[I wrote most of this post last year, when I was living in a house with friends who had small children.]

The other day, one of the toddlers asked me to come outside and play.  “I need my batime,” he said to me, pointing to a long, shallow box filled with styrofoam cushions.  His elocution needs work.

“What is this–your Batcar?” I asked, referring to a recent obsession.

“NO!  It’s my BATIME!”

It took him crawling into the box and curling on his side for me to figure out that what he needed was his bedtime.  When I looked, I could see that the box was remarkably like a bed–the styrofoam cushions were topped with a pillow-sized block, and there was a piece of foam wrapping that served as the perfect blanket.  The day was cold, so I covered him up with it well.

And then he wanted me to shut the lid.

I balked.  I really did not want to scare him, and the whole getup looked way too much like a child-sized coffin for me to feel relaxed.  On the other hand, I was right there, the box was cardboard, and he seemed happy.  And very insistent.  So I closed the lid, lightly.

From inside came a high, hysterical sound–the sound of delighted giggles.

I opened up the box to see a smiling boy who wanted me to help fix his blanket and to shut his bed again.  So I did, again and again as giggles gripped him.  I got the idea to pick the box up and pretend I was carrying a package around, which induced more giggles, until the carrying went on a bit longer than he liked, and I heard “Want down!” from my parcel.  That scared us both off from that game for the rest of the afternoon.

Still, my young friend’s interest in enclosed spaces got me wondering, again, what it is in some of us that finds enclosure so comforting, and yet so very thrilling?

Sculpture by the German artist and sculptor Bithja Moor.

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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.


the eyes of true

No needle play for us, after all, last weekend.  The friends we invited over for dinner have a newborn–the baby is a month old–and barely have time for kink with each other, much less for kink with friends.  I’m not quite sure what we were thinking about the needle demonstration, but we had a lovely time with our friends, watching them enjoy their new arrival.

These friends have been with us through major thick and thin–with Robbie, especially, since they are closer to him than to me.  I think I’m ready to start writing about that thick and thin, about what some of the fights of the last year(s?) have been about.  It’s not pretty stuff, the past.  But what’s come out of it is better and better.

Eyes of True“, from Odilia Luzzi’s lovely photoblog, Dreams of Light.


I am headed to see Robbie this weekend and very eager to be there.  My sex drive has returned at at least half-strength, if not more, and I have an urgent need to be with him.  Plus, we have at least a few wicked plans.  I say we, but Robbie seems to be doing most of the planning.  I’m hugely relieved at this.  For past visits Robbie has planned an elaborate schedule of activities, and I panic at the thought of getting it all done as well as worry about how it will go.  This time, he gets to enjoy all the anticipation of things that “I know but you don’t know” (as he likes to sing in a little song he’s made up), but I don’t have to stress about any of them.  It’s as it should be–him in control, me in the dark.

Well, I’m not in the dark about everything.

When we were first getting into BDSM and Robbie and I filled out the requisite checklists about perversions, it turned out that I had a real fascination with needles, knives, and play piercings.  Robbie was extremely cautious about all of these desires; he was happy to hurt me, but very reluctant to injure me, if the distinction makes any sense.  Part of the reluctance stemmed, I think, from some professional medical experience in his past.  But the hearty doctor fetish I have made the whole idea frustratingly hotter.

And here we are, three years down the line, and he’s finally studied up on needle play, asking a very experienced friend of ours for instruction, advice, recommendation on equipment, and an actual demonstration.  We’re having dinner with our friend and his girl this Sunday night.  I’m at once over the moon and terrified.

It so happens that I sliced my hand open by (accidentally) putting it through a glass window pane this summer.  (I tripped on someone’s inconveniently-placed roller skates in the dark, and the rest was pure Marx brothers.)  The masochist in me was pretty thrilled at the resultant blood and the pain, while the rationalist in me said: “You dumb retarded twit, you can’t like it, or people will think it’s self-inflicted!”  Fortunately, the obviously treacherous position of the roller skates exculpated me from charges of self-harm–or so I hope.


But I digress.  My point is that the thing felt deliciously painful until I got to the hospital, where I was scheduled to have a few stitches.  I even remember lying there with my hand elevated, watching the nurse prepare the saline solution, various bandages, the local anaesthetic, and thinking, “Cool!  This is the nearest I’m going to get to needle play for awhile!”

And dammit if it didn’t hurt like a mother.  There was none of the euphoric pain that had come from the slicing cut to my hand.  There was a really nasty pinchy stab, multiplied by about a thousand.  Stingy bitterness.

So, we’ll see on Sunday.  I very much like the thought of being the useful experimental pincushion for Robbie and our friends.  I just hope that the experience is a happy one for all involved, and that the pain is the flying-high kind rather than the hop-on-one-foot-and-swear-a-blue-streak kind.

I’ll try to report back, depending on the scale of my injuries.

High-fashion pics by Philippe Kerlo.


I just got this email from a friend of mine, who is most assuredly grown up.  It read:

The doorbell rang. Three little boys were there.  One said they were starting a friendship club and wanted to know if I wanted to join.  The other asked if there were any little people in the house.  “Kids?” I asked.  “Yeah.”  The first boy repeated the invitation to join their friendship club.  I asked what I had to do.  “Nothing,” he said.  I asked if I had to play with them.  “No, we are just going around to the houses seeing if people want to join our friendship club.”  “Sure, ” I said.  I’m going put it on my resume.

What I want to know is why people don’t do this more often.  Any of you want to be in my friendship club??  We have cookies.


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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