Friday, July 31, 2009

Musings on dynamics

I'm endlessly fascinated by the uniqueness of individuals and the dynamics which compel, obsess and immerse each of them in their intensity and distinctiveness. The BDSM world, because of the nature of the relationships, provides even more fodder for thought.

I was up early this morning – too early – for an appointment and thus had time to kill (an unusual occurrence in my life – hell I almost didn’t know what to do with “time”). So, with a little bit of a luxurious commodity usually far too scarce, I indulged and surfed the web, specifically checking out other blogrolls.

In reading some of the entries on a surprisingly eclectic group of writings, I realized I continue to wonder about what motivates, what inspires, WHY certain activities and dynamics work for certain people, particularly in the rather unusual arena of BDSM.

It’s no secret that in my past dynamic, I was an advocate of a certain degree of pain- nothing extreme, nothing outrageous but to some tastes in a more vanilla world, probably far too intense. Spankings, flogging, pinches and rough use, all can act as a focus and a form of meditation for me.

The reality is that over many years, I have come to understand that each dynamic is unique in itself. While the internet world somehow tries to impose a clear set of rules, delineate a quantifiable set of circumstances, reactions and definitions of what comprises a specific dynamic, what makes a “real” dominant or a “true” submissive, it is incontrovertible I think that because each of IS unique, it is absurd to think that ANY dynamic is readily quantifiable.

And thus, thus, I know that while there are those would find my relationship a mystery (hell, I STILL do), I in turn find myself confused, perplexed yet truly curious as to WHY certain actions, reactions and dynamics work for others.

For instance, I just don’t get certain, apparently common, practices among certain couples.

NOT criticizing – god knows what two consenting adults choose to do among themselves or with other consenting adults is SO their business and no one else’s, but just CURIOUS.

For instance, I don’t get the oft-discussed concept of “lending” out submissives as part of the esoteric and deliberately obfuscating “training”. And before I continue, can I tell you in my opinion and my opinion ONLY I think that what I see out there termed “training” is a big load of hooey and provides fodder to a lot of predators who use it as a tool to confuse, intimidate and control naieve wanna-be submissives who first dip their toes in the internet pools.

But, seriously, WHAT does that teach the submissive? This is a serious question. And WHAT does the dominant get out of it? I’m truly curious.

For instance, I’ve read that it strips a woman of her will completely – reduces her to an object to be manipulated and used – well, that’s where the confusion comes in for me. How does that benefit the dominant? How does it fulfill the submissive?

And then there are the myriad of blogs I see where it seems to me, cruelty is an integral part of the relationship – where women (because it is always women) are smacked for no discernible transgression, or hurt simply “because” – again, I’m wondering, what does this serve? What does it teach?

As stated earlier, I have no issue with pain, but the rational part of selkie seeks a reason, a motivation, a POINT to it – when I used to get flogged, bound, pricked, needled, or whatever it was a dance … a dance the two of us were bound up in and captivated by, a progression of physical responses elicited and emotions engendered, a dance where the focus was applied physically yet resonated at a much deeper level. And throughout, there was always an internal awareness on my part that my physical, mental and emotional equilibrium were being carefully nurtured, monitored and observed.

Some years ago, I wrote a blog on my perceptions of why for some individuals, extreme masochism worked – but even in some of the more intense relationships of which I was aware, there was an obvious caring and deep connection between the sadist and masochist. There were moments of deep intimacy, sweetness and caring that somehow balanced the more extreme physical acts.

But surfing today (and before – it is not something I do at all very much anymore), I find myself confused and perplexed why some women tolerate what appears from their own words to be a relationship entirely comprised of physical, mental and emotional cruelty – yet by adding the BDSM designation, somehow removing it from the realm of abuse.

I do not deny an adult’s right to make choices in the dynamic they choose to inhabit – that smacks of paternalism and is offensive and high handed.

But I guess what I’m wondering is do you think these individuals truly find some form of fulfillment in being treated like they have absolutely no worth OR are they victims of unscrupulous, manipulative partners who inevitably use, abuse and then move on?

I could cite some of the blogs of which I speak, but I think I’ll refrain. Because ultimately, the issues I wonder about are universal.

I don’t get what the motivation and point is of simply hurting someone in passing, when they have done nothing to elicit any type of punishment. I don’t get how passing around a submissive to other partners “teaches” her… teaches her what? And what does the dominant get from it?

I understand sadism, truly I do – I KNOW that sometimes, you hurt your submissive just because it feels so damn GOOD – and in a healthy, emotionally powerful dynamic, that can provide a wonderful nuance to both, but treating her like crap on an ongoing basis, without a commensurate understanding and nurturing of her mind and emotional equilibrium just doesn’t seem like a positive experience to me- yet I see these blogs everywhere.

