Monday, May 26, 2008


Objectification in the BDSM world is very popular with some participants.

From the BDSM Dictionary


Sexual objectification is, in some circumstances, the fetishistic act of regarding a person as an object for erotic purposes. Allen Jones' sculptures "Hat Stand" and "Table Sculpture", made in 1969, which show semi-naked women in the roles of furniture, are clear examples of the depiction of the fantasy of sexual objectification. (This particular interest, a form of sexual bondage that involves making furniture designed to incorporate a bound person, is also known as "forniphilia".)

A desire to be objectified occurs in many men and women's masochistic sexual fantasies. Objectification for fetishistic purposes may provide erotic humiliation for the person so regarded, whether male or female. As with most sexual activities, it is generally viewed as abusive if it is not part of a consensual arrangement, such as in BDSM play.

Although not always the case, individuals who enjoy being objectified are often (usually) masochists as well and enjoy the pain caused by the commensurate humiliation which accompanies being objectified as a sexual object and not as an individual. Thus, these participants find an emotional and physical excitement in being viewed only as a collection of body parts and not as a multi-faceted unique human being. In actual fact, serious objectification could almost be considered ‘edge” play in terms of the massive emotional impact it can have on the individual being objectified.

As a feminist (and yes, I still identify myself as such and act in many ways accordingly, despite being a submissive – and I would mention here that my Master is also very much a feminist), it would most definitely be an activity to be dismissed and railed against. For women have spent the better part of the past several centuries striving to be taken seriously as individuals and not merely a pair of breasts, a set of legs, a firm ass…

In the context of BDSM, however, it is a fairly common practice and as the objectification is CONSENUAL – i.e. the individual being objectified has agreed to the practice (and in many case, actively sought it out), then there is nothing wrong with it.

That is the crux of the distinction – like many of practices, if the individual consents, is comfortable with and actively desires the activity – be it flogging, edge play, objectification or anything else, then there should be no issue with its practice.

From my own perspective, both as the aforementioned feminist and as an individual, I HATE it. I find it emotionally and spiritually damaging to be objectified in any context. In BDSM terms, this is a VERY hard limit for me and I am thankful my Master understands the negative impact such a practice would exert on my emotional well being and despite being a sadist, he is a sane, thoughtful and loving human being and respects my limit in this respect.

From a rational perspective, I understand the emotional impact that some receive from being objectified – in one way, it is a form of freedom to have everything that individualizes you discounted, thus releasing you from responsibility for subsequent actions and freeing you from any moral constraints which might impede following a desired imperative.

I guess I find it curious, however, that objectification is something desired by a submissive or slave when it has been my experience that so many of us struggle with our sense of self-esteem and self-worth. I guess I’m not sure how being objectified somehow reaffirms an individual’s worth.


Sunday, May 25, 2008

Daughter of the Sea

Do you have an inclination for BDSM?
created with
You scored as Submissive

(((Note: This quiz is not totally comprehensive because of the length such a quiz would be. I kept it sex-based because I felt that psychological profiles and motivations were too complicated and vary too greatly among people that practice BDSM.)))

It feels good to serve. A lack of control in the bedroom can be fun and relaxing. Being with a dominant person wouldn't be a bad idea.









Exhibitionist / Voyeur


Degradation Lover










Tuesday, May 20, 2008

Extreme abuse

Further to my earlier post, I've done some serious thinking about perception and understanding of motivation with respect to extreme edge play.

The reality is that I precipitated some reactive and somewhat vitriolic backhands when I made a comment on the contents of a couple of (separate) journals/blogs in the past few days. In both cases, I believe there was a knee-jerk reaction by the writers in question as they felt (perhaps correctly) that I was casting aspersions on their Master and love.

But I've thought long and hard and can honestly state that perhaps I DID say some things that they felt were unwarranted, judgemental, even rude, but if I did so, I did so from the perspective that I was giving my HONEST opinion. Of course, as they say, the "road to hell is paved with good intentions". MY reality is that I can't keep a still voice when I see something I think potentially harmful to an individual.

This is MY reality, my viewpoint - on extreme edge play.

The bottom line is that I believe that anyone indulging in the extreme type of abuse (call it edge play but for me, call a spade a spade and don't be afraid of it)- do so because they suffered immense trauma, most likely from early childhood on into their teens and early adulthood. I think it almost inarguable that such trauma occurred for a healthy ego to crave the level of emotional, physical and spiritual pain that is apparent in these individuals.

