September 18th, 2016
Two weeks in, and I’ve already messed up at writing/posting more. I have my reasons and my excuses – moving, super stressful weekend last weekend, etc. etc. But those won’t solve anything. I even had things I wanted to write about last weekend. I don’t remember them now. It was the big event I didn’t go to last weekend, so there were things I wanted to say instead. I wish I had at least written them down. Ah well. It’s a new week, new things to say. In theory. 😉
I’m slowly working on tidying up. I’ve gone through clothes so far, sold a couple pieces and donated three bags, and thrown out another bag worth. Some of that my club/event clothes, or things that were pretending to be club/event clothes, that I never actually wore anymore. Getting rid of objects I don’t/won’t use anymore. The book I read says to keep only things that bring you joy. In order to create a home that fills you with joy. So, that’s my goal.
I want to create a home in my new place, that fills me with calm, joy, and creativity. I want it to be a space where I can (and want to) create many things – a new life, new writings, new projects, new relationships, and new bonds in current relationships.
Life can stagnate, if you let it. Working the same tired job, with the same tired attitude, doing the same things every day, every week. Losing sight of your dreams and your goals. Losing sight of the wide variety of experiences just waiting out there for you. But life is change, living is being in a constant state of change. Of learning, of experiencing, of doing.
I’ve been differently focused lately – focused on moving, on stresses, on things I don’t want to do. I even showed up in Pants on Friday night. The skirt and dress were right next to me in my bag, but my focus was on too many negative things, that I walked right up to him in jeans. He had to say something before I even realized what his expression meant.
He asked me whatever happened to “just do” and I made some smart-assed comment in reply. He had just found those paragraphs again while cleaning, and wanted to share it with me. (I just went looking for a post that included the paragraphs and could not find one, how odd.) And I walked up in Jeans. Yes, I definitely need to refocus.
September 3rd, 2016
Do you ever have those days, when you just want to fight? But you’re not a fighter, so it’s more like you want to struggle, need to struggle. As a rope bottom, and masochist, to me, this means I want to Eel. And not just eel. Not just, tie me up, and let me get out. But tie me up tight, painful, torture me while I wriggle and writhe. Maybe I can’t even get out at all, but it’s the fight I want, the struggle.
He told ex-Lover the other day, that I was due some nipple clamps and a straitjacket. It’s been a Long time. He has used the straitjacket with me twice that I can remember – once for a nice zone out, and once to be eyes for an artificially blinded engineer. Once inside, one cannot really fight a straitjacket, but I’ve written at least once about fighting ex-Lover putting it on.
I am full of stress at things, and working on letting it go. Pain helps – we’ve had some fun pain lately, especially with whip practices this month. He was even practicing a new long stroke this past week – more like what you see in movies of someone at a post – though without the blood, of course. But as things build up, I’m feeling the need for a struggle. Now, to figure out where and how.
September 1st, 2016
I look at myself, and what do I see? Scar tissue, stretch marks, and scratches. A bent arm. A swollen wrist. Hair that just won’t act “professional.” Thighs that won’t fit into my old slacks and jeans. A small, but still annoying, wheat belly. Pasty, pale skin. Dark circles under my eyes. A wonky jaw. Callused feet.
I look at myself through another’s eyes, and what do I see? A sly smirk, and smiling eyes. Wavy, soft hair. A strong body, and soul. Arms that can carry a load. Legs that can stand all day, and still run around at night. Soft skin, and smooth curves.
Show me what you see? Tell me I am beautiful? Make me believe?
It isn’t everyday that I have trouble with my self-image, but it is many days. In high school and much of college, I wore baggy t-shirts, and sweatshirts. My body was a thing to hide. As I got older, and married, then into dating again, I wore tighter shirts, and skimpier clothes at clubs and parties. Learning to be more confident in my body.
Now, I’ve reached the point that many of my clothes are growing tighter, or not fitting at all. My last doctor visit showed my weight higher than I ever remember it being. I don’t feel bigger, but I don’t feel confident, either.
And my independent spirit rebels – I don’t need someone else to tell me I’m attractive. But some days, I do. I’m not asexual, I want to be attractive to others, not myself. And I know I am, there is evidence, even sober evidence. It’s just that, like many of us, it is sometimes hard to believe.
