With my face pressed into the bathroom floor I was reminded of the importance of my abandoned beliefs in housekeeping. The defense I offered myself that I had worked 60 hours this week just didn't seem to satisfy me like it should have, as I attempted to contemplate the layers of dust on the baseboards and the hair dye I had obviously missed on the bottom of the sink, accompanied clearly by an unforgivably wide streak of toothpaste.
It was going to be the mother of all orgasms. Right there on the floor of our decidedly dirty bathroom. Until a child wandered up to the bedroom door asking for toast.
Toast.
I may have sunk my teeth into Alpha's shoulder and muttered something about wanting to be one of those species that eat their young.
Maybe.
But it was still good. And hot. And kind of gross because really, I do need to clean the bathroom. But maybe that was part of the appeal and it fed the part of me that thrives on humiliation. Just a little bit.
Sunday, December 20, 2015
Saturday, December 19, 2015
I found a Space...
I haven't put in this many hours since I was 16, and I've never drowned in responsibility like I am now.
It's kicking my ass. I almost quit, but then I thought about what would happen to the people. Our wonderful, overworked staff who trickle in every morning and work until they can't see straight. What happens to them if people like me quit? The business sinks and they don't have a job to drag themselves to in the morning.
And so I get up and go back for more.
But I still want to quit. I miss my babies. I miss life.
One of the interesting an annoying things about being a manager is that everyone thinks that they know how it should be done. There is an often surprising lack of appreciation for being provided with solutions an a path to follow. It's not as easy as it sounds to choose and provide those paths in an industry that forges its own trails as it goes.
My job has so many facets, sometimes it makes me feel ill...
I am responsible for vaults and the products stored in them. I have had a love/hate relationship with the vaults. The first time I had to open one, it took me an hour. Those vaults were the first thing in the facility to bring me to tears.
In my life, I have found that one forms relationships with places. Mostly those magical outside places that resonate with the soul in some way.
The vaults are old, they have a somewhat unknown history, and before me, they had a keeper. It is likely that they have had multiple keepers in their quiet years of watching over the things which people deem to be of importance, with their limited access and concrete ceilings behind two foot thick doors.
I am the next keeper of the vaults. At the moment, I am one of only a few people who can even access them, and I am the only one working in them. They are quiet in the constant insanity of desperate activity which surrounds them.
These old vaults have a soul of their own, and had many keepers before me. They are silent in their purpose, watching over that which they have been entrusted to guard.
I had a moment yesterday, the kind of moment I have only ever experienced in magical wooded places devoid of people. In that moment, I found a space here where I belonged. That sounds small, but I have never escaped the feeling of not belonging in this not so new place we moved to a year ago.
The vaults watch, silent guardians of valuable things. I became their keeper in more than title alone, and those cold concrete walls with their steel doors and complicated combinations held me in their silence for a moment as their own. For the vaults to be mine, I had to become theirs, like a promise to a place, a small moment in space.
As things settle and staffing becomes less of an issue, and the vaults fill to capacity, I will spend a rising amount of time in them. I'm looking forward to it, that place where I fit. I miss the cage that one feels so strongly when one has time to immerse themselves in M/s. We are still what we have always been, and always will be. But our everything is directed at and given to the world right now.
In a way, those vaults are becoming a safe place for me in the insanity. I will be their keeper and they will hold my secrets, absorbing the quiet, serious conversations within their walls, watching those in charge as we whisper out our issues and fight through the tears that exist because it is all ultimately about people, and people feel and bleed, cry and need, people are people.
While making a somewhat extensive appearance in my job description, the vaults are only a facet of what I do. Yet somehow, in some small moment, I found my place and an unwritten title which fits me. I am, and will indefinitely remain, the keeper of the vaults.
Vaults are like M/s. They are a space of their own, almost outside of time. Safe, quiet to the depths of their soul. A space inside the storm.
It's kicking my ass. I almost quit, but then I thought about what would happen to the people. Our wonderful, overworked staff who trickle in every morning and work until they can't see straight. What happens to them if people like me quit? The business sinks and they don't have a job to drag themselves to in the morning.
And so I get up and go back for more.
But I still want to quit. I miss my babies. I miss life.
One of the interesting an annoying things about being a manager is that everyone thinks that they know how it should be done. There is an often surprising lack of appreciation for being provided with solutions an a path to follow. It's not as easy as it sounds to choose and provide those paths in an industry that forges its own trails as it goes.
My job has so many facets, sometimes it makes me feel ill...
I am responsible for vaults and the products stored in them. I have had a love/hate relationship with the vaults. The first time I had to open one, it took me an hour. Those vaults were the first thing in the facility to bring me to tears.
In my life, I have found that one forms relationships with places. Mostly those magical outside places that resonate with the soul in some way.
The vaults are old, they have a somewhat unknown history, and before me, they had a keeper. It is likely that they have had multiple keepers in their quiet years of watching over the things which people deem to be of importance, with their limited access and concrete ceilings behind two foot thick doors.
I am the next keeper of the vaults. At the moment, I am one of only a few people who can even access them, and I am the only one working in them. They are quiet in the constant insanity of desperate activity which surrounds them.
These old vaults have a soul of their own, and had many keepers before me. They are silent in their purpose, watching over that which they have been entrusted to guard.
I had a moment yesterday, the kind of moment I have only ever experienced in magical wooded places devoid of people. In that moment, I found a space here where I belonged. That sounds small, but I have never escaped the feeling of not belonging in this not so new place we moved to a year ago.
The vaults watch, silent guardians of valuable things. I became their keeper in more than title alone, and those cold concrete walls with their steel doors and complicated combinations held me in their silence for a moment as their own. For the vaults to be mine, I had to become theirs, like a promise to a place, a small moment in space.
As things settle and staffing becomes less of an issue, and the vaults fill to capacity, I will spend a rising amount of time in them. I'm looking forward to it, that place where I fit. I miss the cage that one feels so strongly when one has time to immerse themselves in M/s. We are still what we have always been, and always will be. But our everything is directed at and given to the world right now.
In a way, those vaults are becoming a safe place for me in the insanity. I will be their keeper and they will hold my secrets, absorbing the quiet, serious conversations within their walls, watching those in charge as we whisper out our issues and fight through the tears that exist because it is all ultimately about people, and people feel and bleed, cry and need, people are people.
While making a somewhat extensive appearance in my job description, the vaults are only a facet of what I do. Yet somehow, in some small moment, I found my place and an unwritten title which fits me. I am, and will indefinitely remain, the keeper of the vaults.
Vaults are like M/s. They are a space of their own, almost outside of time. Safe, quiet to the depths of their soul. A space inside the storm.
Sunday, November 29, 2015
50 Shades of Grey
So I never did read the books, but I finally got to watch the movie. Normally, I'm a book girl all the way, but I have realized that my life's reading is going to consist of state codes and SOP's (for me, that admission was tantamount to accepting that the sun won't rise tomorrow).
I don't know what I was expecting, but I was disappointed. Maybe I was looking for it to rekindle something in me, and it certainly did lead to some realizations, just not in the manner I had thought that it would.
Since I like to file my complaints before anything else...
Could they have picked any two characters with less chemistry? I mean seriously, the spark between them was tantamount to my attraction to the pile of dirty dishes in the sink--c'mon baby lets get it on, you know you want to do me!
With a playroom that cool, how come they're hardly ever in it?
On what planet does a dom spend that much time going down on a sub and she never ever ever reciprocates??
Who was really supposed to be in charge? From where I'm standing, it sure looked a hell of a lot like her.
Where exactly was the D/s? Hottest moment in the whole thing was when he made her eat. Seriously.
Her character made me want to beat her myself, and normally that's just not my bent--she was a raging brat.
According to Alpha, "Mr. Grey is a pussy with consistency issues and a serious lack of self control"...His commentary would have been quite annoying if I hadn't agreed with him.
What exactly is with the implication that Grey is the way he is because there's something deeply wrong with him, due to past abusive experiences? I found her mission to fix him painfully annoying. For me, that is one of the attractions of a dominant--you don't "fix" them, you don't change them, you don't make them what they're not. They are who they are, they want what they want, and they do what they do. As a sub, you accept that and allow yourself to be molded to fit whatever shape they take, somehow fitting the acceptance of that molding into the knowledge that nobody else will accept you for who you are in quite the same way.
For me, a big part of D/s is that acceptance of who someone is beyond all the trappings of what people think that we should be.
I wonder at the mass appeal the story seems to have. I was a bit shocked by how tame it was.
Enter realizations...
Tame. 50 Shades of Grey was painfully tame, and dare I say, not far beyond the borders of vanilla. I get that maybe it was a whole, "introduce her gently" thing, and it seems to have been somewhat of an awakening phenomenon for a lot of women, but still...I don't really get it.
Maybe I was disappointed in what I perceived as a distinct lack of actual D/s in the story and maybe I was hoping for it to spark something in me that has lain quiet through these last months of insanity. It didn't do that. But it did show me that maybe I'm not as far gone as I feel because there's still more D/s in a moment of my life than in an hour of that story. So for that, despite my disappointment, I do have an appreciation for 50 Shades of Grey.
I don't know what I was expecting, but I was disappointed. Maybe I was looking for it to rekindle something in me, and it certainly did lead to some realizations, just not in the manner I had thought that it would.
Since I like to file my complaints before anything else...
Could they have picked any two characters with less chemistry? I mean seriously, the spark between them was tantamount to my attraction to the pile of dirty dishes in the sink--c'mon baby lets get it on, you know you want to do me!
With a playroom that cool, how come they're hardly ever in it?
On what planet does a dom spend that much time going down on a sub and she never ever ever reciprocates??
Who was really supposed to be in charge? From where I'm standing, it sure looked a hell of a lot like her.
Where exactly was the D/s? Hottest moment in the whole thing was when he made her eat. Seriously.
Her character made me want to beat her myself, and normally that's just not my bent--she was a raging brat.
According to Alpha, "Mr. Grey is a pussy with consistency issues and a serious lack of self control"...His commentary would have been quite annoying if I hadn't agreed with him.
What exactly is with the implication that Grey is the way he is because there's something deeply wrong with him, due to past abusive experiences? I found her mission to fix him painfully annoying. For me, that is one of the attractions of a dominant--you don't "fix" them, you don't change them, you don't make them what they're not. They are who they are, they want what they want, and they do what they do. As a sub, you accept that and allow yourself to be molded to fit whatever shape they take, somehow fitting the acceptance of that molding into the knowledge that nobody else will accept you for who you are in quite the same way.
For me, a big part of D/s is that acceptance of who someone is beyond all the trappings of what people think that we should be.
I wonder at the mass appeal the story seems to have. I was a bit shocked by how tame it was.
Enter realizations...
Tame. 50 Shades of Grey was painfully tame, and dare I say, not far beyond the borders of vanilla. I get that maybe it was a whole, "introduce her gently" thing, and it seems to have been somewhat of an awakening phenomenon for a lot of women, but still...I don't really get it.
