June 2009


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.


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.



This visit, as an experiment, Robbie and I agreed that I would get to do a lot of the cooking.  I have been begging to do this for months, because I love to cook and because cooking for someone is an obvious way to provide service.  (Why did I say I wasn’t a service submissive?  I forget.)

Usually, having me cook is inconvenient, because Robbie lives with folks not all of whom would appreciate my cooking.  But this visit we have had his place to our ownsome, and I have gotten to whip up quite a few things that pleased him.

Last night, as we sat down to a salad that I’d made and some sausages he’d grilled to perfection, I began to brag about what excellent food we’d put on the table, between us, the last week or so.  (Apparently, one of my frequent conversational themes is, “Look at what a great team we make.”)  And I poked fun at myself for ever having believed, as I did at one point, that our respective eating habits and preferences were such that we’d be unable to have a happy relationship.  (I’m nothing if not hyper-dramatic.)

Robbie looked at me a little confused.  He didn’t remember what I was talking about.  “Don’t you remember,” I said, between bites of sausage and mouthfuls of beer, “that fight we had, about two years ago, when I wanted to talk about food, and you said that you thought menu planning was the least of our problems?”

“I don’t remember the fight, but you’re right, if we lived together menu planning would be the least of our problems.”

He looked at his sausage, and I waited for what he was going to say next.

“It would be cock for breakfast, lunch, and dinner,” he said.  He took a drink of beer, warming to his theme, while considering the label on the can.  “Would you care for an appetizer?  Could I offer you some cock?  No?  Well then you must be ready for the main course then–big, steaming cock.  How about dessert?  We have an excellent mousse au cock.”

He looked at me, totally deadpan.  “Care for a digestif?”

I was in fits of giggles by now, but he wouldn’t stop.  “Perhaps you would like to choose our special menu, table d’hote. Seven courses of cock.  Magnifique.”

“No,” he said.  “I don’t think menu planning would be our biggest problem.  I don’t think it would be a problem at all.”

Amen to that. 


The work of Roy Stuart.


Robbie owns five acres of stunning farmland, a fact I don’t think I’ve mentioned here before.  His land is so beautiful he often jokes that I’m in the relationship for his property rather than for him.  The joke is funny because we both know it’s a litte too close to the truth.  The first night I met him, he took my hand and led me out to show me the back fields, and the night sky above them, and wrapped me in his arms while I sighed happily.  “Feels like home, doesn’t it?” he murmured into my ear. “It does,” I nodded.

It still does, now more than ever.  He and I have plowed and planted here, buried and raised pets, kissed in virtually every corner.  I’ve written so little this visit because we’re in the midst of laying out a garden that is 2800 sq. feet, or maybe 2900–I forget, or he recalculates.  In fact, there has not been a whole lot of time and energy for things besides eating, working, eating, and sleeping.  (Especially since I sleep 11 hours a day when given the opportunity.) 

Nonetheless, Robbie has done more than his share to facilitate fun in the midst of farming.  A couple of days ago, he had me string a trellis for the 6″ snow peas and snap peas that are eager to climb something, anything.  I wove and tied binder twine (or is it baling twine?) in a zig-zag pattern between two horizontal pieces of clothes-line.  The plan is that at the end of the summer, we can throw pea vines and binder twine directly into the compost bin. 

Robbie had to teach me a few knots in order for me to make the trellis: a square knot, to tie pieces of twine together, an overhand knot, so that I could tie the twine to the wire, and a half-hitch, so I could secure the overhand knot.   Well, he didn’t so much as teach me the knots as teach me the names for them, and make me aware that motions I’d been making rather randomly all my life were distinct and distinguishable.  A half a day spent tying scratchy fibers definitely got my bondage juices flowing, though, and Robbie is more than attuned enough to me to take advantage of any and all juices he notices.