BUT, - huge BUT - do I see them as victims?




Far from it - that would smack of paternalism and I find the thought of feeding into that paternalistic mindset repugnant.

In many ways, I admire these women (I am sure there are men, but for this blog's sake, I will use women only). They have, in essence, grasped that which would destroy them, that which could potentially blight their lives and bravely taken it and turned it on its head. Instead of allowing it to own them, they own IT. Rather than allowing the reality of pain to defeat them, instead they use it to bring them to a space where THEY control it, they use it to get to a space where their emotional and physical well being is paramount and immensely fulfilling.

In short, rather than allowing trauma to rule them, they rule it ....I do believe it is an continuation of abuse in some respects, but regardless, a conscious and INFORMED decision and therefore, in many ways, a logical choice which one should RESPECT.

I believe, to the core of my being, that the way they choose to live, the practices they choose to indulge in, not only fulfill them but are in fact, a real and PRACTICAL way of dealing with the life experiences they have encountered since young.

To take this kind of life-altering negative experience and turn into a positive, life-affirming experience takes intelligence, great courage and determination - and I freely admit that each of these individuals possesses those qualities and are to be commended and applauded for their ability to do so.

MY reality is I would NEVER insult another individual for choosing to live their life in a way which fulfills THEM.

MY reality is that I would NEVER assert that I or anyone else has the right to control how they live their lives - whether or not that kind of lifestyle is one I could choose.

That is why we live in a (relatively) free society.

Regardless, while they have the right to live and speak of their experiences, so too am I entitled to MY opinion. Do I believe that some of these practices will ultimately impact them physically to a point where they suffer permanent damage? Yes, I do. Do I think they are in some ways, knowingly continuing to put themselves in a situation of abuse? Yes. Do I have the right to tell them to stop? No, I do not.

and yes, I'm sure my style of submission would bore a lot of people to tears ... but that is fine by me - I live my life not in compartments, not in small little boxes, some in public, some secreted away - but as the multifaceted mosaic that it is. And no doubt some would call it or parts of this life, "vanilla" as if insulting me. And parts of it are. And parts of it are not. And vanilla is fine with me just like the more kinky parts of me are ok too.

Ultimately, each of us makes our confused, limping way through life in the best way we can - we make mistakes, have small victories, relish our little joys and simply try to get through each day ...

Closed minds...

Other than here in my own space, I think I'll just shut the hell up ... and abstain from commenting on any more public journals or blogs.

Is it just me or am I missing something here?

When a journal or blog is public, with comments open to the public, I make the (obviously wrong) assumption that the individuals writing are open to viewpoints, comments and other opinions. With the way I have been slapped in the face recently on several occasions when I expressed my HONEST (and personal) opinion - stating it is ONLY my opinion and NOT making any judgments or asserting it is the ONLY opinion, it occurs to me that regardless of orientation, there are a lot of people who are very damn prickly about anything that doesn't absolutely concur with their viewpoint.

I know that I have no issue with a healthy debate nor a difference in opinion. I find the diversity of the population something to cherish - and while I can get emotional and involved in a discussion, I never make the mistake of assuming that MY viewpoint is the only valid one.

Further, when I see something that strikes me as dangerous, physically, emotionally or spiritually - it is not in me to refrain from giving my thoughts - although I have decided at this point that as those thoughts are obviously NOT wanted, I think I will just shut up - except here, because damn, it, this is MY space.

God knows, I don't think my lifestyle and how I live it is the ONLY way to conduct a life - I am well aware that the way I live is intrinsic to who I am and who my family and loved ones are and therefore could NOT be applied to other dynamics.

But, but.. the bottom line is that, like it or not, I BELIEVE there are many relationships out there under the guise of M/s or D/s that are in fact plain and simple abuse - that is MY opinion.

I BELIEVE that many submissives I see are exactly the same as abused women I have worked with in the past - characteristic for characteristic ...

What I do NOT dispute is their right to live their lives the way they CHOOSE. I do NOT choose to be paternalistic nor all-knowing - that is derogatory and undermining of an individual's personal choices. I do NOT dispute that whatever emotional, physical and spiritual feelings they get from their relationship is THEIR choice - that is why we live in a society that at least tries to grant personal freedoms.

