Rocky Mountain High

I’m leaving in a few hours for a 46-hour visit with my sister in the Rockies.  My father insists that I’ll be breathless the whole time.  (I think that’d be sort of endearing.)  I can’t wait.

The location of this photo is not exactly where we’ll be.  I can’t give away any more information about our secret bunker than I already have.

Robbie is highly jealous.  Like my sister, he’s fit, outdoorsy, and athletic.  I’m adventuresome-ish, but only if one of them is there to watch out for me.

Not much point to this post, except to gloat, preen, and brag.  I’m walking on air–or soon will be!

 

Stars

When I first started blogging, I had huge crushes on other bloggers out there.  I absolutely adored chelseagirl and wanted to be her; I even emailed her for advice.  I wanted to fuck Jefferson, with Robbie and three or four other guys there.  I eventually got up the nerve to email him, too (though not to fuck him).

After I’d been blogging for awhile, I got more comfortable with bloggers, and started to feel, rightly or wrongly, as though most of them were colleagues and some of them friends.  I think this is pretty common.  We admire what others do, and if we’re lucky or smart or foolhardy, we get up enough nerve to try it ourselves.  Once we try it, it doesn’t seem superhuman or impossible.  It’s just normal.  It’s kind of like the awe you felt for grown-ups until you were one.

About a year or a year and a half ago, though, something distressing began.  Blogs started to disappear.  The blogs I loved the most died off in a giant wave of blog extinction.  The first one to go, as I recall, was spiral submissive’s.  She was a young woman in Virginia, very devoted to a rather strict Sir, and I often worried about her after her web page disappeared and her url sported a title in Arabic.  Puppy Tales, Brooke’s outrageous and filthy fantasies about humiliation, was next, deleted, so the story went, by a moody and (over?)protective Master.  Then came chelseagirl, who gave up blogging in a the wake of a wave of post-breakup mourning.  One Life Take Two went dark when Jefferson’s ex-wife sued him for custody of their children on the basis of information she’d discovered in his blog.  Kitten in Chains petered out because Kitten and her master decided that D/s was not for them anymore.  And various other people, like Marianne at Indiscretion, just decided to stop.

All of this has left my blogroll rather patchy.  And yet, even though dead links have always infuriated me, I’ve intentionally not updated mine.  When spiral submissive disappeared, I wanted to keep her name in my personal lights, because of what her existence had meant to me at a time when I needed very desperately to figure out what kinky sex was.  It was the bad old days—that’s right, before FetLife—and knowing she was out there, and might still be, was comforting to me.  And when each of the bloggers who followed her winked out, I kept that tradition of tribute.

Time has passed, things have changed.  chelseagirl and Jefferson are back, their writing as fine as ever.  Brooke and Kitten have returned, as has a blogger named milla, whom I love.  And I have met or stumbled upon many, many new bloggers who work I want to honor and note.  So I’ll be changing my blog roll soon and gradually.  But before I do, I wanted to pay a small tribute to the people whose names will of necessity be removed from it, as well as to the people, like aag and TBK, who continue to write day in and day out.  I want to say thank you, and to say, along with Confucius, that “Words are the voice of the heart”.  Thank you to everyone who shares their hearts in this ethereal, fragile medium.

 

Lust for Lists

I want to toast Rori over at Between My Sheets for her hard work on her second annual list of Top 100 Sex Bloggers of 2009.  I was one of over half-a-dozen people who helped judge the entrants, so I have a glimpse into how much effort must have gone into organizing the whole undertaking.  I also was lucky enough to show up on the list, which I swear has nothing to do with any attempt I may or may not have made at padding my own score in the tallying process.  Ahem.

In any case, the real virtue of Rori’s list–and of blogrolls, contests, e-zines, and so on–lies in introducing curious readers to good writing.  I hope people will find something that entertains, amuses, delights, moves, or touches them among this year’s offerings.

