried to stand up. Husband, smiling, took a step around to have a look at me. But when he saw me, his smile faded.
"There's blood on your arm," he said, pointing. "And on your face. What happened?"
I looked down at my arm, confirmed there was indeed blood, and felt my face. "I think you were pushing me into the futon so hard, I got a bloody nose," I said, touching my nostrils.
"Wow," he said. Then--to my utter surprise--his smile widened. "Wow."
He bent down and again, to my complete surprise, began to smear the blood from my nose all over my face. "Wow," he repeated, grinning.
I grinned back. "What, do I look cool?"
"Yeah," he said with glee. "Like a woman who just got fucked so hard, she got a nosebleed."
"I wanna see."
I quickly got up and ran to the bathroom. Red streaks lined my cheeks, chin, and forehead.
I began to laugh. "Oh my god," I said. "Oh my god, I'm a mess."
"A hot mess."
"Should I wash it off right now?" I was asking a rhetorical question...or thought I was, until Husband took a serious minute to think about it.
"I guess so," he said. "The kids might come home early. But it's really cool." His eyes were fixated on my face as he admired his art. "We need to do this again."
"What, have sex on the futon?"
"Have sex hard enough to make your nose bleed," he said. As he turned away to put his clothes back on, he said once again, "Wow. Wow, that's hot."
Does this mean were dipping our toes into blood play now, or some kind of extra level impact play? I don't know yet. It's too early to tell. You know I hate making conjectures about these sort of things, when I have absolutely nothing to base myself upon.
And besides, not knowing is part of the fun. Open mind+no predictions=no limits to the fun.
But I love how we surprise ourselves with what we can still do, the new levels of play we can still find, even after all these years.
It takes a certain level of self-assurance to do what we BDSMers do. We have to strip away all the restrictions and expectations society puts on us, just so we can be ourselves. Another couple might have been alarmed by the blood; the man would have been ashamed by his behavior, while the woman would have grown alarmed and furious. She might have questioned what kind of man he was, giving his wife a nosebleed (if only by accident), while he would have been put in a position of having to beg for forgiveness.
But we laughed...and entertained the idea of doing it again.
Now, have no doubt, if my nose had been really hurt, we would have dealt with the injury accordingly. Husband would have treated me in the appropriate manner, helping me to feel better. He also would have made a mental note to himself for next time.
But even then, this whole episode still would have been put into proper perspective. Husband did not mean to hurt me...this time. It would have been a case of rough sex gone wrong.
In our case, it was rough sex gone right. Next time, when Husband has every intent to hurt me, it will be with my absolute consent.
This is what BDSM does: It takes away the guilt for having the kind of sex you really want. All there needs to be is the beauty of consent between two adults, the love of trust, and if you're lucky, the trust of love.
Tuesday, May 7, 2013
It's All Good
So like every pair of parents who fear the long arm of social services, Husband and I try to shield our kids from the worst of our kinkiness. This is relatively easy with the 7-year-old, who anyway lives in his own little world of legos, rocks, and Minecraft. Power Rangers sometimes gets mixed in, but rarely, and only for a half an hour or two on Saturday morning.
The two older boys are getting harder to fool; but at the same time, we're feeling less guilty about exposing them to it.
I just realized...I never told you guys what happened over Passover, did I? No, I don't think I did. All I can say is, I blame the two cups of diluted wine Husband thought it okay to let them drink for the seder. I thought this a very very bad idea, and as you'll see, I was proven right.
Wine has a way of loosening tongues, people.
So we were having our seder, partaking of our cups of wine and our meal, and then it was time to search for the afikoman. If you're not familiar with a Jewish seder, the afikoman is the piece of matzah that serves as the dessert for after the meal.
(This only furthers my belief Jews invented sarcasm, by the way.)
The meal cannot continue until the afikoman is eaten. (We might have invented sadism, too.)
There is a tradition among most Jewish families that the afikoman gets hidden, either by the parents or the children, and the other party must find it. Depending on who's doing the finding, a round of bartering and blackmail ensues, until an agreement is reached and the meal can continue. In our family, Husband and I hide the afikoman, and our kids have to find it--but once they do, we have to pay them to give it back.
So the kids start looking around for the afikoman, using a well-organized system, I have to tell you, and Husband and I start following them around, laughing our heads off at their feeble attempts. We take this game seriously, you know. We're not the kind of parents to just hide stuff in the most obvious places, and let's be honest here, we've had some experience hiding stuff from our kids.
In other words, we weren't going to make it impossible for them, but we weren't going to make it easy, either.
But when my 12-year-old got to the wide padded rocking chair in our bedroom, I thought the game was up. Surely, I thought, he would lift up the seat cushion, and find the afikoman. But to my surprise, he didn't.
A few minutes later, they all gave up the game, and I showed them where it was by pulling the afikoman away from under the rocking chair's seat cushion.
"It was right here," I said to the 12-year-old. "You didn't look."
"I didn't want to touch that rocking chair," he said, scrunching up his face.
"Why?" I asked, confused.
"Because I know what you two do in that rocking chair," he answered me. "I hear it creaking at night. I'm not touching that thing."
I felt like the floor had dropped out from under me, my horror was so great. And then--then I did the only thing I could think of to save myself. I lied through my teeth.
"I promise you, son, absolutely nothing inappropriate happens in that rocking chair," I said.
At this point the 15-year-old chimed in. "Yeah, brother, those creaking noises are coming from the bed," he said. "Can't you tell the difference?"