Maybe I was disappointed in what I perceived as a distinct lack of actual D/s in the story and maybe I was hoping for it to spark something in me that has lain quiet through these last months of insanity. It didn't do that. But it did show me that maybe I'm not as far gone as I feel because there's still more D/s in a moment of my life than in an hour of that story. So for that, despite my disappointment, I do have an appreciation for 50 Shades of Grey.
Sunday, November 22, 2015
The Great Online Cookie Exchange Extravaganza!
I have not become so detached from the things that really matter in life that I have missed Jz's recent announcement.
Please do join up and play with us! I am sadly down on the whole cooking front and could seriously use some new recipes!
Directly from Jz~
"Dust off your baking pans, because on Wednesday, December 9th 2015
The Great Online Cookie Exchange Extravaganza returns!
Won't YOU please join us?
It's easy to play along.
Just post a recipe that day for a holiday goodie -- any goodie.
It doesn't have to be for cookies… or even be sweet.
We do not discriminate against any goodie.
(We are equal opportunity consumers around here.)
That's pretty much all there is to it.
The single catch is that there's only one way to get your name in the official list of participants: You have to contact me (Jz) by Monday, Dec. 7th with both your name and the address of your blog."
Saturday, November 14, 2015
Tired
I was sad to log on and see that I had completely missed love our lurkers day. In all fairness, I've missed a bunch of other stuff too--a birthday, spelling homework, cub scout events, the death of my mom's cat, a bunch of sunsets (though I do tend to see sunrise on my way to work), all the overtime pay I'm not making, breakfasts, lunches, dinners (my kids had ramen for dinner the other night. Ramen. I shall say no more).
I'm so tired. Bone tired.
We have one of these at work:
Unfortunately, this person is a manager. And he's a fucking idiot.
My actual job is flying up on me. Quickly. Like two weeks early quickly. It's complex and complicated, there's lot going on. It requires come forethought, and I have no time for this thought. That freaks me out--I have to plan ahead, or things don't work right or me. I was supposed to have months to figure this all out, not a few days. But we have this manager...He's a fucking idiot. I tried to drop all my cleaning up of his messes about a week ago. You know, so I could concentrate on not being the next disaster zone. Alpha wouldn't let me. It's a safe assumption that we haven't been getting along swimmingly these days....
I spent half of my day discovering and trying to track down mistakes. Just like I spent my whole day before that and the week before that, and the rest of the month doing. So I'm still behind on all of those other things I was supposed to do yesterday that I've been doing for months which don't relate to my actual job but are very important.
I am so friggin tired. And did I mention a bit freaked out? I really do not love my job. Most days, I don't even like it. This is not a life that I ever wanted to live. It's not necessarily a bad life, just not one I ever dreamed of or would have chosen. And it takes everything.
I have felt something lately though...Something deep and compelling, almost forgotten, something pushed deep down and hidden...I feel it in that moment when he pulls me close as if I am merely an extension of himself, in that moment when a dominant personality wanders by and I push down that funny little flutter, in that moment when I am reminded that being his is not what most people believe it to be.
*I think I wrote this a few weeks ago. Dunno really because I'm pretty sure I missed a bunch of those too--I just don't know where they went. And that feeling? Yea...
I'm so tired. Bone tired.
We have one of these at work:
My actual job is flying up on me. Quickly. Like two weeks early quickly. It's complex and complicated, there's lot going on. It requires come forethought, and I have no time for this thought. That freaks me out--I have to plan ahead, or things don't work right or me. I was supposed to have months to figure this all out, not a few days. But we have this manager...He's a fucking idiot. I tried to drop all my cleaning up of his messes about a week ago. You know, so I could concentrate on not being the next disaster zone. Alpha wouldn't let me. It's a safe assumption that we haven't been getting along swimmingly these days....
I spent half of my day discovering and trying to track down mistakes. Just like I spent my whole day before that and the week before that, and the rest of the month doing. So I'm still behind on all of those other things I was supposed to do yesterday that I've been doing for months which don't relate to my actual job but are very important.
I am so friggin tired. And did I mention a bit freaked out? I really do not love my job. Most days, I don't even like it. This is not a life that I ever wanted to live. It's not necessarily a bad life, just not one I ever dreamed of or would have chosen. And it takes everything.
I have felt something lately though...Something deep and compelling, almost forgotten, something pushed deep down and hidden...I feel it in that moment when he pulls me close as if I am merely an extension of himself, in that moment when a dominant personality wanders by and I push down that funny little flutter, in that moment when I am reminded that being his is not what most people believe it to be.
*I think I wrote this a few weeks ago. Dunno really because I'm pretty sure I missed a bunch of those too--I just don't know where they went. And that feeling? Yea...
Sunday, October 25, 2015
For This Life
Sometimes life whispers in my ear...A voice so familiar, and I wonder if she spoke to me before my time as I now know it began...
For this life you will need
you will bleed
you will give it everything you are, were, and ever could be.
To live, to truly be alive, always knowing that one day everything you love must die
for this you will throw your soul into the fire
drown in the seas of misery
taste the tears of of your fears
feel the passion of pain
occasionally wondering if you have gone insane
anything to avoid the sands of mediocrity.
For this life
it is glorious, beautiful, obscene, sacred, degraded,
and everything in between
and for the privilege of pain
you will brave the salty seas
be torn apart in the storm
hoping that your tears will sate the parched earth.
To live
in agony
in ecstasy
desperately trying to avoid the spaces between
wherein dwells the mediocrity for which you will hold the deepest distaste
you will suffer the stars in your bones whispering
always calling you home.
For this life
you will bear witness to death
and her inevitable call
all that you love
and all that you know
will eventually travel home
and for the privilege of pain
you will brave the salty seas
be torn apart in the storm
hoping that your tears will sate the parched earth.
To live
in agony
in ecstasy
desperately trying to avoid the spaces between
wherein dwells the mediocrity for which you will hold the deepest distaste
you will suffer the stars in your bones whispering
always calling you home.
For this life
you will bear witness to death
and her inevitable call
all that you love
and all that you know
will eventually travel home
Saturday, October 24, 2015
Monday, October 12, 2015
Realizations
I realized something today as I was listening to this song...
All this time I thought that I was missing
a place
people
trees
things that we used to do
mountains
something we used to be
a way that things used to feel
the life that we once lived
a piece of me and what I used to be
some kind of specific set of life events or way of living...
But what I miss, why I feel like part of me is gone, like an angel found without wings, or someone missing a very large piece of their whole, is not any of those one thing, or even necessarily a combination of them all.
I miss magic. Something I never really knew I had because it was a part of me, all around me, so much of me, for my entire life.
It's not the wind, it's the whispers of magic in the air.
It's not the stars and the moon, it's the way magic dances in their beams.
It is not the people, but the general acceptance that magic is real.
It is not the dominance and submission, but the feeling of having known each other for a thousand years, having been in love a hundred times before, the knowing flowing through my bones of battles won and lost across the sands of time.
What has me all eaten up, all turned around and inside out, is the feeling of magic being pulled from my bones like wings that I never even knew I had.
All this time I thought that I was missing
a place
people
trees
things that we used to do
mountains
something we used to be
a way that things used to feel
the life that we once lived
a piece of me and what I used to be
some kind of specific set of life events or way of living...
But what I miss, why I feel like part of me is gone, like an angel found without wings, or someone missing a very large piece of their whole, is not any of those one thing, or even necessarily a combination of them all.
I miss magic. Something I never really knew I had because it was a part of me, all around me, so much of me, for my entire life.
It's not the wind, it's the whispers of magic in the air.
It's not the stars and the moon, it's the way magic dances in their beams.
It is not the people, but the general acceptance that magic is real.
It is not the dominance and submission, but the feeling of having known each other for a thousand years, having been in love a hundred times before, the knowing flowing through my bones of battles won and lost across the sands of time.
What has me all eaten up, all turned around and inside out, is the feeling of magic being pulled from my bones like wings that I never even knew I had.
Saturday, October 3, 2015
Selfish Submission
I have always felt that motivation matters. Not in the sense of being a motivated person (though that matters too), but in the sense that what motivates someone to do something often matters as much as the action itself.
I have long felt that submission shouldn't occur simply for what the sub gets out of it, but I'm going to take a side trip before I land on that thought.
Recently, I have been thinking about what makes us do good things as human beings, and how that makes us good people. Or not. I came to the conclusion that I do good things because of the way it makes me feel, therefore, my drive to do good things is not necessarily based upon how people I may do good for those I have helped, but more selfishly upon the way giving that help makes Me feel.
Being an avid over-thinker (I have no time, but apparently this shit happens in your sleep if your a thought addict), I had to muse on it some more.
Humans are prone to wanting to get something out of their efforts, their interactions, the things they do. Maybe if what we're trying to "get" is a feeling, that isn't quite as selfish as it sounds. What kind of person doesn't feel good when they have done good by somebody else? What would motivate a person to do good if there was no personal sense of inner reward, the fact that sometimes it looks good to the outside world?
Maybe that is one of the things that makes a good person--the fact that providing something for another being who needs it offers a reward in the form of sensation, a feeling, a happiness with their own being.
I have long felt that my submission is selfish, and perhaps it shouldn't be, yet it is. Maybe in the ideal world, from a submissive point of view, submission is truly only all about what the dominant gets.
I have always felt that my submission is selfish because it often comes with the drive to experience how it make me feel, and is not always (by any stretch) about how it makes Him feel.
Yes, there have been many times I didn't want to. Many times that I submitted to events and experiences that I had no desire for, merely because it is what he wanted. Because submission is not about doing what you want to do when you want to do it, or about the things that come easy--it is about bending to another person's will regardless of one's inner desire for an experience. If submission was always about only doing what you wanted, it wouldn't really be submission. And it would be easy.
Ultimately, as a way of life, a mode of being, an arrangement of 24/7 existence, submitting is largely about what I get out of it. Submission is about how it makes me feel inside, under the surface, below the initial urge to rebel. Sometimes it's about how making him feel makes me feel.
Our D/s has been neglected lately. We had a fight the other day. One of those, "both late to work have to go because the facility will, unfortunately enough, come to a crashing halt without us" mornings. It sucked.
He craves sex and affection. I crave...Something else. He feels that his needs are not being met and he defines them clearly in sex and affection, often in the form of my submission. I feel tat my needs are not being met, and I cannot define them clearly.
So I submit. But this form of submission, it is not selfish for the way it make me feel. It is a bandage on a wound, a way of keeping the peace, of fending off his potential "fuck buddies", of not fighting and making it to work on time, of holding us together with a myriad of strings and old cloth-work patches.
I have come to the conclusion that, for me, real true honest from the core submission is selfish. That is when I'm truly there, always all in, handing over all that I am and bending to his surrounding will.
If my submission is not selfish, I'm not all in, not all there, have not given all that I am and all that I have.
Selfish submission makes me feel this:
That is the submission I ache for, yearn for, dream of in the dark. And I get there through my often selfish desire for that particular sensation of being.
I have long felt that submission shouldn't occur simply for what the sub gets out of it, but I'm going to take a side trip before I land on that thought.
