Self-Image

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.

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Trust Your Body, Trust Yourself

April 21st, 2011

A friend wrote last month how she is finally learning to trust her body, through kink. I have been at odds with my body since I was sixteen, almost half my life now. I fight it, I ignore it, I push it. But to trust it? I’d rather challenge it and defy it. She wrote she is no longer a mind in a body but a mind that is a body. I like that idea, and so I’m going to start a rambling exploration of my mind and body tonight.

I’ve spent a lot of time in the last few years in bondage, and in rope suspension. One of the first things he taught me was that I have to listen to my body. That I have to communicate to him what it is telling me. Where there was pain, pinching or discomfort. His suspensions were not meant to be painful, the ropes were there to support, not to hurt. This was a bit of a mind switch for me, because the other’s bondage was often painful, was often part of our sado-masochistic play. I had to listen to my body and trust what it told me. I had to be able to judge when I was done, tell him when I needed to come down. I could push myself only so far. And yes, I often tested those limits, pushed myself just a little further than I maybe should have, challenged myself to just one more swing, or just one more spin. I had to trust my body, but I also put trust in my mind’s ability to recover when I pushed just a little more.

If it hurts, don’t do it. It hurts when I do this. Don’t do that. Pain is the body’s way of telling us something is wrong. But I’m a masochist. I enjoy the intense sensation of pain and the effects it has on the body and mind, when it is pain I am choosing to experience. I kneel for half an hour in meditation, some days it hurts, but I usually ignore the pain and push through. I ignore the body’s cry for relief. I play in ways that cause pain, that cause a fight or flight response, and I ignore the body’s protests. My mind overrules my body. My pleasure overrides my pain. But isn’t this trusting, too? Trusting that even though my nerves scream, my body can take it. Trusting that after, I’ll be okay. I ignore the usual signals, and trust that real damage is not occurring, that my body is not as fragile as some might think.

Is it trust? Or just defiance?

I trust my mind within this body. I trust myself to know my limits. I trust myself to judge when it is too much. I trust myself to beg off or say no. I trust myself to know my body. And I trust my partners enough to crumble and fall.

I trust my mind, but do I truly trust my body? I listen to it, I respond to what it tells me. But I often feel like a mind trapped in a body, unable to feel the way I want to feel, unable to do everything I want to do. I trust that it will not break. I push it and challenge it, and I hope that it will not fail me. And sometimes it does, but more often than not, it doesn’t. In kink, anyway. It fails me, day to day, simple things like opening and reaching, but it rarely fails me in play. It limits me in play, for sure, depending on the day, but when I choose an appropriate activity, it holds up, it withstands, it survives, usually as long as I want and need it to.

So, do I trust my body? I do. It frustrates me and I defy it, but ultimately, I trust it. What other choice do I have? It’s my body and it gives me such pleasure to balance out the pain. It does what I need it to do, if not always what I want it to do. And the better I treat it, the better it does. RA is not who I am, just a thing I am dealing with. Trust is earned and my body has put in the work.

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Inspired by the Storm

July 15th, 2010

A flash of lightning and a crash of thunder. The storm broke and rain began pounding on the roof. She turned to him and grabbed his hand, the look in her eyes something between arousal and pleading. He smiled down at her and nodded. They stood together and rushed to the kitchen.
Standing in front of the sliding glass doors they stripped off their clothes. He shrugged out of his quickly while she removed her bra. His hands found her shirt and slid it up over her head. Together they pulled off her jeans and panties. He kissed her eagerly, one arm sliding around her waist as the other flung open the door.
The rain poured down as, giggling, they rushed out into the yard. Hands stroking each other’s now damp skin, they wrapped their arms around each other, mouths pressed tightly together.
“I love you.”
“I love you.”
They tumbled to the ground, bodies slick and hungry for each other in the hot summer storm. They kissed and stroked and wrapped each other up. The cool drops matting hair against their heads doing nothing to stem their fire. He slid into her and she clung to him as they made love in the grass, with the lightning and thunder their music.
When they were done, they lay together, water running over their steaming bodies. Fingers trailing raindrops over fleshy curves. Happy to be together and to love each other. Grateful there were no neighbors to peer into the yard. This was their paradise with each other.