Top 100 Sex Bloggers of 2009:

1. Coquitten (website)
2. Alexa (website)
3. AAG (website)
4. Bad, Bad Girl (website)
5. TBK (website)
6. Mistress Matisse (website)
7. Miss Mia (website)
8. Thursday’s Child (website)
9. Roger (website)
10. Sinclair (website)

 

Objects of Desire

From Italian design shop Itunube, little cuffs for your wrist–kind of like wrist collars, but better.  I do seem obsessed with this type of thing.  Robbie says he will get me all of it, and more, when he wins the lottery.  So basically any day now.

(Actually, neither of us is very big on conspicuous consumption–we just like to think we’d do it well if we ever needed to.)

Bracelaces, $25 through my beloved Lost at E Minor; more amazing jewelry and design items at the Itunube site.

 

Vampires

I have so much to say here, and so very little time.  Work has me running crazy, and something is causing me to feel profoundly exhausted.

So this is just a post to say I am still alive, despite whatever demons are feeding on me at night.

Painting by Randis Albion, via Sex in Art.

 

Misperception

I was noodling around Amazon.com tonight, looking for some new books to read, when my eye fell on the “active discussion in related forums” list at the bottom of my page.  (Seriously, I have no idea what this is.  The internet has so many weird features these days that I can’t keep up.  Who is using Amazon as a BBS, and why?)

Anyway, the title of the discussion was “Is spanking a lovable or harmful form of disipline?“, and according to the helpful statistics in the sidebar, during the half hour the discussion had been going on, it had garnered 6,000 replies.  My goodness! I thought.  First Amazon decides to sell sex toys, and the next thing you know, people are discussing Domestic Discipline on its forums.  What next?! I clicked on the discussion to discover as-yet-unimagined pros and cons of spanking.

Um.  More perceptive readers will probably have already guessed that the discussion was about whether or not to spank one’s children.  (I probably didn’t pick up on that debate because I take it for granted that the answer is no–at least, not unless one’s children are on the verge of swallowing a gallon of poison as a practical “joke”.)

I’d be tempted to say that that’s all you can find about kink at what the New York Times has called “the world’s general store” . . . but it wouldn’t be true.  You and I know better, don’t we?

Cartoon by the epically perverse Martin van Maele; work and other scant information here, here, here, and here.

 

Everything I Needed to Know I Learned on the Internet

Well, not everything.  But when it comes to BDSM, I have to say the internet still rivals most other sources of information.

I was reading Ferns’s Domme Chronicles the other day when I noticed that she seemed to have an interesting new toy.  She was posting pics of recent acquisitions, including these:

“Are those cutting boards?” I asked.  And I asked her how she liked them.

“Yes, indeed!” she answered.  “I am a delicate flower (no, truly) and a decent spanking hurts me more than it hurts him, so I like it quite a bit. It is more solid than a purpose-made paddle, and has the corresponding heavier impact for minimal effort.

“And I like it quite a bit–it is lovely quality, looks beautiful and has a very satisfying slap-thud. I’d say from the sounds that he makes when I use it that it might hurt just a little bit . . . “

All of this sounded excellent to me.  I’m a fan of a satisfying slap-thud myself, and I made sure to draw the post to Robbie’s attention.  Robbie is increasingly in charge of toy-and-costume acquisition, presumably because he does it better than I do, and possibly because if he does it, he can execute quality control. (Not that he’s into control.)

So I wasn’t entirely surprised when, last weekend, I walked into the room I use as my dressing room when I’m at his house and found, waiting for me, an assortment of new toys.  They included:

- the new sharps kit (items from a medical supply store)

- a platinum wig (he says I’m going blonde for the gangbang he is certain I will one day agree to; apparently, he’s ready any time now)

- an unvarnished cutting board

He had gotten himself a cutting board too,  as I found out the next day when he called me to his bedroom and had me assume the spankee position without offering me any explanation.