Recently, I have been thinking about what makes us do good things as human beings, and how that makes us good people. Or not. I came to the conclusion that I do good things because of the way it makes me feel, therefore, my drive to do good things is not necessarily based upon how people I may do good for those I have helped, but more selfishly upon the way giving that help makes Me feel.
Being an avid over-thinker (I have no time, but apparently this shit happens in your sleep if your a thought addict), I had to muse on it some more.
Humans are prone to wanting to get something out of their efforts, their interactions, the things they do. Maybe if what we're trying to "get" is a feeling, that isn't quite as selfish as it sounds. What kind of person doesn't feel good when they have done good by somebody else? What would motivate a person to do good if there was no personal sense of inner reward, the fact that sometimes it looks good to the outside world?
Maybe that is one of the things that makes a good person--the fact that providing something for another being who needs it offers a reward in the form of sensation, a feeling, a happiness with their own being.
I have long felt that my submission is selfish, and perhaps it shouldn't be, yet it is. Maybe in the ideal world, from a submissive point of view, submission is truly only all about what the dominant gets.
I have always felt that my submission is selfish because it often comes with the drive to experience how it make me feel, and is not always (by any stretch) about how it makes Him feel.
Yes, there have been many times I didn't want to. Many times that I submitted to events and experiences that I had no desire for, merely because it is what he wanted. Because submission is not about doing what you want to do when you want to do it, or about the things that come easy--it is about bending to another person's will regardless of one's inner desire for an experience. If submission was always about only doing what you wanted, it wouldn't really be submission. And it would be easy.
Ultimately, as a way of life, a mode of being, an arrangement of 24/7 existence, submitting is largely about what I get out of it. Submission is about how it makes me feel inside, under the surface, below the initial urge to rebel. Sometimes it's about how making him feel makes me feel.
Our D/s has been neglected lately. We had a fight the other day. One of those, "both late to work have to go because the facility will, unfortunately enough, come to a crashing halt without us" mornings. It sucked.
He craves sex and affection. I crave...Something else. He feels that his needs are not being met and he defines them clearly in sex and affection, often in the form of my submission. I feel tat my needs are not being met, and I cannot define them clearly.
So I submit. But this form of submission, it is not selfish for the way it make me feel. It is a bandage on a wound, a way of keeping the peace, of fending off his potential "fuck buddies", of not fighting and making it to work on time, of holding us together with a myriad of strings and old cloth-work patches.
I have come to the conclusion that, for me, real true honest from the core submission is selfish. That is when I'm truly there, always all in, handing over all that I am and bending to his surrounding will.
If my submission is not selfish, I'm not all in, not all there, have not given all that I am and all that I have.
Selfish submission makes me feel this:
Sunday, September 27, 2015
Secrets
Before I get to rambling, I would just like to say that this is my 1,000th post. By all rights, it should have probably occurred in March, but my blogging has been sporadic at best.
Given the ups and downs, the length of times between posts, and the distinct lack of D/s related content lately, I would like to thank those of you who have stuck with me over the years, those of you who are new here and for some reason found something worth staying for, and the random (albeit occasionally sorely misled by Google) visitors who happen upon my crazy corner and take time out of their days to browse through the insanity that is me.
Moving on...
So this was a hit I got some time ago, "Secretly making your wife submit" It bugged me.
That's kind of an asshole move, right? I mean, if you want to dominate someone, its probably good to have enough balls not to try and keep it a secret from that person. Is that really even dominance? Gotta say, I'm not sold on it...
Why? How? Why?
That concept is so far outside of anything I even remotely associate with D/s that I'm pretty sure I blinked, sat back, and started a draft which has been sitting in Blogger for months. Possibly since last year. I'm not really sure. I didn't check...
D/s is largely about moving past that stupid bullshit. Deceit, lies, the underhanded approach...What is the point if not to be yourself, the you that you hide, to show someone everything that you really are, and have them accept you anyways?
What value is there in submission that shall never know of its own existence, or be offered freely because some part of the soul whispers about a way that it knows to feel whole?
Maybe D/s really is about secrets. But if D/s is about secrets, it's not about keeping them. It's about opening up that crazy box, the dark closet, the rooms behind the walls, and letting someone else step inside. It's about feeling alive, not just telling yourself that you are.
Yes, perhaps D/s is about secrets. It is about the secrets we keep, the ones we whisper quietly in the dark, the ones we hold close to our hearts like the way we play with candle flames--touch it carefully and oh so quickly, watch the light flicker but do not linger lest the burn sets in.
Perhaps D/s is about secrets, and choosing to linger in the flame until the burn sets in...
Given the ups and downs, the length of times between posts, and the distinct lack of D/s related content lately, I would like to thank those of you who have stuck with me over the years, those of you who are new here and for some reason found something worth staying for, and the random (albeit occasionally sorely misled by Google) visitors who happen upon my crazy corner and take time out of their days to browse through the insanity that is me.
Moving on...
So this was a hit I got some time ago, "Secretly making your wife submit" It bugged me.
That's kind of an asshole move, right? I mean, if you want to dominate someone, its probably good to have enough balls not to try and keep it a secret from that person. Is that really even dominance? Gotta say, I'm not sold on it...
Why? How? Why?
That concept is so far outside of anything I even remotely associate with D/s that I'm pretty sure I blinked, sat back, and started a draft which has been sitting in Blogger for months. Possibly since last year. I'm not really sure. I didn't check...
D/s is largely about moving past that stupid bullshit. Deceit, lies, the underhanded approach...What is the point if not to be yourself, the you that you hide, to show someone everything that you really are, and have them accept you anyways?
What value is there in submission that shall never know of its own existence, or be offered freely because some part of the soul whispers about a way that it knows to feel whole?
Maybe D/s really is about secrets. But if D/s is about secrets, it's not about keeping them. It's about opening up that crazy box, the dark closet, the rooms behind the walls, and letting someone else step inside. It's about feeling alive, not just telling yourself that you are.
Yes, perhaps D/s is about secrets. It is about the secrets we keep, the ones we whisper quietly in the dark, the ones we hold close to our hearts like the way we play with candle flames--touch it carefully and oh so quickly, watch the light flicker but do not linger lest the burn sets in.
Perhaps D/s is about secrets, and choosing to linger in the flame until the burn sets in...
Saturday, September 26, 2015
That Uncomfortable Feeling
I left a mile-long comment at mouse's place a while back. I try not to do that because, yea--got my own crazy little place to ramble. But, I was sitting here thinking as I have not had much time to do lately (well, that's not exactly accurate, I think all. The. Damn. Time. but business is different). And I started thinking about that uncomfortable feeling that comes when he pushes the edges further out. I mean, I really thought about it.
Before I thought about it, I stood back on the edges and felt it. Not the nitty-gritty little pitfalls of emotion that suck me in, not the jealousy or self doubt, not the emotions that revolve around my concept of self, or the personal perspective of the human sensations an experience evokes. I felt my way around the sensations that come with not being in control. I mean, truly not in control, those places where I would never choose to go but where he can take me if he so chooses.
And I accepted that is my turn-on, my drug of choice, my Achilles heel--the control that is so absolute as to withstand, surpass, and even bypass, my own desires.
More than kisses and sweet nothings, more even than bondage and the pleasure/pain edge, the kink and the physical sensations...Riding that edge of discomfort, the not wanting something so much that being made to do it anyways becomes a turn-on of its own.
I have been pondering my apparent attraction to living on the edge, and my seemingly conflicting desperation for security.
I have come to the conclusion that the two are not a separate as they might appear.
I love hanging off the edge. But only when I know that he is on the other end of the rope that is keeping me from falling to my doom.
I like to play with my demons
to touch my fears
to reach for the fire
and know that he will not allow them to consume me
will not allow them to become me
will not allow it to burn me.
Before I thought about it, I stood back on the edges and felt it. Not the nitty-gritty little pitfalls of emotion that suck me in, not the jealousy or self doubt, not the emotions that revolve around my concept of self, or the personal perspective of the human sensations an experience evokes. I felt my way around the sensations that come with not being in control. I mean, truly not in control, those places where I would never choose to go but where he can take me if he so chooses.
And I accepted that is my turn-on, my drug of choice, my Achilles heel--the control that is so absolute as to withstand, surpass, and even bypass, my own desires.
More than kisses and sweet nothings, more even than bondage and the pleasure/pain edge, the kink and the physical sensations...Riding that edge of discomfort, the not wanting something so much that being made to do it anyways becomes a turn-on of its own.
I have been pondering my apparent attraction to living on the edge, and my seemingly conflicting desperation for security.
I have come to the conclusion that the two are not a separate as they might appear.
I love hanging off the edge. But only when I know that he is on the other end of the rope that is keeping me from falling to my doom.
I like to play with my demons
to touch my fears
to reach for the fire
and know that he will not allow them to consume me
will not allow them to become me
will not allow it to burn me.
Sunday, September 20, 2015
I Get It Now...
This is how I feel about myself these days
It is still odd to me, this being a stranger in a strange place, a stranger to myself, and stranger to the me that now sits upon the shelf.
I wonder sometimes how the woman I work with does it, how she feels alive without the constant fix that used to be her life, the daily trauma and adrenaline, the pain of humanity, the consistent danger of being one step from the edge of death...
I crave it...That feeling which comes only with heart-wrenching agony, the unavoidable truth of reality, the ecstasy of relief when you are challenged in each and every belief, the passion in pain...
As a kid, I never understood. Never understood why my father chose a life that was, to put it bluntly, so fucking hard. Why he reveled in the struggle, the misfits, the underground, the snow and its bitter fucking cold, the lost boys, the broken toys, the unforgiving deserts and the people to poor to put food on the table.
Even a few years ago, I didn't understand his abhorrence for the easy monotony of suburbia, the 2.5 children inside their white picket fences. Why he was addicted to the new mind, the thrill of finding inspiration in the most unimaginable of places. Why he ran so fast and so far from the illusions so many people dream of living.
They showed him that he was alive. That his life was not a lie. The people, the deserts, the snakes, the trees, the mountains and wide open spaces, the struggle and the fight, the blood sweat and tears in which he spent his years...They reminded him to be alive.
I get it now. He was afraid of being dead which is very different than being afraid of dying.
I think that is one of the things that often draws people to ttwd. People spend their lives like money that can go back into the bank. They go to school, get married, go to work, kiss each other goodbye, eat dinner, and repeat the same story for years.
Then one day they wake up, and they wonder if they have truly lived. They wonder what it's like to be reminded of being alive. And they find it in D/s, in M/s, in power exchange, in the ultimate trade. They find it in the exquisite pain, the whips and the chains. They find it when the sensation of being, of really living, pours down in their tears like rain.
I wonder why I no longer seem to seek this, no longer reach for that peak where the air is thin and the edge so close, no longer wish to hand it all over if even just for the moment.
This industry we work in, it takes everything you have. It demands everything in your mind, commands all of your time. It requires you to pour your heart out into the hours, and hand your soul over to the daily toils. Everyone in this industry works too many hours, too many days of the week, does too many jobs, and gets up on Saturday to start all over again. We're all running on empty.
