November 2008

I have been percolating a bunch of my usual serious, navel-gazing posts. But I am a bit too busy to get them down on pixels, because I’m getting ready for a rare visit from Robbie. He’s coming tomorrow. He’s staying five days and five delicious nights. And we have all kinds of very perverted activities planned, some of them with some new friends.

So that is cause to be happy and thankful indeed, and Robbie in particular is over the moon. In part because he has decided to be optimistic about us, and in part because he loves it when we play with other people. He likey that.

He is showering me with email and attention, which is the best kind of positive feedback a girl could want. And I just woke up to a hilarious cartoon of a fifties kinda guy staring at a bound woman’s ass. He had captioned it “Come on, Tuesday!” I couldn’t help but laugh and I thought I would share some of his infectious enthusiasm, as well as a peek at a nice ass.


I think we’re a little excited.

From Kelly Hsiao’s cute collection of pin-ups.

Kasia at Beautiful and Depraved has been writing some wonderful posts about beauty–how it’s found in odd places, how it can be earned.

A month or two ago, she wrote about a time her then-lover ordered her to cut her long hair. From reading her account, it seemed to me she found the experience terrifying but liberating. She felt ugly for weeks after she had cut her tresses, and then she found she was beautiful in ways that she hadn’t ever noticed before–especially that she was beautiful to women.

The same thing happened to me, but in reverse. When Robbie and I first met, I had a jaw length, jaunty haircut. It made me look cute, and young, and sometimes sexy, and my eyes sparkled through it.


One of the very first things Robbie asked was that I not cut my hair. I went for something like 18 months without letting scissors touch it. My mother despaired. She had always loved my short hair, and she always thought that long hair hung in my face and hid my eyes. After the first few months of nagging me about it, though, she started to get the picture. “I know,” she’d say, after gazing at my hair for a long moment. “Robbie likes it like that.” Now she doesn’t say anything, which is better. I’ve cut my hair two or three times in the thirty-three months Robbie and I have known each other.

While Kasia had always had long hair, I had always had short hair. From 5 to 15, I had the same Dorothy Hamill haircut. I was so skinny, with such straight, short hair, that people often called me a boy when I was a kid. Having long, feminine hair seemed to me silly, extravagant, excessive, wasteful, even. I had grown it out just twice–my sophomore year of college, and my very last year of grad school. Both were times I was working with tremendous diligence. It wasn’t that I didn’t have time to take care of my hair. It was that I didn’t have time to take care of the rest of me. I felt fat and full of junk food and miserable, and long hair was an easy way to hide it. I never associated long hair with beauty.

But this time around, being told to grow my hair, things were different. The first year of having long hair was a revelation. People–men–reacted to me completely differently. With a smile and a shake of my locks, I could get anything, it seemed. My hair is beautiful–it’s long and shiny and naturally curly. The mother of one of my childhood friends always said it was my “best feature,” which I found a particularly backhanded compliment. I’m not as sure it’s as simple as short hair attracting pussy and long hair attracting cock, but it wouldn’t be far off from my experience.

My hair is still growing, though, and the last time we discussed the subject–over the summer–Robbie said that he would almost always have me have long hair. “For one thing, it gives me something to hang onto when I drag you around or have you blow me,” he said, a half-snarl, half-smile on his lips. “For another, I have always preferred women with long hair. And third, I particularly like the way you look with long hair. I think it’s very flattering for you.” He must have snarled that way about a dozen more times during the conversation, telling me what he’d have me do to my hair, and when.

Like many things about D/s, the rules about my hair can produce mixed feelings depending on how I’m doing, overall. When I feel happy and joyous, I delight in my hair, taking care of it, putting it up or swinging it around. When my mood is low, it shows in my pelt, I think. My hair is tangled and dry. At my lowest, when I am angry at Robbie and myself, I imagine hacking it off, at home, one of the more drastic acts of rebellious and self-destructive acts I can conjure.

But I haven’t and won’t. Whatever my hair is now is what I am, and I have earned it.


Photographs by David Bergman.

I hate it when bloggers post the silly searches that lead people to the bloggers’ blogs.

Yet I am posting this one. Enjoy, all ye who seek nudes womens in harems.


More Orientalist Art, this time Vincenzo Marinelli’s “The Dance of the Bee in the Harem”.

Lately I have felt like writing, but not like posting. Partly it’s increasingly tough to find the time to find pictures. 😉 And partly it’s that I have a lot to say but I’d like to say it, mostly, to me. And to Robbie.

So I’ve been writing things down and talking to him. And sometimes I write them down, let them sit, and then think, well, it’s okay to post this now, it’s not too raw–we are cool and it is cool, and it would be good to have this record of where we have been. Someday we may want it.