Comments anyone? Anyone else find this confusing? Or have any explanations?

Thursday, July 30, 2009

Soapbox Thursday: The Crying Game

[DISCLAIMER: Both Pygar and Lilly are wonderful people and I don't in any way intend to impugn or criticize their opinions. I think they are as entitled to their viewpoints as I am to mine and enjoy the dialogue that is subsequently created when we disagree! they both ROCK.

2. No animals were hurt in the making of this rant.
the photo is an image of the actor, Jaye Davidson (MALE but intact)) from The Crying Game ]

In a recent blog (see here), Pygar related an experience with a post-op transsexual woman, about whom only in hindsight did he realize she was once, physiologically, male. His question was, should she have informed him of her status beforehand? The discussion centres primarily on whether or not a post-op transsexual has a moral imperative to inform potential partners of their sex change?

It has engendered an interesting and lively discussion. Lilly’s “rant-on” (see here) reflects her strong belief that not telling is, in her view, a form of deceit.

As my own opinion is unequivocally that the lady had NO imperative – moral or otherwise – to reveal what is in fact her private and personal business and is ultimately irrelevant to who she is, I thought I would outline my arguments.

First, from a biological perspective, there is ample and irrefutable evidence that gender is not based on physiological sexual characteristics. How we present physically is not always commensurate with the thought process, emotional needs and gender-choice that an individual internalizes as real to them. Studies have revealed, again and again, that nature is fluid when it comes to sexual orientation. From observations of homosexuality among numerous species (not just homo sapiens) to case studies of people – and animals – who despite having the sexual characteristics of one gender, live and present as the other sex are there for the asking.

In short, nature screws up – quite often.

A case in point would be the sad history of hermaphrodites in our society. From freaks displayed in circuses, an almost equally repugnant trend began in more “enlightened” times when babies carrying both sets of sexual organs were almost inevitably “turned into” females. Arguments were specious, fulsome and full of scientific jargon as to the necessity and reason for choosing the female sex when both gender sexual organs were present. The reality was simply it is easier to create a vagina than a penis. This caused a great deal of distress and emotional pain to individuals who would have identified as male (not to talk about those content to carry BOTH – as they were born).

The reality is that many of the characteristics we identify with gender are actually artificially imposed dictates of largely paternalistic and misogynist religious dogma. Like many of the prejudices we internalize as fact, the reality is that most of our biases arise as a result of societal imperatives and dictates – NOT because the issues are inherently ‘wrong’ or “unnatural”.

Second, identifying females as female BECAUSE of owing a vagina and breasts and males as being MALE because they have penis and testicles, then we are certainly narrowing down the realities to an unacceptable level. So if a woman has a double mastectomy- does that make her “less female”? If a man is for whatever reason, emasculated by having penis and/or testicles removed – is he “less male”. What about individuals who experience some form of trauma to their sexual organs (i.e. are not born that way) through disease, accident or malicious intent? Are they somehow then NOT the sex they presented as originally?

Third, undertaking an operation that will permanently change your sexual characteristics is fraught with anxiety, emotional trauma and is the result (I would think in pretty well every case) of a lifetime of confusion, distress and insight. Nor is the medical profession quick to perform such a task. Candidates must go through a rigorous and drawn-out period of emotional, psychological and physical testing to qualify. It is, when all is said and done, intensely and powerfully, personal.

On the religious front argument, if you believe in god- how can you then turn around say “he” made a “mistake”?? i.e. these individuals feel to the core of who they are that they trapped in a body which outwardly does not reflect who they are. They were (if that is your belief) “MADE” that way by god – so HOW can it be wrong to correct that?

Fourth, from any perspective, I fail to see why someone is required to reveal their previous gender to a casual sexual partner. If indeed, a relationship formed and it looked as if what began as casual was turning serious for both, I think it probably a good idea to discuss when a rapport, mutual trust and mutual commitment is starting to form. Any relationship must have at its core, honesty and a sense of trust. By the same token, I think it honourable when entering into what looks to be a long-term commitment to be honest about a lot of other things too.

I equate discussing your previous gender on the same lines as sharing information about your upbringing, family issues and/or past emotional trauma – only to be shared with someone with whom you feel a committed, caring and mutually trusting relationship is being formed.

Fifth, CHOICE: Although I see Lilly’s point about "choice", I don’t necessarily agree. One is entitled on a moral –hell, a LEGAL perspective to offer full disclosure when it comes to certain things. Like if you have HIV. Or herpes. Or some other sexually transmitted or other form of transmittal disease (i.e. Hep C is transmittable through body fluids and mucus membranes but not necessarily sexually-related).