I got three medium-force thwaps.  I was unsure whether they were punishment for something I’d done?  (I’ve been ranting about my punishment cravings lately.)  Or maybe they were foreplay?  (He did show me, after the thwaps, that he had a fairly significant hard-on.)  Or . . .??

“How was that?” he asked.

“Confusing,” I started.  “I felt like . . . “

Robbie sighed.  I have a tendency to scrutinize my own emotions intensely, in a way that can very occasionally frustrate him.  “Let me clarify the question.  How was that physical sensation?”

“Oh! It felt good.  What was it?”

“The cutting board.”

“I like that.  It’s really nice and thuddy.”

“Like a paddle, right?”

“Yeah, but a paddle has edges–I mean, that has edges too, but with a paddle you’re more likely to get the person with an edge, which stings.  And with that you have a lot more area.  Do you know what I mean?”  I swear, my brain goes out the window as soon as it senses any pain or any rope.

“Yes,” Robbie said drily.  “I know what you mean.”

So.  I’m here to testify that Ferns’s Bread Board Paddle is a great toy.  And also to show you mine . . . I hope you like it.

 

Domino Theory

I couldn’t resist posting this (to me) hilarious snippet from ranat’s blog, beyond the hills.  I think it perfectly captures the hall-of-mirrors transformations that can happen when you open yourself up to The World of Kink.

Her post starts with the realization that she’s has an internal vision of this certain man her whole life, and that the man is herself:

This blog began with that I’m dominant. I could finally admit that. And then that I’m a sadist. It was okay to say that too. Okay, then it became apparent I’m not straight. Oh, and by the way there is a man lurking in my head and he is me. What is this, fucking dominoes? Tip over one and eventually the rest will all fall down? I cannot even comprehend the artistry and subtlety of my self-repression to have so blithely hidden this all from myself for two decades.

I know what she means.  On the other hand, sometimes I really, really like it when the dominoes fall.

Above: Invisible 2, by Tyson McAdoo.

 

The Product of Yin and Yang

No needle play for us, after all, last weekend.  The friends we invited over for dinner have a newborn–the baby is a month old–and barely have time for kink with each other, much less for kink with friends.  I’m not quite sure what we were thinking about the needle demonstration, but we had a lovely time with our friends, watching them enjoy their new arrival.

These friends have been with us through major thick and thin–with Robbie, especially, since they are closer to him than to me.  I think I’m ready to start writing about that thick and thin, about what some of the fights of the last year(s?) have been about.  It’s not pretty stuff, the past.  But what’s come out of it is better and better.

“Eyes of True“, from Odilia Luzzi’s lovely photoblog, Dreams of Light.

 

A Demonstration of Pricks

I am headed to see Robbie this weekend and very eager to be there.  My sex drive has returned at at least half-strength, if not more, and I have an urgent need to be with him.  Plus, we have at least a few wicked plans.  I say we, but Robbie seems to be doing most of the planning.  I’m hugely relieved at this.  For past visits Robbie has planned an elaborate schedule of activities, and I panic at the thought of getting it all done as well as worry about how it will go.  This time, he gets to enjoy all the anticipation of things that “I know but you don’t know” (as he likes to sing in a little song he’s made up), but I don’t have to stress about any of them.  It’s as it should be–him in control, me in the dark.

Well, I’m not in the dark about everything.

When we were first getting into BDSM and Robbie and I filled out the requisite checklists about perversions, it turned out that I had a real fascination with needles, knives, and play piercings.  Robbie was extremely cautious about all of these desires; he was happy to hurt me, but very reluctant to injure me, if the distinction makes any sense.  Part of the reluctance stemmed, I think, from some professional medical experience in his past.  But the hearty doctor fetish I have made the whole idea frustratingly hotter.

And here we are, three years down the line, and he’s finally studied up on needle play, asking a very experienced friend of ours for instruction, advice, recommendation on equipment, and an actual demonstration.  We’re having dinner with our friend and his girl this Sunday night.  I’m at once over the moon and terrified.