August 25th, 2016
Listening to class on Wednesday. He’s practicing a single column tie, on my wrist. Pulling hard to make sure it doesn’t collapse, bouncing my arm like a puppet. A half dozen times. Then he grabs an ankle and does the same thing.
Only this time, he starts tickling my foot. I cover my mouth and squirm, but his tie is firm, and he’s grinning happily, tickling it just lightly to watch me react. Then he decides to go for more.
He starts tying my foot at a hard 90 degree angle, then runs the rope up over the top of my calf muscle, taking wraps Tightly down my leg back to my ankle. Tighter with every wrap. It reminds me of the Torture with Twine class, where I tied my own leg like this, but with much thinner stuff. I tighten my hand over my mouth, trying to keep my squeals of pain in, but then managed to switch over to processing with breath – gasping and breathing heavily as he squeezes the muscle tighter.
Then he starts tickling again. I clap my hand over my mouth as my brain tries to process the two opposing sensations at once without screaming. My eyes are wide as I stare up at him, and his eyes and mouth are full of sadistic amusement. And he tickles and tickles, and then squeezes the torture calf, and I have to muffle screams again. Light touches driving me mad, my hands are flapping helplessly, but I can’t fight, I can’t move my leg. He tries to straighten it a few times, pulling gasps and squelched groans out of me. It just can’t move. I try to move my toes, they feel so odd forced up like that, assuring there’s no problem, just strangeness.
Eventually, he unties that leg, and we both admire the markings the rope has left. Then he grabs the other and starts up again. Tight and tickles, pain and weirdness. Gasps and flappy hands. So much fun with one little rope. Together.
August 25th, 2016
He decided we should play on Saturday. I’d offered on Friday, but we were all much too busy with the crowd.
He walked up to where I was sitting, and slapped me. I gasped and gazed up at him, and he leaded me over to the flogging station. The nice old mop floggers were his weapon of choice. Starting out low and slow, getting me nodding and rocking to the beat. Switching up to six-count to get my whole body moving. And then the heavy strikes, shoving me forward into gasping groans and screams. Riding up and down a few waves, to crest in louder screams.
“Are you awake now?” Yes. “What?” Yes. “What?” Yes, Sir.
Then he had me over his knee, pulling up the bottom of my fishnet dress, as I clutched the chair and balanced my toes. Spanking me, hard and stinging, solid and thuddy, punching and slapping, making me squeal and scream, and moan. Counting me up. Thank you, Sir.
Then he shoved me to the floor. And I lay there, gasping for breath. Looking up at his glittering eyes, and wide grin. I love you. “I love you, too.” Finally catching my breath, I reach out to clutch the toe of his boot. The cool floor feels good. Calming. He grins down, asking me questions I no longer remember. Then he mentions getting a paddle.
I whimper as he helps me up, and puts me back up at the rig. He grabs the sorority paddle we snagged from a thrift shop years ago. “That was for you, this is for me.” His eyes are still sparkling as he lines up, and bends me over.
I clutch the cold metal poles, my dress falling back down, as he smacks into my ass. Screaming with every strike, rising up and then settling back down. Trying to keep my ass even instead of cocked to one side. He tries to imprint the Greek letters into my flesh. I scream louder and louder, flinching even when he doesn’t strike.
“One. Two…. THREE!” I scream louder than ever, orgasming through the pain.
Thank you, Sir, I gasp out as I finish.
August 25th, 2016
COPE is coming up, but I’m not going this year. Too much tied up in moving house. Just can’t swing it this time. Which is a sad, for not getting to see friends, not getting to play with him, not having hot stories to tell after, not getting to sample classes from new presenters, no pile of meat Saturday night. But, it isn’t the first time I haven’t gone, and probably won’t be the last.
I’ve let myself get too wrapped up in everything. And pulled all the stress onto my shoulders and into my body. I have to focus on me for a little while. On getting ready to start a new chapter, on moving house, and rediscovering or recovering my passions. This is one of those passions I’ve let slide far too much. Social media is not really my bailiwick, I don’t know how to use Twitter to get followers, or interact with them, it just seems like there is too much noise, too much static there. I don’t know how to cut through it and connect, and let’s be honest, I don’t feel motivated to try. But writing, is. Writing about my journey, about my fun and my grief. Writing about my triumphs and my falls. Writing good stories, and meaningful (to me, at least) posts.