But conversely, why is it that those self-same individuals who rip strips of me for NOT agreeing with their viewpoints, for not concurring with their vision of a dynamic - (WHILE never disputing their right to it) somehow find it necessry to denigrate and personally attack me for having that opinion?

I don't get it.

In fact it seems to be when something is put out to the public, then you have to anticipate that not everyone will concur with your viewpoint - if not, then why put it out there?

Regardless, I'm going off to lick my wounds. It appears that honest concern is unwelcome and considered proactively negative.

Tuesday, May 13, 2008

"Beat me"

I am not someone who requires a constant influx of noise to soothe or reassure the reality of my existence. Nor do I require constant reminders of my mortality with the nudging of news on the hour and the mindless drivel which vomits from a television screen on a daily basis. Conversely, I often crave silence.. the cessation of noise, the absence of sound for the cacophony within my mind provides a noisesome background of demand that sometimes arouses madness.

I sit in my quiet office, no radio, just the muted hiss of air through the network of pipes which snake through the tiled ceiling providing white noise as an accompaniment to my chaotic thoughts. I am so restless I feel like screaming to the prefab walls until they shake and crack and fall to dust around me. I pace like a restless cat to the window, a wraparound panorama of sky and lake and soaring Tower and want to launch myself into the crisp delicate blue air and soar into the infinity of sky and bathe in the rays which spill down and kiss gold into steel and embrace infinity in the guise of possibility.

I DON’T want to be here …. I want to be somewhere where the water pounds onto the shifting sands of shale and rock and salt spray stings my eyes and a breeze from beyond whips colour into my pale cheeks and stings the tips of my breasts into hard aching points and I want to feel your hands on them, calloused, rough, demanding, pulling and twisting and squeezing until I feel my heart leak into the bruised flesh. I want to feel the sharp slap of the wind against my exposed flesh, numbing and stinging coolness into the burning expanse of need and I ache to wrap you in my fingers, and feel the throbbing reality of your want.

I want to drop to my knees in the pounding surf and feel the sharp cut of stone and sand in abraded knees as I take you in my mouth and gulp the hot salty realness of you and choke as you surge down my throat and stretch wide my mouth to service and lave and lick you into breathless want and demand.

I want to wrap my long thighs around your hips and feel you sink into me and feel your fingers dig into the flesh of my buttocks until I feel the hot, warm trickle of blood and the feel of you deep inside, pounding agony into my cervix until the tide crashes in and matches the rhythm of your body and calls to the hot wet inside me and I dissolve into a million droplets of foam which dance the waves of the ocean and soar into the sky.

Once a creature who saw mind and body separate, with the surging loss of youth comes a commensurate increase in my embrace of the realities of flesh. It is as if the trickling away of time has ignited a configuration of want that sometimes frightens me in its intensity. Always a creature of gross appetite and need, I find an atavistic delight in immersing myself in sensation engendered by the flesh and seek increasingly the confirmation of pain to spear awareness and bring me to a realization of the now.

Which brings me to today’s musing …Morningstar posed a question – what is the difference between a masochist and a pain slut?

I don’t know if I can answer that. Always, I have thought of myself in terms of masochist not pain slut as if admitting to the latter somehow taints the perception of my own intrinsic worth. It’s not the “slut” word… I embrace that word and take it to myself and roll in the implication and suggestion of its own etymology. I reject the negative connotations of the word “slut” engendered by a society terrified of the great and powerful beauty of a woman’s sexuality and potential for raw delight in a body – which unlike a man’s – possesses an organ designed only for pleasure and serves no dual purpose and exists only to elicit the most delicious of physical responses. Responses, which in our complicated psyches, spill from the pure plane of corporeal realities into a realm of spiritual and emotional enchantment that enslaves and compels.

Merriam Webster online defines it as “a sexual perversion characterized by pleasure in being subjected to pain or humiliation especially by a love object” ..

Then, Wikepedia defines “painslut” as “BDSM culture, a "Painslut" is a person who enjoys receiving a heavy degree of pain but may or may not necessarily enjoy being submissive.”

Ahh … so perhaps the difference lies in the “why” and the “extent”.