It so happens that I sliced my hand open by (accidentally) putting it through a glass window pane this summer.  (I tripped on someone’s inconveniently-placed roller skates in the dark, and the rest was pure Marx brothers.)  The masochist in me was pretty thrilled at the resultant blood and the pain, while the rationalist in me said: “You dumb retarded twit, you can’t like it, or people will think it’s self-inflicted!”  Fortunately, the obviously treacherous position of the roller skates exculpated me from charges of self-harm–or so I hope.

But I digress.  My point is that the thing felt deliciously painful until I got to the hospital, where I was scheduled to have a few stitches.  I even remember lying there with my hand elevated, watching the nurse prepare the saline solution, various bandages, the local anaesthetic, and thinking, “Cool!  This is the nearest I’m going to get to needle play for awhile!”

And dammit if it didn’t hurt like a mother.  There was none of the euphoric pain that had come from the slicing cut to my hand.  There was a really nasty pinchy stab, multiplied by about a thousand.  Stingy bitterness.

So, we’ll see on Sunday.  I very much like the thought of being the useful experimental pincushion for Robbie and our friends.  I just hope that the experience is a happy one for all involved, and that the pain is the flying-high kind rather than the hop-on-one-foot-and-swear-a-blue-streak kind.

I’ll try to report back, depending on the scale of my injuries.

High-fashion pics by Philippe Kerlo.

 

Club

I just got this email from a friend of mine, who is most assuredly grown up.  It read:

The doorbell rang. Three little boys were there.  One said they were starting a friendship club and wanted to know if I wanted to join.  The other asked if there were any little people in the house.  “Kids?” I asked.  “Yeah.”  The first boy repeated the invitation to join their friendship club.  I asked what I had to do.  “Nothing,” he said.  I asked if I had to play with them.  “No, we are just going around to the houses seeing if people want to join our friendship club.”  “Sure, ” I said.  I’m going put it on my resume.

What I want to know is why people don’t do this more often.  Any of you want to be in my friendship club??  We have cookies.

 

Scarlet Ribbons for Her Hair?

[Hi.  I missed you too.]

The other night Robbie emailed me to tell me that for my next visit, I should plan to bring–sorry, I was required to bring–white cotton schoolgirl panties and hair ribbons.  (“Colors (in priority in case they cost too much to buy all at once): pink, white, red, black and green.”  He is nothing if not precise.)

The requirement that I provide things for Robbie’s increasing interest in costumes (one that I share) was super-hot to me.  The prospect of trying to find ribbons in my new and urban environment, on the other hand, was surprisingly daunting and inspired a fit of hysteria out of all proportion to the task.  (As I’ve noted before, tasks, no matter how small they are, really don’t seem to work well for us at distance; I go into insta-meltdown, and he ends up wondering why something intended to be sexy and fun turns into emotional crisis.)

I still don’t know where I’ll get the ribbon, since I’m thinking that the corner Starbucks and 24-hour CVS, my go-to sources for all that is essential, won’t be of use.  But I’m determined to try to find something for whatever nefarious purposes Robbie has in mind.  I have every intention of being the most irresistible schoolgirl he’s seen in some time.  And I’m hoping if I’m good enough, he might even use a few of the ribbons elsewhere on me (wrists, ankles . . . ).

 

Letters from the Lair

If, in my fantasies, I live in a seraglio, a shuttered little jewel of a house filled with books, objets d’art, cushions, sinuous women, perfumes, rouge, and large baths, Robbie’s alter ego almost certainly inhabits a lair.  On the floor there are coins and precious metals, jewels (for tempting sheltered young ladies?); on the walls glitter torches and instruments of torment; the place is labyrinthine.  He can plot and plan there, as I can dream and dawdle in my place.

And just as I write him letters, he writes to me.  An email from Robbie this morning turned me on so much—he got under my skin so precisely, with just the exact mixture of objectification and love—that I can’t think of any better way to show him how much I appreciate it than to share it.  And—well—to show him off a little.