So, I’ve set some goals to recover my passions, and one of those is to write more every day, including at least one short story a week. I’m not going to promise they will all be for this site, but there will be some.
I had a really nice weekend. We had a hugely busy FFF this month, much bigger than we’d expected given attendance of late. And that was great, the fire class went well, and everyone had a good time. Also, he brought me fresh made rolls, Mmmmmm Tasty.
We also put on a Saturday party, or FFS. At which, I got to encourage a good friend to try out our Electric station, and our Fire station, both of which she very much enjoyed, and this made my heart happy – she does so much for our community, it’s nice to give back.
August 10th, 2016
I have things I want to say, things I want to post about. But I’m tired all the time, and I write them down, prompts for when I have more energy. But then, they don’t make as much sense, or they don’t seem as important. Or them seem too vulnerable a topic to put out in public space. At some point in the past, I didn’t care that this was public space – blogging for the world to see, mostly because I assumed that no one did see it. And that’s mostly true, still, my numbers are depressingly low for a blogger that’s been blogging this long, but they’re good enough for me, a few people visit every day, and that’s all I really need. Just enough for me to be sure this isn’t a hidden space, just enough for me to worry about being judged. Though not publicly, I hardly ever get any negative comments, or contradictory even. And yet…
Part of me wants to do another 30 days thing, to get my juices flowing, to get me back to posting. To get me back to making the time for writing. I’ve let the worries of the world, of money, of jobs, of moving, of health, beat me down into a little worker bee, doing all the needful things, but not doing the heartful things. The things that fill me up and move me forward into the world with happiness.
Which takes me to one of my topics. Abnegation versus Dauntless. I’ve been listening to the Divergent series audiobooks. I’ve only made it through the first two, because the third has a waitlist. But the main character’s struggle between selflessness and bravery is interesting to me. The other factions – knowledge, honesty, happiness – these are good traits, too, but they aren’t a struggle in my head. Bravery – in this internal struggle, is more about standing up, for myself, for others, instead of selflessness as standing back, doing what others want.
I’m not sure I’m explaining this well. In the D/s circles, there are discussions about doormats. One wants a submissive, not a doormat. Sometimes, it is a struggle between selflessness and doormatness – knowing where the line is, and having the bravery to stand up for oneself, while still serving.
But it’s more than that for me. I think I do a pretty decent job staying out of doormat-land. I am working on that standing up part, though – not to other people, necessarily, but for myself – to myself. Believing in myself, I guess. Some say that bravery is not being unafraid, but rather, being afraid and doing it anyway. It doesn’t take courage to do something you’re not afraid of.
And sometimes selflessness is bravery – in the books, being willing to sacrifice one’s life for others is both brave and selfless. The trouble, for me, with selflessness, if forgetting about my self. Not taking care of my self, doing for others instead of myself. Not because they don’t care about me, or don’t want me to think of myself, but because I put them first, instead of myself.
I forget to think, what do I want to do? What is good for me in this situation? I’m getting better at it, day by day. I’m taking better care of me, and not getting down on myself when I forget to. I have people around me that love me, who do their best to make sure I’m thinking of myself, too, when they ask me to do something.
What faction would I choose? All of them – I want to be brave, selfless, honest, happy, and intelligent. Because all of those things together is what make humanity great.
July 15th, 2016
Photo courtesy of A to sub-Bee
Welcome to Elust #84 –
The only place where the smartest and hottest sex bloggers are featured under one roof every month. Whether you’re looking for sex journalism, erotic writing, relationship advice or kinky discussions it’ll be here at Elust. Want to be included in Elust #85 Start with the rules, come back August 1st to submit something and subscribe to the RSS feed for updates!
~ This Month’s Top Three Posts ~
~ Featured Post (Molly’s Picks) ~
~Readers Choice from Sexbytes ~
*You really should consider adding your popular posts here too*
All blogs that have a submission in this edition must re-post this digest from tip-to-toe on their blogs within 7 days. Re-posting the photo is optional and the use of the “read more…” tag is allowable after this point. Thank you, and enjoy!
Sex News, Opinion, Interviews, Politics & Humor
Thoughts & Advice on Kink & Fetish
Body Talk and Sexual Health
We Made A Resolution To Make Love Everyday
The 20 Minute Orgasm
More on cunt, corridors & Schroedinger’s cock
Stoned Birthday Sex
Room with a View
I’m Not Done With Your Throat Yet
It’s a strange path to trust.