Later that afternoon, I took a shower and asked if there was anything more to do.  He said he had a particular task for me that might give me an idea of what my long-term farming “duties” might be like if I were around the place more often.  It turned out that this involved wearing a chest harness while I raked up a few grass cuttings from the front lawn and put them around some plants as mulch.  When I’d done that comfortably, Robbie tightened the ropes and gave me another job to do–possibly the difficult task of taking a nap.  (After three years, he is getting accustomed to my habits.)  And after one more readjustment of the ropes, I got to set the table, make a salad for dinner, and sit down with him for a bit before my ropes came off. 


I love rope almost as much as I love Robbie and his farm–in honesty, it is sometimes difficult o say which holds pride of place in my heart.  I was thinking about rope today, and about this post, and about how if I wrote it, I might be able to explain how deep and primal my love for rope is.  I thought about two 7-week-old kittens we have on the farm, and how, the other day, their mother plopped herself down in front of us and started to nurse them.  While the kittens pawed and kneaded her belly, the mother cat’s eyes were almost shut from pleasure.  A steady purr rose from the entire group.  Bondage is like that for me–a comforting presence, a steady pull that makes me feel loved and wanted, content and happy.  And luckily for me, the ties that bind me aren’t just literal.

More images from the phenomenal Yuko Shimizu.


I am so thoroughly bummed out.  I have a zillion posts in my mind, I have all sorts of interesting pictures to share, I am leaving tomorrow to go see Robbie–and I am hideously sick.

Well, hideous is a considerable overstatement.  This is one of those colds that just lingers around, and lingers, and feels sort of like the results of spending a night in a smoky bar drinking too many different things.  I’ve had it for about a week.  It is time for it to leave.

I hope I’ll be able to write some things from Robbie’s house.  But he’s assured me he has plenty of work for me to do, and we usually manage to keep busy.

Hope everyone stays safe and well!

. . . via modfetish . . .


Robbie has been melting my heart lately.  He has been trying so hard to be considerate and thoughtful that I can’t help but find him amazing.  This is inconvenient, because in some ways I’ve become pretty invested in and inured to the notion of our relationship as inherently dysfunctional and doomed, and it’s scary to let any hope back in.  But the hope is there, anyway, flowering and budding away like the young fruit tree that I gave him for his birthday this year.

I’ve been watching in fascination as Gray Lily over at Journey Into Submission has reinvested herself and devoted herself to her relationship.  Fascination, and a bit of jealousy.  I feel twinges of envy whenever anyone’s love life is going well and mine is not; for some reason, it’s worse when the people involved are kinky.  I think it might be that I feel like everyone else is doing it right, and we’re not.   If you saw us lying, spent and sweaty, in bed together after a raucous fuck, it would probably be hard to identify anything we’re doing wrong, but I still have that nagging sense that well . . . we’re dysfunctional and doomed.

Gray wrote recently about how she can truly be herself in front of her partner in bad times.  This twisted something in me; Robbie finds it hard to deal with my see-sawing emotions, although he is better at handling them than most men (people?) I know.  When I cry or get distressed, he’s often a rock.  Later, though, he tells me frankly that the intensity of my feelings alarms him, and I feel like my confidence in him, and my confidences, get held against me.

So when, earlier tonight, one small work-related issue sent me into a tearful tailspin, I hesitated before dialing his number.  But Robbie has far more professional experience than I, decades of working in and negotiating complex organizations with exacting and rigorous standards.  So I called.

He was amazing.  He listened, he was patient, he let me cry, and he gave me great advice.  He even ignored me when I argued with his attempts to put things in perspective.  I said, “Who’s been sprinkling fairy dust on you lately to make you so fabulous?”

“Me,” he said.  “Now, what do you need to do next?”

I told him that I had to finish a paragraph of a letter I’d spent the whole weekend trying to write.

“Right.  So you can write that now, or you can sink further into your meltdown.  Which are you going to do?”

“Write the paragraph.”

“Right.”  And then he told me that he was going to walk his dog and shut the house up for the evening.  He suggested I finish what I was writing before he called me back, in about an hour.   I did it in three minutes, and then I wrote this.  Nothing like motivation to help get a job done.


Really sexy, fun photos over at fre_nate‘s flickr photostream.