March 2008


Talk about conditioning.

I was walking out of my office Friday when I passed a group of people working on some kind of performance-art-dance-theatre-thingy.

Before I could even really figure out what they were doing, I felt a lurch in my stomach and a twitch in my cunt. I felt a surge of “ooh that’s kinky”! I felt . . . naughty.

I looked more closely. They were doing some sort of hop-scotch thing over poles, like double-Dutch, but different. It turns out (thank the Google) that what I saw was Tinikling, a Filippino dance performed by stepping over and between bamboo poles that hit the ground with percussive force.

What apparently got me all juicy were the bamboo poles. They look a lot like rattan . . .

Carved Rattan

. . . so for a second I thought I must be reminded of our rattan cane. But then I realized that shibari often uses bamboo poles.

Shibari

Yum.

Photograph by Ludovico Goubet, whose portfolio is here.

I got a new MP3 player yesterday. This particular MP3 player comes in all sorts of luscious colors–red, lime green, pink, royal blue–nice, clear colors, not tacky.

I opened the box, expecting a fire-engine-red gadget, and saw a shiny, jet-black model.

WTF? By now there are enough black electronics at the bottom of my purse to make fishing the right thing out a major challenge. And, you know, it’s just not . . . fun.

But then I remembered. EVERYTHING IS BLACK. He has decreed that all our sex toys and all our equipment is to be black if at all possible.

New Toy

(From JT’s Stockroom, of course.)

We have black cuffs. Black dongs–many. (It helps that at EdenFantasy, you can search for dildos by color.) Black butt plugs, black gags, and of course, black crops and hitty-things. If it isn’t black already, he literally paints it black. Sometimes I worry about what’s in the paint.

I have a black waist-cincher and black gloves, and two pairs of black boots (as does he–or perhaps he has three). We wear black when we go out; truth be told we look like New Yorkers rather than kinksters, but it works.

So I suppose I instinctively chose black when I ordered my newest toy. Perhaps I should buy a toy for him, too?

There is one toy he wants in fire-engine red instead of black, I know.

Red Posture Collar

Red medical-style patent leather corset lace-up posture collar from restrictionwear.  Mmm . . .


Despite the fact that he and I are still each sifting, picking up pieces of ourselves and putting them back together, I have decided that if (?) I am going to be writing about him regularly, I should give him a pseudonym. “My Dom,” “my lover” and “my boyfriend” are all inadequate; I don’t call him “Master”; and until he tells me what he wants be called, it seems easier to name him than to rely on pronouns.

Speaking of pronouns, I would like to interrupt myself to add that I hate the D/s naming conventions. It is silly to write things like “Hi A/all! W/we hope Y/you are coming to O/our party tonight–remember, it is B Y/y O/o B!! :D”

But the thing is . . . I have started to think of my lover as Him. And in a different way than my other obsessions, crushes, or boyfriends have been “him”. I am not changing his capitalization–that would require too much effort. But he can at least have a name.

* * *

I am not at all sure he will like it–he doesn’t like diminutives. (What Dom does?!) He likes full, proper names. Robert is one of my favorite names for many reasons, so that’s partly why Robbie is good, despite the nickname. There are so many good Roberts: Kennedy, De Niro, Browning, Redford. According to Wikipedia I should include Robert Downey Jr., whose name has always seemed to me a single word, and Bob Dylan, who, indeed, also seems to me to have a single word (dylan) for a name.

Geez, the more I write, the more I like the name Robert.

It’s a family name in my family, which I don’t think gives much about my identity away; according to the Social Security Administration, Robert was the 17th most popular name in the United States in 1992. (I picked this statistic because it was the easiest one to find, by the way. I hate statistics. The other day I was driving along and I heard a comedian say, “The number of women whose boyfriends hate peanut butter, according to a statistic I made up for the purpose of this joke . . .” Fexactly.)

And it’s Robbie Robbertson’s name, kind of.

For anyone who doesn’t know, Robbie Robertson was in The Band. (“The Weight, “The Night They Drove Old Dixie Down,” “Up on Cripple Creeck” . . . y’know?)

Here is Robbie in 1976 at the Band’s final concert, which Martin Scorsese made into the move The Last Waltz.

RobbieLastWaltzPinkScarf

My lover does not look this girlish, although I admit I have never seen a picture of him from the 70s and I have certainly never seen a picture of him in a blue velvet almost-but-not-quite-smoking-jacket and pink silky scarf.

On the other hand, my lover very definitely does like Joni Mitchell and Neil young, who were also at the Last Waltz:

Joni and Neil

But when it comes to liking Joni and Neil–who doesn’t?

So that doesn’t make my lover all that connected to Robbie.

There are one or two other things that conceivably do. But mostly, lately, what I have been thinking of is Robertson’s song “Broken Arrow”, off his first solo CD, entitled Robbie Robertson. (Hey, it’s the easiest way to solve the naming thing, yeah?)

I know that song was ruined, ruined I tell you, by Rod Stewart. (Okay, actually, I secretly liked Rod Stewart’s version well enough, and the over-the-top gooshy romantic late-80s-early-90s video that went with it.)