He wrote:

Gifted Sera,

I recall that this is a long-time, long, long time original fantasy of yours that we have discussed on more than one very hot occasion (and, early on, been close to being on the brink of once or twice). It seems to be largely the objectification, partly the service and usage, partly the multiple cocks that excite you so much.*

It is obviously a very hot fantasy for us both.**

Getting to a suitably excited, willing and safe and trusting place is the part to work out, one day in the seamy, sexy, slutty everything-you-ever-wanted future that we both say we want and can foresee.

I have lots of fantasies like that–you serving drinks dressed like an exhibitionist slut maid, putting various signs on you for public display or our private pictures, kneeling with a bag as a semen receptacle like in the above picture, glory holes, etcetera–delicious someday corruptions plotted and enjoyed together.

My signage for the blowjob queen bag would, however,  likely be somewhat different.

Something like:

World’s  very best  blowjobs.

Try it and see.

Exclusive offer. Satisfaction guaranteed.

See owner for handling instructions.

And I do think that you are that good. And more.

Love and lust and fantasies galore,

~ R

I keep reading the sign for the bag, and smiling.  That’s exactly what I’d want it to say.  As long as you’ve learned basic instructions for using the toy, you can certainly playing with it for a few minutes.

And I’m curious–if this is your type of thing, what would you want your label (or your lover’s label) to say?

* * *

Note: the above photograph is not a picture of me.  The tempting slut depicted is the lovely and deeply twisted kinkerbelle.  Were I half as brave as she . . . well, I might cum just from thinking about what my life would be like if I were half as brave as she is.

I’m borrowing the picture—and if kink prefers, I’ll happily give it up—because Robbie has seen it and has drawn considerable inspiration from it on multiple occasions, as you can tell from his letter.

* Actually, me + multiple cocks excites him so much.  One is enough, two my limit.

.** Poor man I have hounded him for years, explaining that many things that are hot for me in fantasy terrify me when it comes to living them.  He’s clearly taken that comment to heart.

 

Duke

“You’re my hero,” I said to Robbie, gazing over at his sweat-glazed face.

“Why?” he said.

“Because you’re driving 5 hours each way so I can catch my flight home even though you have strep throat.” That was pretty much it. We’re still working out the logistics of my new home, including trying to figure out new transportation routes from here to there. Apparently, I thought a certain airport was way closer to his house than it actually was.

“Oh, that,” Robbie said glumly. The only time I’ve ever seen him sick is when he has strep, and then he’s sick as a dog. “Well, I don’t know about that, but when I say I’m gonna do something, I do it.”

He looked so serious, and seriously old-fashioned, I burst into (gentle) laughter. “Okay, Duke,” I said.

“What? Dupe?”

“No, Duke. You sound like John Wayne.”

“Oh yeah. Duke.” And he did a dead-on imitation of Wayne. “My favorite are the spanking movies.”

“John Wayne made spanking movies?”

“Yeah, three of ‘em. One of ‘em was him spanking a schoolteacher.”

“Katherine Hepburn?!?!” I asked, shocked, thinking of Rooster Cogburn.

“No, not her. Anyway. They’re pretty funny.”

“Yeah, it’s funny how open they were about that stuff in the 50s.”

Now, I don’t share a lot of submissives’ 1950s nostalgia; I don’t have a 50s fixation, for all kinds of reasons including primarily my college immersion in feminism.

But that doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate John Wayne and Maureen O’Hara as much as the next girl . . .

I made a mental note to look them–and all the other spanking movies–up. Here’s a list for you.

{Oops.  WordPress deleted my list when I went to save the post.  I’m away for a few days, but I’ll put the list and the links in when I’m back!}

 

Relief

After I wrote my ever-so-totally-hysterical post of yesterday, Robbie and I sat down to talk about stuff between us, especially sex.  It was a good, careful, thoughtful conversation.  I managed to explain that it’s not that I don’t want to fuck him; it’s that I’m having some kind of female-impotence equivalent.  (I’m sure there are more medically acceptable ways to say this, like, “a decrease in desire,” but oh well.) 