Perhaps we break new ground one inch at a time, perhaps each day we push a little harder against the line, perhaps one day it will be an accomplishment etched forever in time. Perhaps one day it will be a tale of living worth telling.
This was his dream, and most days I feel like it is eating me. I give it everything I have, so maybe that is why I hold back what he always had of me--everything that I have, everything that I am, every thought and every dream of what I could be...It's all taken up. And the pieces of what is left, the little pieces of me, I hold them close to my chest because every day I give all that I am to the ethereal promise of what we could create.
Maybe I resent that I give my all over and over again to a dream that was never mine but upon which our lives now depend. And it's my quiet little subconscious fuck you to keep what I have left of me away from him.
Maybe my fear of not really living simply can no longer compete with my fear of having nothing left that is me...
By the same token though, that part of me exists for him, and it cannot exist and flourish in a self-created void...
It is still odd to me, this being a stranger in a strange place, a stranger to myself, and stranger to the me that now sits upon the shelf.
I wonder sometimes how the woman I work with does it, how she feels alive without the constant fix that used to be her life, the daily trauma and adrenaline, the pain of humanity, the consistent danger of being one step from the edge of death...
I crave it...That feeling which comes only with heart-wrenching agony, the unavoidable truth of reality, the ecstasy of relief when you are challenged in each and every belief, the passion in pain...
As a kid, I never understood. Never understood why my father chose a life that was, to put it bluntly, so fucking hard. Why he reveled in the struggle, the misfits, the underground, the snow and its bitter fucking cold, the lost boys, the broken toys, the unforgiving deserts and the people to poor to put food on the table.
Even a few years ago, I didn't understand his abhorrence for the easy monotony of suburbia, the 2.5 children inside their white picket fences. Why he was addicted to the new mind, the thrill of finding inspiration in the most unimaginable of places. Why he ran so fast and so far from the illusions so many people dream of living.
They showed him that he was alive. That his life was not a lie. The people, the deserts, the snakes, the trees, the mountains and wide open spaces, the struggle and the fight, the blood sweat and tears in which he spent his years...They reminded him to be alive.
I get it now. He was afraid of being dead which is very different than being afraid of dying.
I think that is one of the things that often draws people to ttwd. People spend their lives like money that can go back into the bank. They go to school, get married, go to work, kiss each other goodbye, eat dinner, and repeat the same story for years.
Then one day they wake up, and they wonder if they have truly lived. They wonder what it's like to be reminded of being alive. And they find it in D/s, in M/s, in power exchange, in the ultimate trade. They find it in the exquisite pain, the whips and the chains. They find it when the sensation of being, of really living, pours down in their tears like rain.
I wonder why I no longer seem to seek this, no longer reach for that peak where the air is thin and the edge so close, no longer wish to hand it all over if even just for the moment.
This industry we work in, it takes everything you have. It demands everything in your mind, commands all of your time. It requires you to pour your heart out into the hours, and hand your soul over to the daily toils. Everyone in this industry works too many hours, too many days of the week, does too many jobs, and gets up on Saturday to start all over again. We're all running on empty.
Perhaps we break new ground one inch at a time, perhaps each day we push a little harder against the line, perhaps one day it will be an accomplishment etched forever in time. Perhaps one day it will be a tale of living worth telling.
This was his dream, and most days I feel like it is eating me. I give it everything I have, so maybe that is why I hold back what he always had of me--everything that I have, everything that I am, every thought and every dream of what I could be...It's all taken up. And the pieces of what is left, the little pieces of me, I hold them close to my chest because every day I give all that I am to the ethereal promise of what we could create.
Maybe I resent that I give my all over and over again to a dream that was never mine but upon which our lives now depend. And it's my quiet little subconscious fuck you to keep what I have left of me away from him.
Maybe my fear of not really living simply can no longer compete with my fear of having nothing left that is me...
By the same token though, that part of me exists for him, and it cannot exist and flourish in a self-created void...
Sunday, September 13, 2015
Give Me...
Give me the crazy, the unsteady, the Mad Hatters and the people fallen down the rabbit hole
the junkies, the traumatized, the people living life one step from the edge.
Give me the unfiltered, the misfits, the broken, the one's screaming to breathe
the people who think that they can change the world with their pain
who will be anything other than the same.
Show me the people in the alleys, the man under the bridge, the starving, the beaten and the damned
the kind of people others shy away from
the people whom society feels a general antipathy for
I'll take my humanity without the apathy of the proper class
with their shining glass.
Give me the stars, the rage, the bleeders, the free-thinkers, the exploding agony of humanity
the screamers with their broken dreams and misfit things.
Give me the souls who explode across the sky brightening the night until they die
raining down upon humanity with their gorgeous agony.
Leave me among the people who die every day, bleeding out from the wounds in their souls
the people who know what it is to be hungry and cold, born old, the truly bold.
Give me my escape from monotony into the people who know what it's like to be alive
because they spend every day trying not to die
the real, the one's who truly feel.
Let me lay with the people who spend their nights covered in blood sweat and tears, the trauma junkies and their crazy monkeys
the ones flying too close to sun
that I might burn myself in their fire
free from the ire of indifference.
Give me the dreamers, the demons, all that is holy and obscene, the broken and the lost,
the ones who will survive no matter what the cost, the ones willing to sacrifice no matter what the loss
the children, perhaps, of a lesser god.
Give me the people who will to anything for what they believe, a million miles beneath their feet
living on dreams and unfit things.
Leave me to the overwhelming screams of the mother, the blood of new life brought into this world
hurl my soul at the stars and watch it burn up in the sky.
Give me the unfiltered, the misfits, the broken, the one's screaming to breathe
the people who think that they can change the world with their pain
those that will be anything other than the same.
Thursday, September 10, 2015
Decision Bank
We were watching a show the other night, and a woman said something that, six months ago, I would have called absolutely ludicrous.
She said something to the effect of, "Do you know why I wear blue every day? I wear blue every day because I think that every person has a decision bank, and each decision we make takes decision making capabilities out of our bank, it saps our decision making abilities just a little bit more. All of my clothes are blue. That is one less decision I have to make every day."
Six months ago, I would have laughed and said that was absolutely ridiculous, it's just clothing!
Now? I lay my clothes out every night before bed. Always a tank top because it's going under a uniform, and any pair of pants that covers my ass because I'll be in uniform pants all day.
Always the same thing means one less decision in the morning.
Laying them out means one less effort at 6 am.
I like the uniforms because there is no choice there. No decision. It is what it is, and it will be the same every single day.
Someone asked me something simple at the end of a day last week. Really simple. Where to put an extra mop bucket. Trivial and easy right? I waffled. I couldn't decide. It was ridiculous. Least important decision I'll make this year.
That night when I went home, I decided to wear a tank top every single day. And I put out my clothes at the end of the bed.
I got up in the morning, went to work, and made decisions all day.
Maybe I'll invest in a stack of blue tank tops...
Right after I put this on the office door:
She said something to the effect of, "Do you know why I wear blue every day? I wear blue every day because I think that every person has a decision bank, and each decision we make takes decision making capabilities out of our bank, it saps our decision making abilities just a little bit more. All of my clothes are blue. That is one less decision I have to make every day."
Six months ago, I would have laughed and said that was absolutely ridiculous, it's just clothing!
Now? I lay my clothes out every night before bed. Always a tank top because it's going under a uniform, and any pair of pants that covers my ass because I'll be in uniform pants all day.
Always the same thing means one less decision in the morning.
Laying them out means one less effort at 6 am.
I like the uniforms because there is no choice there. No decision. It is what it is, and it will be the same every single day.
Someone asked me something simple at the end of a day last week. Really simple. Where to put an extra mop bucket. Trivial and easy right? I waffled. I couldn't decide. It was ridiculous. Least important decision I'll make this year.
That night when I went home, I decided to wear a tank top every single day. And I put out my clothes at the end of the bed.
I got up in the morning, went to work, and made decisions all day.
Maybe I'll invest in a stack of blue tank tops...
Right after I put this on the office door:
Wednesday, September 9, 2015
Coffee...
I woke up with coffee on my mind. Well, coffee and a whole lot of other crap, but coffee sounds good. And reasonable. And absolutely necessary for survival.
Maybe if I drink enough, it will convince me that I'll make it to Friday...?
Maybe if I drink enough, it will convince me that I'll make it to Friday...?
Sunday, September 6, 2015
The Date of My Last Post Labeled M/s
April 24th, 2014.
April 24th, 2014 was the date of my last post labeled "M/s".
Sometimes I feel like a part of me died when we started this new life. Most times I just don't have the time to notice that it's gone. Then I'll catch a glimpse of a picture...Trees on a mountain or a woman on her knees. And I remember...That I once was something, and now I am something else.
The outside world seems to appreciate this woman, this something else. The woman who opens the doors in the morning and manages things day in and day out. The woman who never submits, never needs, is not made of the wind in the trees. The woman who writes reviews, chases employees with paperwork, and tells corporate presidents what she does and does not like about their products, all the while knowing that her yes or no determines the sale.
I don't mind her really, this person I have become.
I look at my husband, and I remember when he once was something else. When the world didn't weigh him down so very much, when there was energy and time for dominance and something else.
Our position here is precarious. It is based upon the whims of fortune, our ability to manage the improbable, our drive to get up and put out more each and every day.
We lived in one place for a very long time. Our place. And now we live in someone elses place, in what seems to be in an entirely different world.
Our lease is up next month, and if we cannot renew, we have to find another house and move. I'd be lying if I said this didn't freak me out. It's one thing to search for housing from the comfort and safety of what is yours, it's another thing completely to search from the place of nothing to fall back on. I've been looking...And I can't find anything.
April 24th, 2014 was the date of my last post labeled "M/s".
He reminded me yesterday that I am his and always have been. I was so busy telling him that part of me died when we left everything we knew, everything I was, behind...I almost missed that little flutter...That sense of magic and mystery, the sensation which comes only with the feeling of being owned...
The truth is, I have become M/s lazy. Relationship lazy even. We both have. While it inevitably lives on under the skin, like a whisper in the wind, D/s, M/s, power exchange, relationships, they take time and effort to sustain. They require feeding and regular maintenance. And the rest of the truth is, anything we have leftover at the end of the day is desperately given to our kids in an attempt to not let them fall through the cracks of this craziness we call life.
There's an itch under my skin. An itch for the wind in the trees, a moment where all I know, see, feel, and breath, is life on my knees. But my mind won't let me rest, won't let go of the continuous test of daily operations.
Somehow, somewhere along the way, my mind became my master. And somehow, somewhere inside, that is my disaster.
April 24th, 2014.
April 24th, 2014 was the date of my last post labeled "M/s".
April 24th, 2014 was the date of my last post labeled "M/s".
Sometimes I feel like a part of me died when we started this new life. Most times I just don't have the time to notice that it's gone. Then I'll catch a glimpse of a picture...Trees on a mountain or a woman on her knees. And I remember...That I once was something, and now I am something else.
