Argh, it’s been way too long since I’ve written anything–it’s almost physically painful to try to be writing right now.

Everything is fine–ticking along.  My real life is just excellent–healthier (thank you, gym), more literate (thank you, Kindle), happier (thank you, Robbie), and wealthier (thanks to my employers) than it has been in a long time.  I should thank my mother while I’m at it, but then again, I’ve always planned to thank her in any and every awards speech.

So, the blog has been quiet because I’ve been focusing on other stuff lately–hobbies and work and friends and so on.  I’m planting a micro-garden in the back, and I’ve been cooking more, and I’ve even occasionally cleaned my apartment.  I’ve been reading up on the environment, and thinking of writing more about those topics.  In fact, I’m doing that annoying blogger thing of wondering if I should start a new blog, or several new blogs, or perhaps dozens of them, as places to write about my non-kink interests.

Fortunately, I don’t have to make the decision right this second, because I still have a few kinky interests.  Since Robbie has been visiting me more often where I live, I’ve been trying to beef up the toy collection here.  (His is already dramatic.)  I just received, after weeks of obsessive-compulsive debate about design, a custom-made flogger from MauiKink.  I haven’t used it yet, so I’m not really in position to give them all of the positive press they almost certainly deserve.  But I can show a little leg.

Here’s my new flogger, photo courtesy of those great MauiKink folks:

I’ve also got a matching bamboo cane with a handle in the same burgundy suede.  Together, the pair look really stunning.

Of course, after I got the pieces and admired them, I started to have buyer’s remorse (which is a good sign–I’ve had it about all of my favorite purchases.)  I told Robbie I wasn’t sure either implement was enough to really hurt someone.  He just laughed at me and said he was pretty sure he could make them sting.  I said that I was the one who was going to be wielding these–they’re partly to use for when I switch–and that I definitely was not strong enough to make them really ouchie.  He just laughed again.  I think he’ll tease the closet sadist in me out eventually, whether I want him to or not.

So I really thought I had something more to add to this post, but then I got distracted.  I’m telling you, this writing thing is hard when you haven’t done it in awhile.  I’m retiring with a glass of red wine, a Sandra Bullock movie, and some chocolate to revive myself after the strain of writing this.  Perhaps after a couple more months of that kind of indulgence, I’ll be ready to post again.

Could someone with the merest scrap of WordPress sense take a few moments to explain to me, either in comments or via email, how to password protect a post?  I have some thoughts I really would like to get out, and perhaps publicly publish at some point, but they are refusing to even consider coming out to play without a little more privacy.

Or perhaps they are just pouting, waiting for a pretty lock, like the ones The Curious Nomad collects, at flickr and etsy.


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.


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.



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.


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.


Here’s what I know about My schedule for the next two weeks:

After I write this, I’m taking a nap.

Thursday I’m free.

Friday, May 8, I have to send My best friend an e-card for her birthday and take the dog to get a bath.  I will be available in the afternoon and early evening; contact Me soon.

This weekend, May 9 and 10, I hope to go for drinks with someone who refuses to call me back, so it may turn out that I actually have time.  If you’ve been trying (and failing) to go out with Me, and can risk being stood up for someone I like better, text me.

Thursday, May 14, I’m going to go see Robbie, and he’s going to fuck me blind.  As a result, from Tuesday, May 18 to Thursday, May 20, I will only be accepting appointments to have My feet worshipped.


Over the summer in general, My plans are ill-defined and amorphous, but like everyone fabulous, I have an array of parties, events, and jaunts to resorts to keep me busy.  July weekends in particular are looking pretty iffy for me.  I can’t keep track of all of them, but you can, by consulting My calendar.

I hope that’s helpful to My legions of admirers.

Photos via Male Submission Art.

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