After the conversation, we walked down to his barn.  He grabbed a cat litter bucket (which are darn handy around a garden), pulled me into the barn’s dark, dank, dungeon-y basement, and plopped me down on the inverted bucket, which made a makeshift stool.  He unzipped his fly and had me suck him off, giving me instructions about pace and approach, which he’s been doing a lot lately (and which I find both helpful and hot).  He came quickly, a few days’ desire pent up inside him, and instead of swallowing his semen as quickly as I can, which I usually do, I held it in my mouth, liking tasting and feeling the volume of his desire. 

So when he bent down to kiss me after he’d extracted himself from my throat, as he invariably does, I impishly flashed him a mouthful of cum instead of proferring him my lips.  He came within an inch of being snowballed.  “Eeew!” he yelled at the last second, rearing his head back just in time.  We both broke up laughing so hard.  (By the way, he’s not super-squeamish, but I totally surprised him.  Since he is the king of effective practical jokes, I was pleased.)

Then last night, we got dressed up and went to a munch with the folks in our local scene, whom I like more and more.  I don’t like munches that much, though, and was dreading things, but we had a great time, drinking beer on the patio of a summery restaurant, listening to live music, flashing our tits, etc.  (Okay, well, I was the only one flashing my tits, but still.)  It was warm and snuggly and loving and good.

Another good talk today and things are feeling fine.  I’d say and write more, but I have a date to go get fisted, right now.  Happy Saturday night . . .

Fun faux-polaroids from The Polaroid Freak Team.

 

Broken

R. and I have spent the last almost-two-weeks together, and most of it has been wonderful. We have been talking about things we have avoided for years, we have been working out ways to be together long-term, and we have had wonderful, happy days of travel and exploring.

Until about Monday, when everything started to feel wrong. We started fighting again . . . ugh, and I don’t even know about what.  We’re working on not fighting when we talk about serious stuff, but lots of times I think, why is stuff between us such hard work?  If it were right, it wouldn’t be nearly this hard.

As bad as that is the feeling, which has been around for a couple of months, that something in our BDSM is broken. My sex drive is at its lowest ebb in years and I don’t know why. (Yes, I know I need to talk to my doctor.) Meanwhile, because of all kinds of criticisms I’ve launched at Robbie, he’s feeling his confidence as a dominant at a massive low ebb. And on top of that, I can’t figure out what I want out of submission anymore, or even if I want to submit.

I just kind of don’t feel like having sex, for like, a year.

This is really unpleasant.

Sorry for such a downer entry. There are lots more good things going on but we had such a bummer of a non-successful fuck last night, and I just feel like poo. About 20 minutes into foreplay, Robbie said, “It seems like every time I do something, your response is discouraging.” I said, “That’s probably because I don’t really want to have sex.” He said, “That’s really sad and sad-making.”

And then he said, “But of course, you could still fulfill your promise.” (This is a tenant of our D/s. I once promised to give him head whenever he wanted. He promised to do the same to me, but since I don’t like it as much as he does and he’s the Dom, it basically means that he gets blow jobs whenever he wants.)  I was happy to comply, and soon enough he was rock hard and ready to fuck me, which he did, and it was exciting too, because he was saying things like, “I just want to you to feel my cock inside you, I want to fuck you and have you feel how much I want to fuck you.”  (I can’t remember the exact words, but it was kind of a “I’m so hot for you I want to (almost) rape you” sentiment, which was  super hot.)

And then his erection disappeared and he wailed, “This time it’s me!”, and I rubbed his back for a while (which is kind of our aftercare) and he said, after some time, “You know, this is so fucked.” 

I feel sure we can get through the sex stuff with the right attitude and some patience, but fuck if it’s not totally depressing.  Especially because I’m not sure what the right attitude in this case is.

 

Stop This Train

I’m really getting dizzy from how fast things are happening.  