The outside world seems to appreciate this woman, this something else. The woman who opens the doors in the morning and manages things day in and day out. The woman who never submits, never needs, is not made of the wind in the trees. The woman who writes reviews, chases employees with paperwork, and tells corporate presidents what she does and does not like about their products, all the while knowing that her yes or no determines the sale.
I don't mind her really, this person I have become.
I look at my husband, and I remember when he once was something else. When the world didn't weigh him down so very much, when there was energy and time for dominance and something else.
Our position here is precarious. It is based upon the whims of fortune, our ability to manage the improbable, our drive to get up and put out more each and every day.
We lived in one place for a very long time. Our place. And now we live in someone elses place, in what seems to be in an entirely different world.
Our lease is up next month, and if we cannot renew, we have to find another house and move. I'd be lying if I said this didn't freak me out. It's one thing to search for housing from the comfort and safety of what is yours, it's another thing completely to search from the place of nothing to fall back on. I've been looking...And I can't find anything.
April 24th, 2014 was the date of my last post labeled "M/s".
He reminded me yesterday that I am his and always have been. I was so busy telling him that part of me died when we left everything we knew, everything I was, behind...I almost missed that little flutter...That sense of magic and mystery, the sensation which comes only with the feeling of being owned...
The truth is, I have become M/s lazy. Relationship lazy even. We both have. While it inevitably lives on under the skin, like a whisper in the wind, D/s, M/s, power exchange, relationships, they take time and effort to sustain. They require feeding and regular maintenance. And the rest of the truth is, anything we have leftover at the end of the day is desperately given to our kids in an attempt to not let them fall through the cracks of this craziness we call life.
There's an itch under my skin. An itch for the wind in the trees, a moment where all I know, see, feel, and breath, is life on my knees. But my mind won't let me rest, won't let go of the continuous test of daily operations.
Somehow, somewhere along the way, my mind became my master. And somehow, somewhere inside, that is my disaster.
April 24th, 2014.
April 24th, 2014 was the date of my last post labeled "M/s".
Sunday, August 9, 2015
Alive
I love dreaming.
In my dreams, is where I find myself feeling truly alive.
I dreamed last night.
Awful and sad
beautiful and mysterious
angry and afraid.
Alive.
I dreamed that my home was gone
nowhere to run back to
no going home
it was terrible and sad
I slipped momentarily into this conciousness we call waking life
feeling tears sliding down my cheeks.
Lost.
Alive.
I dreamed about libraries and beautiful mysterious creatures
a world of wonderful and strange things
it was magic and imagination
stories of tales rising from the ages
and walking off the pages.
Alive.
I dreamed about someone else
he found someone else
blonde and beautiful,
she was who he chose because I was not there
it hurt
wanting him back
to be mine once again.
I was angry and alone.
Alive.
I dreamed last night.
Of feeling.
Of being.
Alive.
In my dreams, is where I find myself feeling truly alive.
I dreamed last night.
Awful and sad
beautiful and mysterious
angry and afraid.
Alive.
I dreamed that my home was gone
nowhere to run back to
no going home
it was terrible and sad
I slipped momentarily into this conciousness we call waking life
feeling tears sliding down my cheeks.
Lost.
Alive.
I dreamed about libraries and beautiful mysterious creatures
a world of wonderful and strange things
it was magic and imagination
stories of tales rising from the ages
and walking off the pages.
Alive.
I dreamed about someone else
he found someone else
blonde and beautiful,
she was who he chose because I was not there
it hurt
wanting him back
to be mine once again.
I was angry and alone.
Alive.
I dreamed last night.
Of feeling.
Of being.
Alive.
Sunday, July 19, 2015
Stranger in My Own Skin
I come here to flip through the pages of my past
like a stranger in a strange world
a stranger in my own skin
a stranger to my own words.
I come here to gaze at the memories of who I was
to scratch the itch of remembering where I came from
like a stranger in my own pages
reading the words of someone else
living a life of fantasy
like a dream where you look in and say
"I wish that was me".
Stretched far too thin
I have become a stranger in my own skin
looking in
reading through the pages of my own story
some former kind of glory.
I come to scratch the itch of remembering
where I came from
recalling who I was
to scratch the itch under my skin
like reading a book that someone else wrote
trying to get lost in the fantasies of their mind
amazed that all of these words were once mine.
I have become
a stranger in my own skin
standing on the outside looking in
at what I was and what I have become
the words on these pages, familiar like a stranger's story
read time and time again until they become like a distant memory
of what should be
or what could have been.
My life has become a memory
and so I dip my fingers into the water and watch the ripples roll out
a moment in time
flipping through these pages wondering in amazement
that this was all mine.
Like staring through the mists into another land
I reach out for that feeling of just
being
and it slips through my fingers as I close my hands around it
a moment of forever in time
captured in words
a fantasy of what I was and what was mine
but I am a stranger here
a stranger to my mind
a stranger to the words on the pages I wrote.
A million tiny expressions of my soul
poured out through my fingertips over the years
like the soft rush of air from my lips
the firm grip of his hands on my hips
the feeling of chains stretching across my skin
the brutal kiss of the whip
the sensation of my soul drowning in his control.
Standing on the outside looking in
wondering at what is and what could have been.
I look into the mirror and I wonder at the woman looking back at me
eyes of a familiar color
no longer flashing the wild abandon of the lover
no longer reflecting the untamed wilderness of a soul
begging to be chained.
I am now
stretched too thin
standing on the outside looking in
I have become a stranger to the life I used to live
a stranger to the beauty of my own story.
I am
a stranger in my own skin.
Sunday, July 5, 2015
Ramblings of the Most Boring Kind
Has is really been more than two weeks since I last came here to ramble?? Since I cannot seem to keep track of the days, I will take Blogger's word for it. No wonder I woke up missing it here. Not even here really...I have nothing interesting to say or share, or even to vent. Sure, I could do lots of venting, but its not interesting. I miss you though. The people who come here. And I miss roaming around Blogland in my free time. Free time...Ha. 55-60 hour work weeks just don't seem to offer much of that!
I have been waking up with a case of the funks lately. Well, for the few minutes I have to think about those funks anyways.
I'm tempted to do my normal bit and run straight to the paperwork. My deadline got moved up...In no uncertain terms I was informed just how unhappy our general manager would be and how freely he would make sure that no one else was happy if I missed the deadline. I refrained from pointing out that, given the people he's talking about, very few of us would not return the favor...
My son asked if I'd get fired for taking a day off. I laughed--not this week kiddo, not this week. This week my job is the most secure it will ever be because 90% of the paperwork this company needs to get going lives only on my desktop at the moment. It's a terrible thing really. We'll see how well (or badly) I have done after the state audits them. I am going to audit them myself first. You know, with all that extra time I have to do so before someone has a hissy of epic proportions...Wish me luck.
Someone gave us a very nice bottle of champagne (I can't even spell that) for our anniversary, I'm saving it until after we see how all my paperwork pans out. My backup plan, should it go south, is Tequila. Sounds reasonable, right?
Did I mention that I miss you? I miss the interaction, the visitors, the knowledge that my words are never lonely because there's always someone there to read them, someone there who knows that they exist, someone who understands what they mean when they pour out of me.
He read here the other day, and he was not happy with what he saw. We both have good, if very stressful jobs. Somehow I fell into a position by default of starting to work for free because it had to be done, knowledge, drive, and brains, that I would never have gotten back home. He's got his dream job. The kids are healthy and mostly happy. I stick to my food budget, but I don't add the pennies. Life is not bad here.
There's this concept, well lots of them really, but one in particular that I doubt I'll ever adapt to. In fact, I hope that I do not, and I certainly wouldn't wish for my children to do so. It's about seeing people not as who they are, but how they exist as assets--it's not about valuing people for who they are, but only what they can do for you. And I don't like it. I think its a crappy approach to humanity.
Life is not bad here...
Yet...It's still not "my" life.
Odd feeling, that...
I actually took yesterday off, so I had better make up for it today.
I have been waking up with a case of the funks lately. Well, for the few minutes I have to think about those funks anyways.
I'm tempted to do my normal bit and run straight to the paperwork. My deadline got moved up...In no uncertain terms I was informed just how unhappy our general manager would be and how freely he would make sure that no one else was happy if I missed the deadline. I refrained from pointing out that, given the people he's talking about, very few of us would not return the favor...
My son asked if I'd get fired for taking a day off. I laughed--not this week kiddo, not this week. This week my job is the most secure it will ever be because 90% of the paperwork this company needs to get going lives only on my desktop at the moment. It's a terrible thing really. We'll see how well (or badly) I have done after the state audits them. I am going to audit them myself first. You know, with all that extra time I have to do so before someone has a hissy of epic proportions...Wish me luck.
Someone gave us a very nice bottle of champagne (I can't even spell that) for our anniversary, I'm saving it until after we see how all my paperwork pans out. My backup plan, should it go south, is Tequila. Sounds reasonable, right?
Did I mention that I miss you? I miss the interaction, the visitors, the knowledge that my words are never lonely because there's always someone there to read them, someone there who knows that they exist, someone who understands what they mean when they pour out of me.
He read here the other day, and he was not happy with what he saw. We both have good, if very stressful jobs. Somehow I fell into a position by default of starting to work for free because it had to be done, knowledge, drive, and brains, that I would never have gotten back home. He's got his dream job. The kids are healthy and mostly happy. I stick to my food budget, but I don't add the pennies. Life is not bad here.
There's this concept, well lots of them really, but one in particular that I doubt I'll ever adapt to. In fact, I hope that I do not, and I certainly wouldn't wish for my children to do so. It's about seeing people not as who they are, but how they exist as assets--it's not about valuing people for who they are, but only what they can do for you. And I don't like it. I think its a crappy approach to humanity.
Life is not bad here...
Yet...It's still not "my" life.
Odd feeling, that...
I actually took yesterday off, so I had better make up for it today.
Saturday, June 13, 2015
In the Light of Day
I had dream last night...Honestly, I don't even remember it, but I remember the feeling. A feeling that I can't seem to feel anymore. There's a hollow place where it once took up so much of my being...
I woke up remembering the feeling, a glimpse in a dream, and I grabbed at it, tried to wrap it around me and pull it out of bed with me. I tried to hold it close to my chest, to sink into it and forget the rest..But in the light of day, slowly it fades away.
It was that feeling that only comes when there is no thought, no self, no control of self, just a sea of Dominance to drown in and surround me. That feeling of being owned wherein the world doesn't exist--just a million stars floating on a thousand waves in the deep end of an endless ocean of master and slave. The knowledge of predator and prey...That the prey will always willingly bleed a thousand seas to feed the beast, and that all is as it should be.
I woke up with a feeling, and I tried to grab it, to sink into it, to once again be it. Complete. yet slowly it fades away with the light of day.
I might be an up and down kind of person, with mood swings to rival an unpredictable storm, but I know things about myself. One of those things is that true happiness, for me, only exists when I can feel that feeling.