At this point I just wanted to die of shame. "You can...you can hear us?" I squeaked.
"Of course we can," the 12-year-old answered. "You guys aren't exactly quiet, you know."
"Yeah, but it's ok mom," the 15-year-old tried to comfort me. "It sounds like you guys have fun. Just the screaming gets loud."
I sat down in the rocking chair and curled up my knees to my chest, muttering 'oh god, oh god.' But Husband...Husband's reaction was a little different.
"So you guys know anyway?" He said, a pleased grin spreading across his face. "You mean, from now on, we can just put a sock on the doorknob or something and you'll leave us alone?"
"HUSBAND." I shouted. "That is...that is..."
"This is great," he said.
"THIS IS NOT GREAT," now going from wanting to die to wanting to kill him. "We are never having sex again."
"Yes," he said, "we are."
"Oh god, oh god, oh god," I continued my rocking and muttering. "We are awful parents. Awful."
"We are not awful parents," Husband scoffed. "So what if they know sometimes when we're having sex?"
"Yeah, mom," my 12-year-old said. "It's not like it's all the time."
I looked up with pleading eyes. "It's not?"
"No," he said. "Most of the time now, when I hear you guys in your room, I just start listening to my music with my headphones on. Why do you think I spent so much of my own money on those headphones, anyway?"
So the ship has sailed. Our oldest two boys know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that THEIR PARENTS HAVE SEX. And--what's worse--WE KNOW THEY KNOW. And THEY KNOW WE KNOW THEY KNOW.
Ad infinitum, hallelujah, amen.
I just realized...I never told you guys what happened over Passover, did I? No, I don't think I did. All I can say is, I blame the two cups of diluted wine Husband thought it okay to let them drink for the seder. I thought this a very very bad idea, and as you'll see, I was proven right.
Wine has a way of loosening tongues, people.
So we were having our seder, partaking of our cups of wine and our meal, and then it was time to search for the afikoman. If you're not familiar with a Jewish seder, the afikoman is the piece of matzah that serves as the dessert for after the meal.
(This only furthers my belief Jews invented sarcasm, by the way.)
The meal cannot continue until the afikoman is eaten. (We might have invented sadism, too.)
There is a tradition among most Jewish families that the afikoman gets hidden, either by the parents or the children, and the other party must find it. Depending on who's doing the finding, a round of bartering and blackmail ensues, until an agreement is reached and the meal can continue. In our family, Husband and I hide the afikoman, and our kids have to find it--but once they do, we have to pay them to give it back.
So the kids start looking around for the afikoman, using a well-organized system, I have to tell you, and Husband and I start following them around, laughing our heads off at their feeble attempts. We take this game seriously, you know. We're not the kind of parents to just hide stuff in the most obvious places, and let's be honest here, we've had some experience hiding stuff from our kids.
In other words, we weren't going to make it impossible for them, but we weren't going to make it easy, either.
But when my 12-year-old got to the wide padded rocking chair in our bedroom, I thought the game was up. Surely, I thought, he would lift up the seat cushion, and find the afikoman. But to my surprise, he didn't.
A few minutes later, they all gave up the game, and I showed them where it was by pulling the afikoman away from under the rocking chair's seat cushion.
"It was right here," I said to the 12-year-old. "You didn't look."
"I didn't want to touch that rocking chair," he said, scrunching up his face.
"Why?" I asked, confused.
"Because I know what you two do in that rocking chair," he answered me. "I hear it creaking at night. I'm not touching that thing."
I felt like the floor had dropped out from under me, my horror was so great. And then--then I did the only thing I could think of to save myself. I lied through my teeth.
"I promise you, son, absolutely nothing inappropriate happens in that rocking chair," I said.
At this point the 15-year-old chimed in. "Yeah, brother, those creaking noises are coming from the bed," he said. "Can't you tell the difference?"
At this point I just wanted to die of shame. "You can...you can hear us?" I squeaked.
"Of course we can," the 12-year-old answered. "You guys aren't exactly quiet, you know."
"Yeah, but it's ok mom," the 15-year-old tried to comfort me. "It sounds like you guys have fun. Just the screaming gets loud."
I sat down in the rocking chair and curled up my knees to my chest, muttering 'oh god, oh god.' But Husband...Husband's reaction was a little different.
"So you guys know anyway?" He said, a pleased grin spreading across his face. "You mean, from now on, we can just put a sock on the doorknob or something and you'll leave us alone?"
"HUSBAND." I shouted. "That is...that is..."
"This is great," he said.
"THIS IS NOT GREAT," now going from wanting to die to wanting to kill him. "We are never having sex again."
"Yes," he said, "we are."
"Oh god, oh god, oh god," I continued my rocking and muttering. "We are awful parents. Awful."
"We are not awful parents," Husband scoffed. "So what if they know sometimes when we're having sex?"
"Yeah, mom," my 12-year-old said. "It's not like it's all the time."
I looked up with pleading eyes. "It's not?"
"No," he said. "Most of the time now, when I hear you guys in your room, I just start listening to my music with my headphones on. Why do you think I spent so much of my own money on those headphones, anyway?"
So the ship has sailed. Our oldest two boys know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that THEIR PARENTS HAVE SEX. And--what's worse--WE KNOW THEY KNOW. And THEY KNOW WE KNOW THEY KNOW.
Ad infinitum, hallelujah, amen.
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