This is from a few weeks ago.

* * *

One of the hazards of writing about your love life is that your lover reads it and doesn’t know what the fuck you’re talking about. I don’t say my problem is new, and I’m not complaining. I’m the one who insists on scribbling away here.


But last night, in the midst of one of our incredibly rare disagreements, Robbie mentioned that one of the differences between us, as he understood it, was that I wanted always to believe everything was going to work out, that our relationship would last. And that I wanted him to act like that was true, even if things were far from good. After all, hadn’t I said it?

(For those too lazy (read: wise) to click, I quote myself:)

I want him to tell me he loves me, and I want him to tell me it’s all going to be alright. I want him to repeat these, as often as necessary, even when he’s not sure they’re true.)

When I heard him draw this distinction between us, I huffed the huff of the unjustifiably outraged. I was feeling mizundastood.

What I meant when I wrote that was not that I wanted false assurances about our relationship–God forbid. I don’t want him to lie to me about how he’s feeling, what’s going on with him. That would be a sham of a relationship.

I want him to tell me what’s not even really a lie . . . I want him to tell me “everything’s going to be alright”–in the Bob Marley sense, in the Christian “have faith” sense, in the Julian of Norwich “all shall be well, all shall be well, and all manner of things shall be well” sense, in the Zen “nothing really matters” sense–or is that the Madonna “nothing really matters” sense?

I worry. He is one of my worries, but mostly, I just worry. And the best way to have my worry go away, I find, is to have someone I love say “it’s going to be okay, you’ll find a way.” Not even “we’ll find a way”, though that can be very good–but “it will turn out okay, you’re still here, it’s fine.”

And as for that incredibly rare fight? We worked it out. Everything’s gonna be alright.

Image from Madonna’s video for “Nothing Really Matters”

I have been unbelievably exhausted lately, for all kinds of reasons, including a bout of sporadic insomnia. Tired as could be, I still drove the 8-hours-each-way to see Robbie this weekend. It was worth it, as always. We had one of the best weekends imaginable–as he said, it felt like the first year we were together.

Home again the last couple of nights, I’ve felt the wave of sadness and stress that usually follows separating from him. (The fight I often precipitate right before leaving his house has been on my mind, too–how do you spell “s3lf-defeet1ng?”)

Last night, tossing and turning in bed, fussing about all our “relationship” stuff and trying to breathe deeply, it occurred to me that maybe I needed a different approach. I was also distracted from my concerns, I admit, by a parade of profoundly perverse sexual fantasies. I thought it might be a good idea to encourage them. So I did something I haven’t done in ages–I had a good old-fashioned wank. (Why I haven’t done this in ages is a whole ‘nother story, and I’d have to write posts and posts to even figure out the answer.)

I ended up squirting (a new trick!) all over the bed, and I was quite pleased with my little solution. I was even more thrilled, in a juvenile way, when I rolled over and saw that the wet spot was shaped precisely like a gigantic cock and balls. I was so thrilled I even took pictures of the sodden zone (did I mention it was huuuuge?). I’ll post ’em if I get enough nerve.

Oh yeah, and I slept insanely soundly and woke refreshed. I’m thinking I’m onto something here, something really revolutionary. Stay tuned for my discoveries.

It’s been a long time coming, but tonight, because of what we did on this day, in this election, at this defining moment, change has come to America.

~ Our new president

Things have been quiet here because there has been lots going on with me and Robbie in real life. We are doing that communication thing; what’s more, we’re doing it really well. This is thrilling but also a little surreal; we’re doing it so consciously that it’s as if we’ve moved to another level of relating. Here’s something I read the other day over at Sex Geek that puts it better than I could.

[T]he degree of deliberate, explicit and concerted effort that I put into my D/s relationships is way beyond anything else I’ve ever experienced in a non-D/s context. It’s actually an enormous amount of work. The payoff happens to be spectacular and it is to my taste—I wouldn’t be willing to invest this amount of myself if it weren’t, and I can totally see how if the payoff wasn’t your thing, this type of relationship would hold no real allure.

(Go read the whole post; I think it’s worth it, and so does Joscelin Verreuil, who is the one I heard about it from. Thanks Jos!)

At any rate, Robbie and I are talking to each other in deep detail about our fantasies of late. The desires are not new–what has changed is the willingness to listen, to believe, to refrain from judging, and to help the other person live out dreams.

And the result is the deepening of intimacy already far more intense than any I have ever felt.

(He likes to pull my lips, and stick his fingers in my mouth, and explore it, as if he owned all of me. Which he does. And that is how I sense and comprehend his ownership of me.)