I know things about reality too, like we have to live in it, and if we don't make our current reality work, we are in for a world of hurt. He doesn't have the time or the energy to do what it takes to get me to that place, to fight me because I cannot seem to yield, to put me in our space, and keep me even remotely near. Because I'm a million miles away, in yesterday, tomorrow, and today. I'm on the other side of the world every time he reaches for me, and I can't even seem to dip my toes into the sea.
I'm not happy here, and I am aware that we are in the midst of what is (hopefully) a peak time of stress, so it's unfair to make a blanket statement about how much it all sucks.
Yes, we are a team. An apparently professional and competent duo who have been fortunate enough to find themselves on a team of consummate professionals with amazing minds and incredible drive.
Yet...I am becoming painfully aware that I am no longer me and we are no longer us.
I woke up remembering a feeling, a glimpse in a dream, and I grabbed
at it, tried to wrap it around me and pull it out of bed with me. I
tried to hold it close to my chest, to sink into it and forget the
rest..But in the light of day, slowly it fades away.
I woke up remembering the feeling, a glimpse in a dream, and I grabbed at it, tried to wrap it around me and pull it out of bed with me. I tried to hold it close to my chest, to sink into it and forget the rest..But in the light of day, slowly it fades away.
It was that feeling that only comes when there is no thought, no self, no control of self, just a sea of Dominance to drown in and surround me. That feeling of being owned wherein the world doesn't exist--just a million stars floating on a thousand waves in the deep end of an endless ocean of master and slave. The knowledge of predator and prey...That the prey will always willingly bleed a thousand seas to feed the beast, and that all is as it should be.
I woke up with a feeling, and I tried to grab it, to sink into it, to once again be it. Complete. yet slowly it fades away with the light of day.
I might be an up and down kind of person, with mood swings to rival an unpredictable storm, but I know things about myself. One of those things is that true happiness, for me, only exists when I can feel that feeling.
I know things about reality too, like we have to live in it, and if we don't make our current reality work, we are in for a world of hurt. He doesn't have the time or the energy to do what it takes to get me to that place, to fight me because I cannot seem to yield, to put me in our space, and keep me even remotely near. Because I'm a million miles away, in yesterday, tomorrow, and today. I'm on the other side of the world every time he reaches for me, and I can't even seem to dip my toes into the sea.
I'm not happy here, and I am aware that we are in the midst of what is (hopefully) a peak time of stress, so it's unfair to make a blanket statement about how much it all sucks.
Yes, we are a team. An apparently professional and competent duo who have been fortunate enough to find themselves on a team of consummate professionals with amazing minds and incredible drive.
Yet...I am becoming painfully aware that I am no longer me and we are no longer us.
Sunday, June 7, 2015
Having a Moment
I had a moment this morning...Okay, in all fairness, I'm clearly still mid-moment.
I wonder(ed) if I'm making a terrible mistake. Suddenly, we both work.
All. The. Fucking. Time. In fact, we have meetings this morning and tomorrow, and I have a couple of weeks to finish something I thought was done but it isn't. Not even fucking close.
I finally let the big guy start using the stove when I'm not home 'cause, well, they gotta eat. And if I'm home three hours after dinner-time, it hardly seems right to make them live out of the microwave. And yes, I was cooking on a wood stove when I was younger than him, so mr. responsible can handle the electric oven.
I was a the park yesterday with the little guy, and yes, it was by default because I was working and had to wait for the printer, but...There was apparently a birthday party going on with lots of people. People like the people I tend to interact with these days are likely very uncomfortable around. The tattoos, the beards, the huge gruff guys squeezing onto tiny slides with their little kids whom they have too many of, and gods only know what they do to put food on the table, but everybody knows better than to ask because we know that kids need to be fed...And it reminded me of home. I miss it. Gods do I miss it.
They might be some unsavory fucked up people, but they know who they are, and they aren't afraid of the world knowing. Somehow that is so often more appealing to me than the suits and ties, the power plays, the hidden agendas where everybody want people to see what they project and nobody wants to be known for what they really are under all of the glitter...
Yes, there's the possibility of going back in one of two ways--wondering how on earth we'll feed our kids, or knowing that we won't have to worry about it at all. Either way, it's not going to be anytime soon.
I had a minor break related to my project the other night...Shared it with the whole team too. Yea...On the bright side, it prompted their realization that this is hard on our family, us both working these insane hours all the time...On the not-so-bright side, I much prefer to keep those moments private. Or at least somewhat anonymous. Lol.
I'm having a moment this morning. A long moment. I wonder if I'm making a terrible mistake and doing an awful disservice to my children. The little guys has been asking me to volunteer for his field day, and I can't...I can't commit knowing that by Monday my Friday might be full and there's a chance that I won't walk back in the door until 9:00 at night.
At the same time...If we don't make this work, we'll have done our children a terrible disservice and they will have to live through us starting from scratch, much as we did before they were born.
So yea...I'm having a moment...
I wonder(ed) if I'm making a terrible mistake. Suddenly, we both work.
All. The. Fucking. Time. In fact, we have meetings this morning and tomorrow, and I have a couple of weeks to finish something I thought was done but it isn't. Not even fucking close.
I finally let the big guy start using the stove when I'm not home 'cause, well, they gotta eat. And if I'm home three hours after dinner-time, it hardly seems right to make them live out of the microwave. And yes, I was cooking on a wood stove when I was younger than him, so mr. responsible can handle the electric oven.
I was a the park yesterday with the little guy, and yes, it was by default because I was working and had to wait for the printer, but...There was apparently a birthday party going on with lots of people. People like the people I tend to interact with these days are likely very uncomfortable around. The tattoos, the beards, the huge gruff guys squeezing onto tiny slides with their little kids whom they have too many of, and gods only know what they do to put food on the table, but everybody knows better than to ask because we know that kids need to be fed...And it reminded me of home. I miss it. Gods do I miss it.
They might be some unsavory fucked up people, but they know who they are, and they aren't afraid of the world knowing. Somehow that is so often more appealing to me than the suits and ties, the power plays, the hidden agendas where everybody want people to see what they project and nobody wants to be known for what they really are under all of the glitter...
Yes, there's the possibility of going back in one of two ways--wondering how on earth we'll feed our kids, or knowing that we won't have to worry about it at all. Either way, it's not going to be anytime soon.
I had a minor break related to my project the other night...Shared it with the whole team too. Yea...On the bright side, it prompted their realization that this is hard on our family, us both working these insane hours all the time...On the not-so-bright side, I much prefer to keep those moments private. Or at least somewhat anonymous. Lol.
I'm having a moment this morning. A long moment. I wonder if I'm making a terrible mistake and doing an awful disservice to my children. The little guys has been asking me to volunteer for his field day, and I can't...I can't commit knowing that by Monday my Friday might be full and there's a chance that I won't walk back in the door until 9:00 at night.
At the same time...If we don't make this work, we'll have done our children a terrible disservice and they will have to live through us starting from scratch, much as we did before they were born.
So yea...I'm having a moment...
Saturday, May 23, 2015
How to Make Someone Dominant or Submissive
I get a lot of visits from searches based on "how to make (insert person and characteristic here)". I get it. People want their husband or wife to be dominant or submissive, and they are looking for ways to make those desires a reality. I get it. Really, I do--there is need, and needs always want to feed.
The thing is...It always makes me sigh. You can make people do things, and yes, over time you can even mold someone into something they previously may not have been. Dominants are made over time. Experience shapes their approach, refines their methods, defines who they decide to be as dominants. Submissives are shaped and molded one step a a time over the course of a relationship, a little bend here, a nudge there, sometimes so subtle that we aren't even aware of the changes until something calls our attention to the fact that our reaction is different than it was before.
Yes, people change other people. Yet...You cannot force someone to become something that they aren't, in some shape or form, already.
I think that sometimes we are unhappy, and our first choice is often to look outside of ourselves at the people we are with to try and make them into what we believe will make us happy. The interesting thing about changing someone we love, I mean really making them into something they are not, has the terrible potential to create something we no longer love.
One of the things Alpha and I have fought most about in our time together is his sense of loyalty--how far he will let another person go, how much shit he will take, how forgiving he is willing to be of those that do not return his loyalties; of those who, for whatever reason, he deems worthy of his loyalty. He is solid and immovable in this. Once won, his loyalty is non-negotiable, unconditional, and comes with no strings attached. Sometimes this absolutely infuriates me. Because people are assholes. And, why? I mean, after all--assholes.
At the same time...His sense of ridiculously unshakeable loyalty is one of the things that I love most about him. If I had been able to change that, to make him into something he is not, he would not be the man that he is. He would not be the man that I fall in love with just a little bit more each day. Because he would no longer be himself.
I'm not saying that trying to makes someone dominant or submissive is exactly the same, and things work out differently if it turns out we are just helping someone become what they already are; however, what about ourselves? If we want our significant other to be dominant, are we truly willing to be the counterpart to that, so submit, to surrender to their will? Conversely, if we want our other half to be submissive, to surrender their all, can we become the dominant, the last call, the final say, the one who carries the weight of that responsibility? And if we are successful in bringing about these changes, will we still love what they have become?
All too often, I don't think that people ask themselves these questions. If we want to change someone else, we have to start by asking ourselves if we can be what they need should such changes occur. One must be careful when attempting to change that which they love, because the caterpillar turns into a butterfly and we will have to accept what they become with the knowledge that we asked for their metamorphosis.
We can help someone to become what they truly are, but we cannot make them be something they are not. And if we are asking them to become something which, by nature, requires a counterpart, we had better be damn sure of our ability to feed the beast we help to create. Because we are all so much more than the sum of our parts.
The thing is...It always makes me sigh. You can make people do things, and yes, over time you can even mold someone into something they previously may not have been. Dominants are made over time. Experience shapes their approach, refines their methods, defines who they decide to be as dominants. Submissives are shaped and molded one step a a time over the course of a relationship, a little bend here, a nudge there, sometimes so subtle that we aren't even aware of the changes until something calls our attention to the fact that our reaction is different than it was before.
Yes, people change other people. Yet...You cannot force someone to become something that they aren't, in some shape or form, already.
I think that sometimes we are unhappy, and our first choice is often to look outside of ourselves at the people we are with to try and make them into what we believe will make us happy. The interesting thing about changing someone we love, I mean really making them into something they are not, has the terrible potential to create something we no longer love.
One of the things Alpha and I have fought most about in our time together is his sense of loyalty--how far he will let another person go, how much shit he will take, how forgiving he is willing to be of those that do not return his loyalties; of those who, for whatever reason, he deems worthy of his loyalty. He is solid and immovable in this. Once won, his loyalty is non-negotiable, unconditional, and comes with no strings attached. Sometimes this absolutely infuriates me. Because people are assholes. And, why? I mean, after all--assholes.
At the same time...His sense of ridiculously unshakeable loyalty is one of the things that I love most about him. If I had been able to change that, to make him into something he is not, he would not be the man that he is. He would not be the man that I fall in love with just a little bit more each day. Because he would no longer be himself.