Last Friday, Robbie sent me Roses.  I unintentionally capitalized that–probably because no one has ever given me roses except my best friend, who did it one Valentine’s day because I kept complaining that no one had ever given me flowers.  Even my other boyfriends stuck to carnations and things.  I was blown away.

Friday afternoon, we decided to spend the next few days together.  Robbie rearranged his whole schedule (it was a lot to arrange) so we could have four night and three days of talking, fucking, and touristing.  We had an amazing time.  It was the seventh time he visited me in three and a half years.  He’s managing two trips a year pretty steadily.

Wednesday Robbie left and Thursday (as in, yesterday) I moved.  I’m still stunned by the move.  I don’t even have time to think about it because I have social events out the wazoo in my new home, and unpacking, and things like that.

And then next week Robbie’s coming to see me again.  (So that’s his last visit for the year used up.)

I should write about something kinky.  Oh yeah–he nearly had me suck him off in a museum.

I did blow him in the hotel parking lot, but we’re expert at parking lot blowjobs, so while it was thrilling, it wasn’t new.  

We did about 15 new things, which I hope to have time to describe.  Someday.

Oh, and the local Dom?  I’m still in touch with him, but R. and I decided not to play with other folks for the near term, until we got a few things straightened out.  We usually jump into bed with other people when we think things are going well for us, which immediately causes things to go not well for us, and then we rinse and repeat.  We’re trying to do things a bit more cautiously this time.  

Okay, well, um.  Yeah.  That’s the news.  I gotta go attempt to shower without a shower curtain.  Wish me luck.

 

Rollercoaster

I have written about 2 dozen drafts in my head the last few weeks, and several on paper or pixels.  As soon as I get a few strands of narrative going, the threads of real life take a new turn, my fine twist breaks, and I can’t connect any of the events I’ve been writing about to the present state of my affairs.  It happened again between the time I started this post, a couple days ago, and now, but I already picked out the illustrations for this one, and so this title is staying.

It has been impossible to write about what’s going on between me and Robbie over the last month, because it’s so hard to capture the rapidly-changing present.  One night on our past visit, Robbie and I would have a deep and much-needed, cathartic talk about what was going on with pain in our BDSM relationship, and I’d be mentally taking notes on the realization we’d reached when the talk would tank into sadness and separate sides of the bed.  Another night, I’d be seething for hours at the thought that he was going to leave me wet and frustrated on our last day together, until he came home at midnight from an unavoidable and important errand to make very tender and emotional love to me until the wee hours.  On a school night, even.  I left his house for home deeply in love but deeply pessimistic.

(There is so much to explain, and I have been not saying so much for so so long–here, and to him.  I don’t know where to start, and so if you want to read, bear with me or ask questions about what doesn’t make sense, and if it’s all too confusing or too raw, I apologize.  But I can’t keep all this bottled up and I can’t keep writing about us if I am not more honest and I can’t be dishonest about us anymore.)

Two weeks ago, we tried to figure out when we would get together this summer, and he could not tell me when he had time to see me.  Around that time, I read an article about babies and found myself sobbing.  Ten days ago, I told him that I had stopped being able to see a way for us to make a future together, and that though I loved him, I wanted a husband and a family and I needed to go look for those things before my clock had fully and finally ticked itself out.  (I am close, closer than most.  I am 37-and-a-half.)

Robbie dealt with all that with some equanimity.  I had told him before I even met him that I wanted a family, and we talked more about it the first weekend we met.

But then I actually met someone I wanted to date–a local Dom who asked me to play–and the emotional shit hit the fan.  Or perhaps that’s not fair to Robbie–I think he would have felt the emotional impact anyway.  But that event made it particularly strong.  And somehow in the middle of this we started talking.  A lot.

We’ve been talking every day for an hour or two and spilling our guts.  Many of the times we talked over the past two years–many of which, in fact, were over email–seem like pale echoes of actual meaningful conversations, now that we are having the latter.  We’ve stopped the incessant fighting.  We are crying and telling each other we love the other and talking about really bad and painful stuff–and good stuff too–and we are so, so vulnerable.  And I did not expect any of this.

