February 2009


My emotions are brats.  I want, want, want.  The other day I thought about the fact that, although I am not an only child, my sister is far younger than I.  I was an “only” for almost seven years.  And I am as stubborn and selfish sometimes as any only–with the arrogance of an older sister, to boot.

Tonight I called Robbie and told him I don’t WANT things to be like this.  He laughed.  I kept asking him to tell me why he was laughing, but he wouldn’t.  I knew anyway.  He always laughs at me after he’s broken up with me and I call and ask him if we can see each other again, be together again.  Partly he’s laughing at me, partly at himself, partly at the absurdity of our relationship, and partly, he’s laughing from nerves.  At least, that’s my conclusion.

We might see each other this weekend.  We are idiots.  Once, years ago, when I got back together with a boyfriend who had dumped me in a particularly inconsiderate way, he reported to me the words of a female friend of his on hearing the news of our re-coupling: “That’s idiotic.  You’re an idiot, she’s an idiot, it’ll never work.”

My friends these days similarly think that both R. and I are idiots.  I’ve given up trying to convince anyone of anything different.  I figure that it’s not my problem if they find us annoying.  They’ll eventually stop asking me about my love life, if it’s irksome to them.

On the other hand, single men will probably always ask me about my love life–not because I’m so luscious, because that is what single men do.  The other day I changed my relationship status on FetLife.  (Oh!  The drama!)  I didn’t do it entirely because of the breakup; long before the breakup, R. had been suggesting I remove the “in a relationship” tag because, he said, that was our business–and because I’d probably get more interest from folks if I didn’t advertise my unavailability.

Sure enough, he was right.  Within an hour after I became newly, Fetishistically single, I got a message that read something like this:

DirtyOldMan: Do you enjoy bare-bottomed over-the-knee spankings?  Shall we chat about our interests?

Me: No, thank you.

DirtyOldMan: You don’t enjoy bare-bottomed over-the-knee-spankings?  Or we shan’t chat about our interests?

His message served precisely one purpose.  It reminded me of the single OTK, bare-assed spanking I’d gotten from R.  Setting to one side the nagging worries I had to contend with about crushing my boyfriend’s lap, that spanking was heavenly.  I pouted after getting DirtyOldMan’s message, feeling once more like I don’t want to do kink with anyone but R.  I want to be HIS schoolgirl.

Perhaps I’ll get the chance this weekend to be, fully, the willful, petulant, stubborn little creature that I feel kicking at the floors inside my heart.  Perhaps I’ll even get corrected for it.  A girl can dream, can’t she?

Dancing schoolgirls by John Ryan Solis.

Sorry about disabling the comments.  I just need the quiet right now.  Thanks.


I am having trouble figuring out who I am without him, I thought to myself, and then thought how trite that sounded.  Isn’t that what every new, brittle divorcee thinks?  And we weren’t even married, despite my best efforts.

One of the more difficult things about breaking up is that R. and I embarked on “our journey”, as BDSMers insist on calling the unfolding of their kinky tastes, together.  And without him, I’m not sure what I want.  I feel like one hand, sort of dull-ly lying on the table, recalling concerts at which it clapped.

I felt this way before, last summer, when we broke up and were apart(ish) for three or four weeks.  A few weeks of silence and the air began to quiet and still.  I could hear my own voice again–not the voice that argues with him in my mind, constantly, but just my own voice talking to itself.

Confusingly, it wanted the same things it had wanted when I was with him.  A home in the country.  Plants, and pets.  Living things; green things.  A life more in tune with the life around it, responding to the rhythms of the days.  More time for reading, writing; more peaceful times; more long walks and more time for things I used to love, like listening to rain and cooking.

Then we were back together and the arguments started again.  As he told me today, “The thoughts about us–about what we should do–just fill my forebrain all the time, and I don’t want to be thinking about relationship.  I want to just be living.”  I know exactly what he means.  We analyze us so much it gets exhausting, and there is no chance to do the things we both want to do.

Anyway, that doesn’t speak to my identity crisis.  What’s confusing me now is that HE has been confused for months about what I “really” want in terms of D/s.  And I can’t tell why he’s confused.  I think I know what I want and I think I am clear about it.  He finds himself on “shifting sands” (his phrase) and at times arguing with me about my desire to switch.

Nevermind what he thinks.  After three years of kink, I don’t know what I want either.  I don’t know if I want to play with new people, or find a new lover, or wait for a new partner, or top or bottom, or if I never want anyone to touch me again.  Men or women?  I’m not sure.  I don’t know if I want pain, or humiliation, or bondage, or control, or none of those things.  I can’t tell if I want more intensity than we had or less.

I guess I’ll just have to find out the hard way.  Which actually doesn’t sound all that bad . . . not all bad.


Images here, by nikola tamindzic.  Every one a fantasy.