Both a masochist and a painslut crave pain and actively seek it out. To both, the sting of nerve endings abraded and abused, the twist deep within as you remind yourself to breathe, the reaching within to find the strength needed to tolerate the crack of whip, the sensuous, frightening slap of hand against flesh creamed and made soft through gender and care and find in the slow trickling of crimson drops of reality along flesh a beauty that brings you to tears are experiences sought with not just a physical yen but an emotional and spiritual need that can be almost overwhelming in its intensity.

And I know too that each of us is unique with our complicated psyches and grab-bag of life experiences, mixed together with personalities and emotional needs that are singular only to our own selves … yet there are similarities I believe that exist and are parallel in many of us.

I do not feel that I seek the pain for the physical reality of its sting but for what that sting does to the reality of selkie … it focuses me. Because it has such a massive presence when it arrives, pain is not something that can be ignored or overlooked or put to the side. It is an “in your face”, ‘deal with me” reality that one has to face straight on and embrace and take into yourself … for only then can you disarm pain, break it into increments that can be digested and savoured and ingested. And in so doing, all extraneous interruptions become negligible, unimportant.

Buddhism makes a separation between pain – which is a physical manifestation - and suffering – which is a mental state. I myself believe that embracing pain, facing it and accepting it, is in its own way, a vindication of life. When I am being tortured, I am not being spiritually raped but rather, embraced in a way which reaffirms (to me) that I am alive. I do not harbour fear of total annihilation, which I believe to be the antithesis of the human spirit (because like all living organisms, above all we seek to live) because I know that the hand wielding the pain is so very beloved and trusted.

And in the sublimination and acceptance of the pain, I find an overwhelming relief, a letting go that is orgasmic in its intensity. Extraneous worries, nagging thoughts, irritants that can torment me into insomnia and anxiety simply melt away as my universe shrinks into a soft, wonderful little ball of sensation and acceptance of the reality of what is occurring … a deep velvet dark place that is not frightening but comforting in the extreme and such a reaffirmation of life that it astounds.

But I do not think I could seek that pain as a means in itself. Even knowing what peace it might bring, I think I would find it daunting to actively seek the lash and agony of its promise. What gives me the inner strength, even a compulsion to experience it is the knowledge that in so doing I am pleasing someone who means more to me than anything else in my life.

I get such an overwhelming sensuous rush from knowing I am giving him pleasure – that he is experiencing something intense and incredibly compelling that I truly believe that he could strip the skin from muscle and fibre, rend me with his bare hands until nerve endings screamed and that atavistic part of me sighed defeat. That feeling – that the pain is merely a tool and a way to pay homage to him who I adore – is what separates me I think from a pain slut and makes me instead, a masochist.


Tuesday, May 6, 2008

Alas Time ...

A glow in the east as the sun swells over the horizon and breathes navy into an indigo sky that reaches out to forever. The water reflects back the swirling reality of fire and explodes in my eyes like the snap of reflection on a sorrow lost in the mists of a time from before. I stand in a quiet office and watch the dance of morning sweep night into a pirouette of goodbyes and I gaze out onto the water licked restless by the breeze of their steps.

Time lies heavy on my shoulders, an iron embrace of need and want and demands, whispering harsh wants in my reluctant ear, squeezing my neck in a demand of more that I am helpless to refuse. I want Time that is ethereal and imbued with hope and desire and effervescent joy. I want Time that stretches before me, endless in implication and possibility and pregnant with maybes. Instead, Time slashes at the corporeal reality of a soul already stretched gossamer thin through demand and need and snatches greedily at the precious crystal moments that break free.

As the seconds tick away fleshy realities and leach collagen and youth, I marvel at how days have become so finite and truncated, how weeks once acres of endless possibles are swept away with the blink of an eye and lost in mists of might-have-beens. How did this happen?

Caught in a perfect moment of clarity, I stand and drink in the sight of another day birthing new possibilities and widen eyes dulled by trivialities and monotony to freshen and lick green into their opaqueness. Stirrings in the barrenness of my chest as a tickling of rage licks flames into frustration provoke me into a silent scream of primitive rage.

The flaming orb of sun takes a deep breath and sends out tendrils of light that wash crimson into the growling sky and sweep a tremulous delicate trembling blue into its soaring flesh, then breathes the colour of hope back into the muttering lake below.

I reach out my hands and grasp vainly for the reality of Time that I can feel and live and savour and sighing, turn back to the drudgery of now.