Thoughts & Advice on Sex & Relationships
Writing about Writing
July 13th, 2016
Not much is going on in my kinky life these days. I go to the weekly class and practice, and the monthly class and party. But, other than my “duties” as part of crew, I don’t do a whole lot. He pokes me a bit here and there at these events, but we’re both too busy/otherly focused/exhausted/stressed to do much more than drive-bys.
I have my weekly poly-family night with him and his wife, and that’s nice – we have tasty dinners and veg in front of the TV and chat about work and life. I’m usually managing a once-a-month visit up north, to see the new guy, who I guess is not so new any more, to hang out, eat tasty food, and enjoy one another. Soon, he’ll be living down here, then we have a whole new scheduling game to play. It’s a pretty good life, I’ve got. Just not terribly exciting.
And that’s okay. I’m working two jobs, trying to balance work-life-sleep-money, and enjoying the love, friendship, and family I have. He asks me fairly often if I’m happy – yes, I’m happy. Do I want/wish for more in life/out of life? Sure, but who doesn’t? We’re a very motivated, ambitious, and curious people. We always want more – more money, more time, more excitement, more things, more experiences, more sex, more play, more, more, more. But that doesn’t mean I’m not happy with what I’ve got.
Right now, my focus of “more” is on getting a better job and a better apartment. A better job so I can afford the other “mores” I want, and have a better schedule to have time for the other “mores,” too. A better apartment so I can have people over without them dying of heat stroke, or being annoyed at the shouty neighbors, to facilitate other “mores” with friends and family.
The state of things bigger than my little world? Well, that’s a whole other ball of crazy wax.
July 4th, 2016
I don’t know if I’ve ever posted about my name. I’ve had this blog so long, it’s possible that I have, but something new brought it forward in my mind. I listened to Brimstone Angels by Erin Evans recently, and the devil in the story brought it forward in my mind. Not the magic he offers, or his violent temper, or even the care he develops for the main character, but her attraction to him, and her resistance of it.
I have a quote from E.A. Poe’s story, The Imp of the Perverse, on the sidebar of this website: “There is no passion in nature so demoniacally impatient, as that of him who, shuddering upon the edge of a precipice, thus meditates a plunge.” It’s a story about that little voice inside us, that urges us to jump. Urges us to Do The Thing, even though the rational, logical part of our brain says ‘no, it’s dangerous, it’ll kill you, don’t do it.’
I have that feeling a lot in my life. And I resist it a lot, too. Sometimes it’s easy, sometimes it’s very hard. Sometimes I resist it just because the feeling is there, and it is so strong: I shouldn’t do the thing. Why? Because I want to do it so badly.
Does that even make sense to someone who isn’t me? Who wasn’t raised the way I was? Probably, a lot of people were raised this way. I was raised to resist temptation: “lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil.” I was taught that temptation was evil, something to be avoided.
And so, sometimes, when I give into temptation, I do it with my eyes closed so tightly, that I trip and fall headlong down that cliff. Instead of walking in, eyes (and mind) wide open, so I can control my fall, or maybe even climb down carefully.
I’ve done this with relationships, over and over again. Jumped in headfirst, and hit rock bottom before I even knew I was falling. Some of these were shallow cliffs, with not very far too fall. Some of them, I’m still climbing out of.
I did this with him, too. Jumped in without looking, lost my way, took the wrong path, hit rock bottom. But he jumped in with me, and we helped each other back to our feet, and we still walk together, living our lives, and exploring other cliffs.
Sometimes, I miss my cliff-jumping days. Sometimes, I resent my carefulness, now. Sometimes, I get frustrated that bad-idea snacks are the one of the few temptations I give into anymore. Sometimes, I don’t want to be responsible, dependable, reliable. Some days, I just want to go be a librarian on the Galapagos Islands. Some days, I want to just get in my car and drive til I run out of money. Some days, I wonder if I could get people to pay me to drive around the country doing genealogical research for them. Or fly around the world, too. Some days, I don’t want to be careful, and thoughtful, and considerate. Some days, I just want to jump off a building and be Dauntless. (Guess what book I’m listening to, now.)