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What Turns You On?

April 15th, 2010

I often think of this question in terms of the physical. What can he DO to turn me on? This is often the easy answer, the safe answer. It involves the surface of my being. Often it involves involuntary physical reactions. Kissing, licking, sucking, touching, groping – these things are meant to turn us on. Spanking, pinching, biting, paddling, caning, whipping, squeezing, grabbing, holding, restraining – these things turn on a masochist, it is no secret.

But what about mentally,what about my fantasies, what do I think about to get turned on? This is more risky territory. These are things that aren’t straight forward, are more vulnerable and personal. Not that I think my fantasies are unique to me, if you can imagine it, you can find it on the internet, after all. But to offer my thoughts and my mind has always been riskier than offering my body. The hurt when my thoughts are rejected is far higher than when my physical desires are rejected.

So, what are my fantasies? What are my daydreams? What do I think about to get turned on?

School girl. Kidnap victim. Slave girl. Are my top three.

1)School girl. Typical short skirt, white panties, button up top. It always involves getting in trouble and being made to bend over a desk for a spanking or paddling. It then generally devolves into sex on the desk. Sometimes it begins by being caught having sex on school grounds. Sometimes it involves bad grades or incomplete assignments, and trying to trade favors for good grades.

2)Kidnap victim. Blindfold, duct tape, handcuffs, rope, being driven off in the back of a van. Stripped naked, threat of violence for noncompliance. Photos or video taken as blackmail. Forced to pose or perform sexual acts seemingly willingly for the camera.

3)Slave girl. Collar, shackles, little else. Taught to please and serve. Often involves being raised specifically for this purpose and and may start with meeting the one I was raised to serve, or being shown and tested to find a buyer. Occasionally, involves being taken prisoner and forced into slavery for a more rebellious and discipline oriented fantasy.

So, what turns you on?

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The Quiet Place

January 13th, 2010

I’ve found the quiet place. Found the calm in the storm. Found focus inside myself while my body is beaten or tied. I am not ignoring those things, rather they help me. They give me a tighter focus, bring me into my body and mind, make the rest of the world go away.

This is an interesting place for me. Usually, I go into a scene, and it takes me high in one way or another – full of energy, passion, sensation, joy. This is different. This is beyond that. Taking all that in, letting all that flow through, and going further. It’s different than when a scene takes me to submission or surrender.  This is a scene taking me to personal peace. Where stress no longer has voice or reason, but is just there and can slide away.

Granted, that is not often the goal. But it is an incredible discovery for me to know that I can get there. I am very grateful. I have not learned to meditate yet, but I’m told one can achieve a similar state.

I have, unknowingly tried to do this before, knowing instinctively what I needed, and almost getting there. But it was not until recently that I was able to let go fully enough to find the quietness and peace.

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Why Practice Isn’t Enough

November 18th, 2009

I go to Practice every week, for the crew I’m on. We practice our craft for the weekend shows. We go to reconnect with each other, to talk and play and share together. We go to teach the newer members, as well as the guests. We go because we are always learning, always finding something new, always have room to improve.

We practice flogging against the wall, against the cross and on each other. We do electric scenes, checking the wands and trying out the toys. We practice our brand of fire play, training on all three stations. We don’t have the space for much suspension practice currently, but once in a while we get that, too.

But, for crew, practice isn’t enough. The skills are there, we learn what to do. But our weekends are full of strangers, with different reactions, different bodies, different needs, wants and desires. For us to “perfect” our craft, we need more than just our Practice night. We need to work with all sorts of different people, under the low lights and loud music. We need to deal with drunk, sober, shy and loud. What we do is very different, and very unique. It takes more than swinging a flogger or firing up a violet wand.

For me, it also takes a desire to serve and to share. I could just attend practices, and have time with them and do what I want to do. I could just be another attendee and sign up on the lists. I volunteer for crew to share the experience. To provide others the opportunity to learn and do what they might not have a chance to do otherwise. It fills a need in me to give back, to contribute to the community. Just going to Practice is no longer enough for me. I want more.

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