But I feel strongly I am NOT compelled on any level to offer full disclosure about certain parts of my life that I consider irrelevant except to someone with whom I am planning to form a committed and long-term relationship. I do not believe even in a committed relationship that an individual has to vomit out every single emotional trauma, moral dilemma, past relationship or experience that has ever taken place in their lives. I truly, honestly and sincerely feel that each of us is entitled to some privacy of thought and emotion, no matter how close you are.

Because transgender issues are so fraught with controversy, I DO believe it would be wise to share this with a potential life partner or one runs the risk of your potential partner feeling betrayed down the road when it comes out (and secrets ALWAYS come out). In that sense, yes, that is where the element of choice comes in.

Like any bred in the bone prejudice – some form of which we ALL exhibit – I think one of the most persistent and prevalent viewpoints regarding transgender individuals is a stubborn insistence on seeing them as ultimately REALLY “male” or REALLY “female”, despite the reality that from almost their earliest memories they truly, sincerely, completely and utterly felt themselves trapped in a body which did not reflect their internal vision of self. And when they then successfully take their physical body and create a shell which then reflects their inner conviction, there is a vast majority of the population which continues to tell them they are “wrong” – that they are in fact the sex they were born.

The bottom line is that it is NOT my place to tell someone who they should live their lives – nor in what form – that is an intensely personal choice and one which I respect.

Sunday, July 26, 2009

The Island

Reality bites.


Not that I’m not glad to see D., my kids, my dogs and the myriad other denizens of my chaotic existence.

But damn it was nice to escape reality for a few days.

To go with the rhythm of the moment and recapture, momentarily, the euphoria of time unfolding unconstrained by duty and demand, unfettered by “musts” and “shoulds”, without tethers of needs and wants and instead, embracing and infinite in its endless possibilities.

My week was in its own way, chaotic and quirky, with a endless litany of unforeseen potential disasters from the large ferry to the island breaking down to the Minister booked to marry the couple taking an unexpected stay of some duration in the hospital and a dreary, never-ending forecast of rain. But somehow I found it easy and comfortable to roll with the punches, change with the moment – to in essence, embrace what I have been trying to internalize for several years now – to let go of what I cannot control.

For ultimately, I believe doing so is one of the penultimate lessons of life. Life, everyone’s life, is full of unexpected stresses, mundane irritations, almost overwhelming blows –emotional, physical and psychological – that each of us must confront, comprehend and cope with. I believe that in order to find the strength to deal with life’s black side, you must understand that you cannot, CANNOT be responsible for nor control the extent, intensity and future of some untenable situation. All we can do is choose how we react, the course we choose to take, the manner in which we “deal” ....

There is a wonderful freedom in doing so.

Though god knows it is not easy and is indeed, an ongoing battle. Especially for me who tends to be somewhat of a control freak, always trying to anticipate and foretell what needs to be done, what needs must be met, to indeed, get things done before the ones I care about realize they need doing! In some respects, that can be a positive personality quick, given that it is balanced with rationality and realism; however, I know that there have been times in my life where I’ve allowed it to overwhelm and drown me in the cacophony of “wants” that I feel cascade into my hands, whether sought or not.

Most of all, however, was I had a chance to commune with my beloved sea. From the moment we stepped on the ferry in Black’s Harbour and turned to the ocean, I felt my mind tremble, then sigh and capitulate to a tremendous, joyous peace that suffixed my body with a rightness of place that brought tears to my eyes as I stood at the railing and watched the waves flow beneath and the sharp, cool tang of the ocean licked colour into my city-pale cheeks.

I didn’t get a chance to actually walk the beach until the second day, then as the wedding guests mingled and caught up on the field behind the motel, bbqs smoking, voices laughing, children playing, I quietly slipped away.

The beach was rough, strewn with clam shells and stones, washed rocks sparkling in the sunlight which spilled from an endless sky and lent a golden glow to the grey sighing waves crashing up on the shore. Seaweed curled amongst the detritus of the ocean bottom and I stepped carefully to avoid slipping. Stopping, I pulled a strand of its stringy, soft length and pulling it to my face, breathed deep its sharp, evocative scent, pulling into my soul the essence of the ocean’s heart.

Leaving my shoes and socks on the deserted beach, rolling my pants up to my thighs, I stepped into the soughing surf, gasping as the crisp, heart-rending cold of the ocean shocked me into the reality of now. Stepping carefully, the soles of my feet no longer calloused and accustomed to the rock-strewn shoreline, I walked through the lisping, sighing sea and gazed out on the endless horizon of sky.

As I walked along the shoreline through the brine, the sounds of civilization slowly softened, then disappeared until my eyes shone blue and grey and green like the waves of my ocean and the whispering surf filled my ears and heart and all that existed was the slow, measured beating of my heart which marched in cadence with the sighing waves sweeping in and out along the island’s flesh.