And with that, we were done.

It had been years in the making; almost three, to be closer to exact.

Three days of near-silence after Valentine’s weekend.  No panic, I thought.  He’s always quiet and depressed after a weekend together, while you’re energized.  He needs his space.  Try to give it to him.

This morning I had a dream: he had left me.  I was alone, in his town, trying to find a doctor, a taxi, a telephone, a place to sleep for the night, and I could not reach him.  He would not help.  My family, my mother’s large, extended family, loving and funny and bittersweet and enduring, stepped in, did the necessary.  And when he arrived at last and walked with me for awhile, they made room for us, and when he left again so soon after he’d come, they surrounded me with love.  It was a very real, very vivid dream.

Around noon I got an email from him: “Perhaps we could have a meaningful conversation early this evening?”

The conversation was short.  He said to me what I’d said to him two weeks before–that we wanted different things, that we were wasting each other’s time.  Except when I say it to him, he listens, and is compassionate, and saves us, again and again.  And when he says it to me I am so desperately hurt I just say, “Fine, go, forget it”–or I start to pick at him, and to argue.  So I asked, tonight, “Do you want me to try to change your mind?” and he said, “I don’t know, I want you to say whatever you want to say.”  I suppose I should have asked for permission to try to change his mind.

At some point–and that point would be now, or else I wouldn’t be blogging about it–I think we have to say goodbye.  We have given each other so much joy and we have made each other so, so, so very unhappy.

Once, when he was down, I played a Leonard Cohen song for him.  It didn’t occur to me what a bad idea it was to play that kind of song for him until I saw the tears rolling heavily down his cheeks.  I like melancholy; it might be one of the biggest differences between us.  And I loved the sad and beautiful strains of the song I played for him.  But he–he was listening to the lyrics, and the lyrics were about a woman leaving.  Say goodbye, they said, and I could see on his face all the times loves of his had said farewell, and I could see, in his tears, the anticipation of when I might do the same.

I guess we are there.

Alexandra Leaving

based on the poem The God Abandons Antony, by Constantine P. Cafavy

Suddenly the night has grown colder.
Some deity preparing to depart.
Alexandra hoisted on his shoulder,
they slip between the sentries of your heart.

Upheld by the simplicities of pleasure,
they gain the light, they formlessly entwine;
and radiant beyond your widest measure
they fall among the voices and the wine.

lt’s not a trick, your senses all deceiving,
a fitful dream the morning will exhaust—
Say goodbye to Alexandra leaving,
Then say goodbye to Alexandra lost.

Even though she sleeps upon your satin.
Even though she wakes you with a kiss.
Do not say the moment was imagined,
Do not stoop to strategies like this.

As someone long prepared for this to happen,
Go firmly to the window. Drink it in.
Exquisite music, Alexandra laughing.
Your first commitments tangible again.

You who had the honor of her evening,
And by that honor had your own restored—
Say goodbye to Alexandra leaving.
Alexandra leaving with her lord.

As someone long prepared for the occasion;
In full command of every plan you wrecked—
Do not choose a coward’s explanation
that hides behind the cause and the effect,

You who were bewildered by a meaning,
whose code was broken, crucifix uncrossed—
Say goodbye to Alexandra leaving.
Then say goodbye to Alexandra lost.

Hydra, Greece
September 1999


I have no idea why, frequently, I think about posting pink elephants on this site.  I realize that pink elephants are associated with hallucinations.  Still, to me, they mean Big Love.

So, as a (belated) Valentine’s Day wish, I am sending pink elephants to the world. 

I also want to send some real elephants, because they are beautiful, because they are intelligent, because they are gentle, and because they bond, deeply, in pairs. 

And because, as Em and Lo point out, even elephants sometimes “love in a, you know, different way”. 

Pink elephants, and other dreamy illustrations, by Andrea Offermann.

It was nobody’s fault but mine.  I invited it.  Heck, I practically invented it.

Last night I got beat by the wire hanger.  And boy, oh boy, was it good.  It’s at moments like these when I am nearly forced to admit that I am a masochist.

It’s certainly masochistic to give your Sadist more ideas about how to hurt you.  I find it almost impossible to resist the urge to draw his attention to cruel things that kinky people do to one another.  I guess it’s a bizarre mixture of curiosity, transgression, and a malfunctioning instinct for self-protection that prompts me to introduce him to new and different tortures.

(He has his own reason for introducing them to me.)

A few months ago I read an article about a fellow, the Well-Spanked Man, who had recently experienced a figging combined with a wire-hanging thrashing

I emailed the blog piece and the accompanying video to Robbie, who is always interested in figging.  Soon after, Robbie bent a wire hanger into a threatening shape and put it on his bureau.  I exclaimed over it the first time I saw it, and he used it on my hand.  Fucking ow.