But I love the song itself, melody and lyrics like a gust of wind:

Who else is gonna bring you a broken arrow
Who else is gonna bring you a bottle of rain
There he goes, moving across the water
There he goes turning my whole world around

Do you feel what I feel
Can we make it so that’s part of the deal
I gotta hold you in these arms of steel
Lay your heart on the line . . . this time

I wanna breathe when you breathe
When you whisper like that hot summer breeze
Count the beads of sweat that cover me
Didn’t you show me a sign, this time

Who else is gonna bring you a broken arrow
Who else is gonna bring you a bottle of rain
There he goes, moving across the water
There he goes turning my whole world around, around

Do you feel what I feel
Do you feel what I feel
Ah can you see what I see
Can you cut behind the mystery
I will meet you by the witness tree
Leave the whole world behind

I want to come when you call
I’ll get to you if I have to crawl
They can’t hold me with these iron walls
We got mountains to climb

Who else is gonna bring you a broken arrow
Who else is gonna bring you a bottle of rain
There he goes, moving across the water
There he goes turning my whole world around
Turning my whole world around
Turning my whole world around
Turning my whole world around

There’s something mysterious about the song. In some ways, it seems like it should be a duet–it would make more sense as a love song if a woman sang the second two lines of the refrain, at least (and perhaps a couple of the stanzas.  I particularly think the stanzas about the beads of sweat, coming, and crawling would suit me just fine.)

Sexual innuendo aside, I like the song because of its mysticism. There is in the summit of the heart and in the most intense of experiences something that connects us, some passion and some bond. It’s there, and lots of us feel it, but it’s so hard to get our hands on, so hard to connect about it, so hard to talk about. “Do you feel what I feel?” “Do you see what I see?” I look at my lover much of the time, and the longer we know each other, the more I see what he sees, because I have gotten used to seeing the world through his eyes. I feel what he feels, because I feel for him.

* * *

When we were talking about found things this week, we were also talking about arrowheads . . . my lover said he’d never found one. He is the kind of man who would give me the first arrowhead he’d ever found.

He wouldn’t just do it for me, he’d do it for anyone he really loves. That’s part of the deal for him. He is not perfect–nobody is–but those he loves he love completely, with all of who he is. That’s a lot to offer another person.

I was at the supermarket today. For less than the price of a cup of coffee I picked up a hundred bamboo skewers.

I have no idea what to do with them (suggestions welcome), especially on my ownsome, but I think they are way cool. Especially the price.

Bamboo Skewers

I made myself walk past the ginger–always a challenge. We have been talking figging for months now, and I once threatened to self-fig, only to have him give me the sort of look you would give a 4-year-old who had deliberately thrown ice cream on the floor for the third time in a row.

Ginger

So I didn’t even go over to finger a finger. I walked on by. Proudly.

I did stop at the sausage case though, and I ended up buying a ridiculous amount of sausage from an overly jovial, possibly camp, butcher. He looked a bit like my boyfriend, if my boyfriend were to feast on several pounds of fatty meat each meal. After I bought chicken sausage (for dinner tonight) and pork sausage (for ragu sauce to freeze), a woman came over and started raving about the special St. Patrick’s day sausage, which was sitting in a huge, 10-yard long pile in the butcher’s case. “I made it,” said the smiley guy. “I made it with BEER. It has beer in it.”

“Not too much,” the woman added. “You can taste it but you don’t feel like you have beer breath.”

At this point I was starving so I asked for a couple of links of the beer sausage. I didn’t realize you actually twist off the sausage links from a long tube of sausage. It was so . . . overtly . . . obscene.

Sausages

“Thanks,” I giggled. “I think I’ve got my sausage for the day!” And I walked off feeling like a total idiot.

But I have beer sausages. Mmmm. Beer.

Sausage picture from Patty Carroll’s strange “Anonymous Women” series.

Sometimes when I am roaming around the wide, wide world through my brand spankin‘ new, shiny computer screen, I am arrested by an imagination that I recognize.

Not mine. My lover’s.

David Chan Dark Erotic Arch

I literally shiver when I see images of things I know he adores. I have had to do a reality check, once or twice, to remind myself that I really don’t think he has a blog about his previous sexual submissives. I don’t think.

David Chan Dark Erotic Gag

If there are doubles of my lover out there, David Chan might be one . . . His photography is as gritty and dark as some of my Dom’s fantasies. And in these photographs I can imagine what my lover sees when he describes me chained, bound, gagged, drooling, in pain, fucked or being fucked by another woman or man. I can see the beauty in that, even if I fear it at times when he’s whispering his demonic dreams in my ear.

Dark Erotic Art by David Chan


How wonderously frightening, awe-ful and beauty-ful, to start to understand another person in that way. We can’t figure everything out or make sense of everything with our minds, as he constantly reminds me . . . but the mind will yammer away at things, and press us for answers.

I am not aroused by inflicting pain on people, but I can glimpse what he gets out of it, and that helps, enormously.

Dark Erotic Art by David Chan, found through Jane’s Guide.

I was in the middle of doing something totally different when I saw this.

Bug Torture


Large masses of bugs would have to be up there among my major phobias, along with drowning . . .

And yet there is something strangely arousing about this picture.

Goddamn BDSM.

Thanks to the ever-twisted Bondage Blog for the art (click the link for a couple of creepy bug closeups).

My best friend has a date tonight.

She has butterflies.

Fly

I hope she has a wonderful time. Here’s a wish for her . . .

    “Fly”, from the beautiful work of Erika Harrsch, via Sex in Art

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