I'm not saying that trying to makes someone dominant or submissive is exactly the same, and things work out differently if it turns out we are just helping someone become what they already are; however, what about ourselves? If we want our significant other to be dominant, are we truly willing to be the counterpart to that, so submit, to surrender to their will? Conversely, if we want our other half to be submissive, to surrender their all, can we become the dominant, the last call, the final say, the one who carries the weight of that responsibility? And if we are successful in bringing about these changes, will we still love what they have become?
All too often, I don't think that people ask themselves these questions. If we want to change someone else, we have to start by asking ourselves if we can be what they need should such changes occur. One must be careful when attempting to change that which they love, because the caterpillar turns into a butterfly and we will have to accept what they become with the knowledge that we asked for their metamorphosis.
We can help someone to become what they truly are, but we cannot make them be something they are not. And if we are asking them to become something which, by nature, requires a counterpart, we had better be damn sure of our ability to feed the beast we help to create. Because we are all so much more than the sum of our parts.
Friday, May 22, 2015
And It Was Good
We have been so caught up in survival lately, that there hasn't been much room for being caught up in each other. Okay, there hasn't been any room.
The dog woke me up at 4:00 his morning. Apparently, when a large male dog needs to pee bad enough to run back and forth down the hallway, he can still hold it for long enough to make sure he takes the time to go in six different places. Really. Six. While I stand in front of the door wrapped in a towel waiting.
Got a tad distracted...
I crawled back in bed and did the usual, "Must go back to sleep, it's to early to gt up, need to do this and this and that for work, we are so behind, I wonder, he really needs to get more sleep, did he even eat at all today, I mean yesterday? Today I need to, tomorrow I've got to, last week I should have, next will I'll have to..."
He rolled over and put his hand on my thigh. Just like he always does. Every time I get up at night and come back to bed, he places his hand on my thigh or on my hip in his sleep. Every night for nearly 17 years.
In contemplation of what my nights would be like without it, I went back to sleep with a deep seated appreciation for that touch.
I dreamed. Of power and dominance, of the comforts that come with being owned, the adventure that fills ones soul when they let go.
There was peace in the darkness like a thousand quiet candles lighting my way home. And it was was good.
The dog woke me up at 4:00 his morning. Apparently, when a large male dog needs to pee bad enough to run back and forth down the hallway, he can still hold it for long enough to make sure he takes the time to go in six different places. Really. Six. While I stand in front of the door wrapped in a towel waiting.
Got a tad distracted...
I crawled back in bed and did the usual, "Must go back to sleep, it's to early to gt up, need to do this and this and that for work, we are so behind, I wonder, he really needs to get more sleep, did he even eat at all today, I mean yesterday? Today I need to, tomorrow I've got to, last week I should have, next will I'll have to..."
He rolled over and put his hand on my thigh. Just like he always does. Every time I get up at night and come back to bed, he places his hand on my thigh or on my hip in his sleep. Every night for nearly 17 years.
In contemplation of what my nights would be like without it, I went back to sleep with a deep seated appreciation for that touch.
I dreamed. Of power and dominance, of the comforts that come with being owned, the adventure that fills ones soul when they let go.
There was peace in the darkness like a thousand quiet candles lighting my way home. And it was was good.
Tuesday, May 19, 2015
Well Then...
You know how sometimes you come across a post and you waffle about leaving a comment? "I should. No...I probably shouldn't...But maybe I actually should. I totally shouldn't. Yep, definitely not." Then you do, and later something happens or someone says something, and you know that you really actually shouldn't have?
Yea...
Shit happens, right?
Yea...
Shit happens, right?
Sunday, May 17, 2015
That's Us
I wandered into the bedroom last night to find Alpha watching TV on the computer. When I asked what he was watching, he said, "look at these people, this is the story of our life!" I had my doubts until one woman was talking about a new set of hurdles for their business, and she said, "It's okay, I don't sleep anyways. Ever! Just look at the bags under my eyes." And I thought, "Oh shit. Yea...That's us!"
 |
| Yep--that's me these days! Bet you didn't know my beauty was so overwhelming. |
Saturday, May 9, 2015
Lines
While I have acknowledged that there are some key definitive differences between slavery and submission, for me they are so intertwined as to have become interchangeable forms of expression...
So often we circle back to the fact that if I'm drawing the line anywhere, we are not what we believe ourselves to be. Because that's just not how this works for us.
It's those things really...The things where I want to pull up short, draw the line in the sand, and exert my nonexistent veto power. Those are the things that define my slavery. Surrendering regardless of the doubt, the distaste, the overwhelming desire not to.
It is easy, is it not? To submit to that which one finds pleasing and appealing. That is not, however, what I believe slavery to be. Yes, there are times when I am more than willing, wanting, needing, desiring. The flow is...Easy. It is those edges I pull up short on though, those places I do not want to go, the experiences that make me cringe, those are the things which feed the junky in me. No choices to make, no options offered or allowed, being forced into that which I either abhor or want desperately to pretend is against what I desire...
Truly, to me, slavery is defined in that one small sentence--it is about one's willingness to accept things which one is absolutely unwilling to experience. The knowledge that I will be shattered into a million tiny pieces, carefully collected, and put back together again. Each piece treated like a fragile scrap of glass to be gathered with the utmost care...
Our arrangement is based on core agreements that I will not renege on, nor do I wish to revoke them.
Ultimately, I will accept anything he asks of me. He will draw my lines in the sand, define the places I will not go, the things I will not do, and make he determination of what is too much or not enough. Some people will think it's wrong, others that it is not actually possible.
The thing is, in the end, he has always been better than me at weighing my discomfort against actual harm.I have a thousand tiny scars accumulated in a very short span of time before he came into my life. When weighing my personal desires against their ability to damage me, well, I don't actually do that and I never really have. He does.
He tells me that everyone has a box full of darkness, and it's a privilege to be allowed to see inside. Our boxes of darkness belong to us, and no one is obligated to let another look inside. He explores mine carefully with unfettered access, stepping gently in the absence of light without offering judgement on the shadows. He opens his own and invites me to cast a glance inside. All that he asks is that I return the favor and not pass judgement on his demons.
So often we circle back to the fact that if I'm drawing the line anywhere, we are not what we believe ourselves to be. Because that's just not how this works for us.
It's those things really...The things where I want to pull up short, draw the line in the sand, and exert my nonexistent veto power. Those are the things that define my slavery. Surrendering regardless of the doubt, the distaste, the overwhelming desire not to.
It is easy, is it not? To submit to that which one finds pleasing and appealing. That is not, however, what I believe slavery to be. Yes, there are times when I am more than willing, wanting, needing, desiring. The flow is...Easy. It is those edges I pull up short on though, those places I do not want to go, the experiences that make me cringe, those are the things which feed the junky in me. No choices to make, no options offered or allowed, being forced into that which I either abhor or want desperately to pretend is against what I desire...
Truly, to me, slavery is defined in that one small sentence--it is about one's willingness to accept things which one is absolutely unwilling to experience. The knowledge that I will be shattered into a million tiny pieces, carefully collected, and put back together again. Each piece treated like a fragile scrap of glass to be gathered with the utmost care...
Our arrangement is based on core agreements that I will not renege on, nor do I wish to revoke them.
Ultimately, I will accept anything he asks of me. He will draw my lines in the sand, define the places I will not go, the things I will not do, and make he determination of what is too much or not enough. Some people will think it's wrong, others that it is not actually possible.
The thing is, in the end, he has always been better than me at weighing my discomfort against actual harm.I have a thousand tiny scars accumulated in a very short span of time before he came into my life. When weighing my personal desires against their ability to damage me, well, I don't actually do that and I never really have. He does.
He tells me that everyone has a box full of darkness, and it's a privilege to be allowed to see inside. Our boxes of darkness belong to us, and no one is obligated to let another look inside. He explores mine carefully with unfettered access, stepping gently in the absence of light without offering judgement on the shadows. He opens his own and invites me to cast a glance inside. All that he asks is that I return the favor and not pass judgement on his demons.
Friday, May 8, 2015
It's About...
It was one of those nights...We were in bed, talking and giggling. Close. Then he said something. Not something new, not something surprising, not something out of the very deepest darkest boxes, something truthful, something long ago accepted...But I got hurt. His surprise was palpable, his disappointment tangible...
For a few years, he had time. Time and energy. There was a micromanaging aspect to which I had grown terribly accustomed, and it's gone now. No time. No energy. I have been making a hundred tiny decisions a day. Word decisions. A "must" or a "may", sounds so small but defines how an entire business will function on the ground. There are so many words in my head, so many little decisions that make big differences. Those words don't go away. Always there is little miss independent...I absolutely cannot shut off. Ever. I eat, drink, live, sleep, and dream it. Every. Fucking. Moment.
Even right now...I have a call this morning, and I'm not really ready for it. So I'm writing this, and its there in the back of my mind, swirling problems and questions, intricate needs and a lack of understanding about how something is going to work. Nagging at my brain...
I've run so far from him. Not fast. Just a slow steady retreat, until the gulf was so great...Until he showed me again, a not so strange peek into his box of darkness. A simple thing, long ago agreed upon. Because submission is not about what comes easy.
No.
Slavery is not about the desires of the slave. It's about one's willingness to accept things which one is absolutely unwilling to experience...He reminded me that it is all or nothing, that if I draw a line somewhere then this reality is just a fallacy, an illusion, a game to be tucked away on the shelf.
If I balk at this concept of another woman, something which has been for so long, that thing held as absolute proof of where we stand and who I am. That I am his and I will do as he wishes, then I'm not all in. And we don't do halfway in.
I can't do it. I cannot function in a relationship, be little miss fucking manager, exist with some sense of stability, without feeling his control. Without that sense of absolute inability to make one single decision. Where it doesn't matter what the world is doing or thinking or how it needs to be fixed, because all decisions are his.
It was one of those conversations that as a little bit miserable, and a little bit hot.
And in the end we landed where we always do. He's the most gorgeous man I've ever known. And his dominance is like crack. He's my drug of choice, my one reality so strong that all other realities fade into him...
For a few years, he had time. Time and energy. There was a micromanaging aspect to which I had grown terribly accustomed, and it's gone now. No time. No energy. I have been making a hundred tiny decisions a day. Word decisions. A "must" or a "may", sounds so small but defines how an entire business will function on the ground. There are so many words in my head, so many little decisions that make big differences. Those words don't go away. Always there is little miss independent...I absolutely cannot shut off. Ever. I eat, drink, live, sleep, and dream it. Every. Fucking. Moment.
Even right now...I have a call this morning, and I'm not really ready for it. So I'm writing this, and its there in the back of my mind, swirling problems and questions, intricate needs and a lack of understanding about how something is going to work. Nagging at my brain...
I've run so far from him. Not fast. Just a slow steady retreat, until the gulf was so great...Until he showed me again, a not so strange peek into his box of darkness. A simple thing, long ago agreed upon. Because submission is not about what comes easy.
No.