Soon after that, I got my first figging.  I would like to be able to write, “My figging,” to indicate that this little experiment will not happen again, but I don’t feel fully confident that Robbie is done with ginger.  Figging?  Hurts like just nothing under the universe.  Of course, the piece of ginger my boyfriend decided to shove up my ass was about three times the length and 1.5 times the girth of the piece that the Well-Spanked-Man’s wife and Mistress carved for him.  See below?  Three times bigger.


I suppose I should be grateful that R. was only able to insert it halfway up my bum before my screams deterred him.

In happier news, last night he decided to take the hanger to my ass.  I have no idea what prompted this.  I do know that after two fairly light strokes I was rolling as fast as I could away from him and covering my ass with my hands.  The hanger produced an absolutely nasty, vicious sting, and I hate sting.

After the sour sensation of the sting, though, came a tremendously hot, red fiery sensation that lasted longer than any flogging I’ve received.  It was wonderful.  I broke out in my first real welts, two luscious, round-tipped red lines.  And they stayed around for a couple of hours at least.  (My ass’s resistance to patterns is one of the greatest regrets of my current BDSM experience.)

After discussing (and praising) my welts, he promised to suspend me from the ceiling and beat me with the hanger until I was totally shaking and glowing radioactively, at least on my ass.

I’m hoping this promise was for dramatic effect in the moment.  A sort of wish, inspired, chromatically at least, by Valentine’s Day.

I’m kind of counting on it.  Please send silk hangers.  Thank you.


Pee fucking ess: there are links in this post which are not showing, and I’m not fucking around trying to fix them.  I’m going to go attempt to get beaten and laid again.  Happy Valentine’s Day!


I’m going to Robbie’s for Valentine’s Day weekend, which he has been planning with care.  We’ve had lots of good talks lately, including ones about what to do together to make our time special and fun.  (We have both officially agreed that debating the ins and outs of our relationship is not fun.)

We talked about going out for dinner, which we almost never do unless we are with friends, family, or fellow perverts.  (And since most of our friends are fellow perverts . . . )  I suppose I should have lept at the chance to have some romantic quality time with my man, out and about on Valentine’s Day.  But Robbie has high standards for food–he prefers fine dining, and prefers it to be almost-free–and so it can be a challenge to find a place with ambience and value.  While I was waiting for him to finish sussing out the local options, it occurred to me that I really don’t like fine dining.  That is, I adore good food and I like being waited on.  But really, when I go out, I mostly want the chance to see and be seen, to feel like I’m sensing the pulse of a city, drawing near to the sexuality and daring that surge up in groups of people and flow through busy evenings.

I want to be out on the town.  I want to be my exhibitionist self and I want to flaunt what we have.

And since, after all, we can do that at a bar just as well as a restaurant, and since we are quite, quite poor, and saving our money in the ever-more-realistic hope that someday not that far away we will be together, we are going to a pub for Valentine’s Day.

Robbie said he very much thinks I need to get out in public, and I agree.


From Darker Sights and Sounds.

I have been absent, and I am exhaustedly back.

I just moved, yesterday, from a place I had lived since 2001.  I kept track of when I moved into that apartment by recalling Sept. 11  It didn’t happen on moving day, but it happened not long after, and the happiness I lived in my cozy one-bedroom always seemed a strange juxtaposition to–or perhaps a wilful retreat from–the lack of sense in the world around me after we became a nation at war.

I’m not going to try to make much sense this morning.  I don’t have much time to, and I’m simply too tired.  I spent all weekend packing, carrying, and taping, and I ache all over.   Work is busier (though more fulfilling) than it has been in years, and I just moved from an apartment where I lived on my own for the better part of a decade to a enormous historic house in the suburbs filled with life.  I’ve moved in with friends (hi Greenwoman!  Yep, me too!) because these are hard times and because I have had enough of trying to be a tub on my own bottom.  (Besides, at this point I have come to enjoy the idea of sharing my bottom, too.)

I am now living amongst a rather improbable collection of adults, children, animals, and vehicles of transport–one car per adult, plus baby carriers, cat carriers, strollers, doll strollers, sleds, toy carts, toy trains, toy trucks, and several (miniature) Star Wars gunships.  Meanwhile, Robbie is buried in snow and financial paperwork, a cloud of white entirely tiring on its own.  We call each other at 1opm and murmur quietly, partly to keep from waking babies at my new abode, and partly because we are too tired to do much more than murmur.

My libido has attempted to make an appearance since New Year’s, but really, it barely even gets an A for effort.  I don’t blame it; there is far too much going on. We still haven’t entirely given up the dream of a home of our own, though; picture-perfect and ideal, but with a pervert-black picket fence instead of the white one.  That’s our kind of domestic felicity.


Black picket fence by Alice Mayer.