I wasn’t (consciously) breaking up with Robbie or dating other people in order to “get him back”; I expected Robbie to let me go without much difficulty because I thought he had already let me go.  And he believed, it turned out, that I had been going for some time, perhaps believed that I didn’t really want to try.

I don’t really know what else to say.  I just am still here and still in love with Robbie.  And I am reeling in good and bad ways from having spent a day playing with someone else.  And all of a sudden it seems that Robbie was right that life is not a dress rehearsal and that he and I are really very necessary to each other and we best stop making a hash of things because we just can’t afford that.  And also, because we don’t have to.

And maybe I can write some of the other two-dozen posts if I let out this rollercoasterish one, and if it all doesn’t have to make sense.  Because it’s not all adding up now but it’s closer to that than it has been in a long, long time, and mostly I don’t feel miserable when I think of Robbie anymore, I just feel full of love and happiness and that is pretty darn nice.

Cool drawings, including a few dominatrixes, by Swedish illustrator Klas Fahlen.  Check out his cute animation, from which I stole the tiny ones (click to make them grow).  Also: more Swedes where he came from, on the same site.

 

Hurt

Lately, I’ve been wondering why it is that sadists very often say about their masochistic partners, “And then I decided to hurt him a little” or “I really wanted to hurt her then”.

I rarely notice masochists saying, “And then she decided to hurt me for a while,” or “I could tell he really wanted to hurt me.”

It might just be me, but I notice doms (sadists okay whatever yeah I know S&M and D/s are not the same thing can we move on please cool mkay) saying this hurt thing a lot.

And I rarely notice it in reverse.  I hear subs talking about the specific ways they like to be hurt–specific types of pain or specific implements.

Does anyone have any idea why this might be?  This is a genuine question.  I am pretty sure there’s a linguistic difference but I’m not sure why.

Maybe because in English it’s quite natural to say, “I feel pain” but not “I inflict pain”?

Maybe because “I hurt” in the passive sense has an emotional connotation that people tend to stay away from?  Or it just seems to suggest bad pain?

Could it be that the infliction of pain is really different for the top, who isn’t, of course, feeling it–it’s all just pain?  Whereas the bottom feels the nuances?

My sadistic streak is my weakest link . . . it’s hard for me to bring myself to hurt someone, even when I know the person is getting a great deal of pleasure out of it.  And so I  struggle to understand sadism; I can’t wrap my mind around it very well, which gets in the way of things between me and Robbie.  With everything else, I can see things fairly well through his eyes, but when it comes to hurting, I start to feel very lost.

And that’s a shame, because I not only like when he hurts me; I need him to hurt me.

Edit 1: I realize I have only noticed women dominants talking about hurting their boyfriends, not male dominants talking about hurting their girlfriends.  I have no idea why this is.  Maybe my sample is skewed.

Edit 2: In my further search for evidence I just found this post by Dev, telling about a time Jos asked her to hurt him.

Okay so let me rephrase the question: am I the only one who thinks this is the way people talk?  How do you talk about pain, if you want it?  How do you talk about hurting, if you want to do it?

Tell me everything!

Graphic pics at tears.of.eros.

 

Where in the World Is Sera?

I’m here.  But not really.  Because in two weeks, my cats and I are moving again, back to my home town.  I’m moving into my mother’s basement apartment.  I decided it made more sense for me to live with her, rent-free, and job hunt at the worst time in probably the last 3 decades than to have her subsidize me to the tune of $Obscene/month in order to stay where I am and work at my wonderful but part-time and pathetically paying job.  (Did that sentence make any sense?)

So this is just to say that I’m here, but not totally.  A little distracted.  More soon, thinking of you, wish you were here, and so forth.

Illustration by Kenny Harris (a.k.a. Sicksheep) via Illustrophile.