Slavery is not about the desires of the slave. It's about one's willingness to accept things which one is absolutely unwilling to experience...He reminded me that it is all or nothing, that if I draw a line somewhere then this reality is just a fallacy, an illusion, a game to be tucked away on the shelf.
If I balk at this concept of another woman, something which has been for so long, that thing held as absolute proof of where we stand and who I am. That I am his and I will do as he wishes, then I'm not all in. And we don't do halfway in.
I can't do it. I cannot function in a relationship, be little miss fucking manager, exist with some sense of stability, without feeling his control. Without that sense of absolute inability to make one single decision. Where it doesn't matter what the world is doing or thinking or how it needs to be fixed, because all decisions are his.
It was one of those conversations that as a little bit miserable, and a little bit hot.
And in the end we landed where we always do. He's the most gorgeous man I've ever known. And his dominance is like crack. He's my drug of choice, my one reality so strong that all other realities fade into him...
Wednesday, May 6, 2015
A Question of Lack of M/s and Spending Money
Not sure exactly how I lost this one! If anyone else asked me something and I lost it, um...Feel free to give it another go, and I'm sorry!
Courtesy of Misty,
"Do you feel like this recent lack of M/s in your life could strengthen your submission in some way? If someone gave you $1000, what would you do with it? No necessities or plane tickets. :)"
Ack, I don't know...It doesn't feel very strengthened at the moment! Though I do think that something about the inevitable cycling back around which always follows these times is reaffirming--a reminder that it is, and always will be, there regardless of whether or not it is obvious and forefront...Oddly enough, perhaps, the more in-charge I am in daily life and the less I want to submit, the more I crave that mindlessness that comes when one lacks the ability to make choices of their own...
If someone gave me $1000...No necessities or plane tickets?! Obviously, you know me too well. Lol. Hmm...I'm thinking that we'd go blow it on a weekend of fun with the kids. Heck, we could get more than one weekend out of that! Okay, well maybe not all of it--we could use some new toys and I...Ahem, My "Play" collar was not in the case and I left it at home :[ so another one of those. I also may have left a bag of dildos...Yet another reason to pray daily that no one breaks into our house! And no, I'm not terribly keen on replacing those, and since this imaginary money is mine to blow as I wish, they will not be included on the list.
Courtesy of Misty,
"Do you feel like this recent lack of M/s in your life could strengthen your submission in some way? If someone gave you $1000, what would you do with it? No necessities or plane tickets. :)"
Ack, I don't know...It doesn't feel very strengthened at the moment! Though I do think that something about the inevitable cycling back around which always follows these times is reaffirming--a reminder that it is, and always will be, there regardless of whether or not it is obvious and forefront...Oddly enough, perhaps, the more in-charge I am in daily life and the less I want to submit, the more I crave that mindlessness that comes when one lacks the ability to make choices of their own...
If someone gave me $1000...No necessities or plane tickets?! Obviously, you know me too well. Lol. Hmm...I'm thinking that we'd go blow it on a weekend of fun with the kids. Heck, we could get more than one weekend out of that! Okay, well maybe not all of it--we could use some new toys and I...Ahem, My "Play" collar was not in the case and I left it at home :[ so another one of those. I also may have left a bag of dildos...Yet another reason to pray daily that no one breaks into our house! And no, I'm not terribly keen on replacing those, and since this imaginary money is mine to blow as I wish, they will not be included on the list.
Tuesday, May 5, 2015
Funny Stuff
Okay, so I read this a long time ago, but I don't think I shared it here. Since I have nobody else in my life who will properly appreciate this, I'm sharing with you. Facebook can be sooo entertaining...
"My night began as any other normal weeknight. Come home, fix dinner,
and play with the kids. I then had the thought that would ring painfully
in my mind for the next few hours: ‘Maybe I should pull the waxing kit out of the medicine cabinet.’
So I headed to the site of my demise: the bathroom. It was one of those
‘cold wax’ kits. No melting a clump of hot wax, you just rub the strips
together in your hand, they get warm and you peel them apart and press
them to your leg (or wherever else) and you pull the hair right off.
No mess, no fuss.
How hard can it be?
I mean, I’m not a genius, but I am mechanically inclined enough to figure this out. (YA THINK!?!)
So I pull one of the thin strips out. Its two strips facing each other
stuck together. Instead of rubbing them together, my genius kicks in so I
get out the hair dryer and heat it to 1000 degrees. (‘Cold wax,’
yeah…right!)
I lay the strip across my thigh. Hold the skin around it tight and pull.
It works!
OK, so it wasn’t the best feeling, but it wasn’t too bad. I can do this! Hair removal no longer eludes me!
I am She-rah, fighter of all wayward body hair and maker of smooth skin extraordinaire.
With my next wax strip I move north after checking on the kids, I sneak
back into the bathroom, for the ultimate hair fighting championship.
I drop my panties and place one foot on the toilet.
Using the same procedure, I apply the wax strip across the right side
of my bikini line, covering the right half of my hoo-ha and stretching
down to the inside of my butt cheek (it was a long strip) ..
I inhale deeply and brace myself…RRRRIIIPPP!!!!
I’m blind!!! Blinded from pain!!!!….OH MY GAWD!!!!!!!!!
Vision returning, I notice that I’ve only managed to pull off half the strip.
CRAP!
Another deep breath and RIPP!
Everything is spinning and spotted.
I think I may pass out…must stay conscious…must stay conscious.
Do I hear crashing drums???
Breathe, breathe…OK, back to normal.
I want to see my trophy – a wax covered strip, the one that has caused
me so much pain, with my hairy pelt sticking to it. I want to revel in
the glory that is my triumph over body hair. I hold up the strip!
There’s no hair on it.
Where is the hair???
WHERE IS THE WAX???
Slowly I ease my head down, foot still perched on the toilet. I see the
hair. The hair that should be on the strip…it’s not! I touch. .. I am
touching wax!!
I run my fingers over the most sensitive part of
my body, which is now covered in cold wax and matted hair. Then I make
the next BIG mistake…remember my foot is still propped upon the toilet? I
know I need to do something. So I put my foot down.
Sealed shut! My butt is sealed shut. Sealed shut!
I penguin walk around the bathroom trying to figure out what to do and
think to myself ‘Please don’t let me get the urge to poop. My head may
pop off!’
What can I do to melt the wax?
Hot water!! Hot water melts wax!!
I’ll run the hottest water I can stand into the bathtub, get in,
immerse the wax-covered bits and the wax should melt and I can gently
wipe it off, right???
*WRONG!!!!!!!*
I get in the tub –
the water is slightly hotter than that used to torture prisoners of war
or sterilize surgical equipment – I sit.
Now, the only thing
worse than having your nether regions glued together, is having them
glued together and then glued to the bottom of the tub…in scalding hot
water.
Which, by the way, doesn’t melt cold wax.
So, now
I’m stuck to the bottom of the tub as though I had cemented myself to
the porcelain!! God bless the man who had convinced me a few months ago
to have a phone put in the bathroom!!!!!
I call my friend,
thinking surely she has waxed before and has some secret of how to get
me undone. It’s a very good conversation starter ‘So, my butt and hoo-ha
are glued together to the bottom of the tub!’
There is a slight pause.
She doesn’t know any secret tricks for removal but she does try to hide
her laughter from me. She wants to know exactly where the wax is
located, ‘Are we talking cheeks or hole or hoo-ha?’
She’s
laughing out loud by now…I can hear her. I give her the rundown and she
suggests I call the number on the side of the box.
YEAH!!!!! Right!! I should be the joke of someone else’s night.
While we go through various solutions, I resort to trying to scrape the
wax off with a razor. Nothing feels better than to have your girlie
goodies covered in hot wax, glued shut, stuck to the tub in super hot
water and then dry-shaving the sticky wax off!!
By now the brain
is not working, dignity has taken a major hike and I’m pretty sure I’m
going to need Post-Traumatic Stress counseling for this event.
My friend is still talking with me when I finally see my saving grace….the lotion they give you to remove the excess wax.
What do I really have to lose at this point? I rub some on and … OH MY
GAWD!!!!!!! The scream probably woke the kids and scared the dickens out
of my friend.
Its sooo painful, but I really don’t care.
‘IT WORKS!!
It works!!’ I get a hearty congratulation from my friend and she hangs
up. I successfully remove the remainder of the wax and then notice to my
grief and despair…?
THE HAIR IS STILL HERE…….ALL OF IT!
So I recklessly shave it off.
Heck, I’m numb by now.
Nothing hurts.
I could have amputated my own leg at this point.
I could have amputated my own leg at this point.
Next week I’m going to try hair color……"
(Facebook source – original writer not known )
Monday, May 4, 2015
...
Time.
Too much time spent on this, not enough time spent on that. Time goes too fast and work moves too slow. Time is a funny funny thing.
Some days I feel overwhelmed to the point of idiocy. Regulations are complex and confusing. Operations manuals that promise to put you on the moon are only any good if you can actually walk on it in day-to-day operations. My job, at the moment, is figuring out how people can walk on that moon and perform a variety of functions.
Some days I feel like I'm making about as much progress as a rock that's been sitting on the side of a hill for a thousand years. Time moves too fast. Accomplishments move too slow. Shit is all too confusing and complex, the stakes too high.
Other days? I feel like I'm in my element, all that dratted obsession with detail that so often trips me up is what makes me good at what I'm doing, and I can stretch my mind in ways which have so often lain stagnant. I'm working with a phenomenal team and we can figure anything out.
We are a million tiny steps from incredible from incredible success, one little stumble from disaster. It's a...Consuming place to be.
Too much time spent on this, not enough time spent on that. Time goes too fast and work moves too slow. Time is a funny funny thing.
Some days I feel overwhelmed to the point of idiocy. Regulations are complex and confusing. Operations manuals that promise to put you on the moon are only any good if you can actually walk on it in day-to-day operations. My job, at the moment, is figuring out how people can walk on that moon and perform a variety of functions.
Some days I feel like I'm making about as much progress as a rock that's been sitting on the side of a hill for a thousand years. Time moves too fast. Accomplishments move too slow. Shit is all too confusing and complex, the stakes too high.
Other days? I feel like I'm in my element, all that dratted obsession with detail that so often trips me up is what makes me good at what I'm doing, and I can stretch my mind in ways which have so often lain stagnant. I'm working with a phenomenal team and we can figure anything out.
We are a million tiny steps from incredible from incredible success, one little stumble from disaster. It's a...Consuming place to be.
The fog.
Give me the fog in all its elusive glory
reach out and try to catch it in my hands
and it disappears
dissipates
swirls around me like so many tiny touches
whispering at the edges of my mind
only to vanish under the focus of my eye.
Wrap me in the fog, the fog that only you can bring
in the song that only we can sing.
Take me
down
drowning in your kiss
lost in the mist
until up is down and I'm all inside out.
Nothing.
Without doubt.
It feels like aeons since I got lost in your fog
turned around in the trees
upside down and inside out
all in until there's nothing left
no thought
no worry
no mind
no self
just quiet in the fog.