I yearned to slip into the embrace of the soft water which caressed my thighs and breathed promise into my flesh. I wanted to feel the silk of its reality around my body and feel the ocean stroke cool fingers through my hair and had the day been more advanced, and the sun flaming into the distant horizon, lower, I would have stripped and followed my heart.

But coward that I was, I sighed and turned back, wincing a bit as I clambered over boulders torn from the yawning cliffs above me.

On my return, I discovered I had been away for more than a n hour and a half and was laughed at for my pants which were soaked to the thighs.

While I would have loved longer, I am grateful for the brief respite and the chance to replenish the sound and smell and feel of my home. I clutch to me the memories of its healing and the promise I made as I leaned over the fog-strewn railing of the ferry, the mournful wail of the foghorn rending the darkness and bringing to mind mammoth creatures of the deep, the promise that I would return one day for good.

i'm back....

had a wonderful, spectacular, MAGICAL week.... will write soon but here's a few pictures to show you the paradise I was enjoying...

Sunday, July 19, 2009

The ocean beckons ..

I go to my beloved sea soon.

Tomorrow I leave for New Brunswick for 5 days, to visit old, dear friends and attend a wedding. But, truth be told, the thing to which I am looking most forward is the sea. For we will be spending three days on a tiny island off the coast of New Brunswick called Grand Manan.

It’s been a lifetime since I was there last – at least 30 years. It is a gem of an island, set in the beautiful, cold Atlantic where whales cavort and call beneath the ocean and fisher folk never learn to swim as the treacherous ocean will freeze them to death or swallow them in its implacable waves before rescuers can reach them.

I feel as if I am going to burst.

I want to walk the rocky, coarse sand of the Atlantic beaches and feel the waves crashing against the shore and breathe deep the salt-laden tang of ocean. I want to wander as the sun flames golden into the restless sea and stand above the cliffs which spill down to the roar of ocean and watch the gulls wheel and cry above and feel my soul burst free.

I am a creature of the sea.

I yearn for it often, an aching, low-grade need that necessity and the realities of my life have forced into abeyance but lives in my soul nonetheless. There is something about the sea that calls to me, that creates in me a sense of peace and yet a wildness that consumes and connects me to the universe unlike anything else I have ever experienced. And it is the wild, cruel, cold Atlantic that whispers to me in my concrete world, the staid lap of lake water a mocking reminder of its glory, but to which I am pulled again and again, only to despair as I watch its changeable depths in vain for the myriad colours and fresh, strong scent of its progenitor.

I will swim in my beloved, cruel ocean.

My friends will laugh and think me mad when I dive into the pristine, frigid depths and feel the sweep of ice trickle through the flame of my hair and marble pale my skin. The cold is such that I can only stay 10 or more minutes then slowly my circulation will start to slow and my body shiver and the euphoria of being embraced will overwhelm and only my rationality will force me, reluctant, from its frigid, beloved grip.

And I will rise, reluctant, from my ocean and walk the rocky, dulce-strewn beach and feel, for that moment, content.

I go to my ocean tomorrow so please be well and let life be wonderful this week and think and be happy that the selkie returns to her home.

Saturday, July 18, 2009

Everything Elvis....

so off we went to Kings and Classics in beautiful Rockton, Ontario... here are a few samples of the ETAs (yeah, took a few minutes - Elvis Tribute Artists).

Friday, July 17, 2009

Dark Lady

Image from:

The night embraces the dome of sky washed pale by the light vomited from a city that never sleeps. Pinpricks of silver light mar the smoothness of its cloudless expanse and the rent of its navy cloak gapes, allowing silver light to spill down and spark want into my eyes which drink deep of the moon’s glow. The air is cool against my face this July morning and the dogs, ears pricked, prance before me, eager to taste the night and roll in the flavour of scents that call to their souls and whisper wildness into their hearts.

Walking my dogs at 4 a.m. is oddly, something I love doing. Slipping through the wine-dark night with the warm bodies of my dogs my only company is deliciously freeing. I savour the relative silence of a city that belches a cacophony of sound that becomes white noise during the daylight hours and drowns out the reality of earth and sky and water with its acrid, steely demand.

Even here in the gritty corner of the city that is mine, the breeze which licks colour into my pale cheeks is just a whisper, soon to sweep into the tumultuous sky which roils above my head then thunder on eager hooves into the endless expanse of night to embrace the distant sea.

As the dogs slip silent along the quiet streets, noses following scent of prey and challenger, I allow my thoughts to drift and eddy into the quiet of thought unmarred by demand and entreaty and duty.

As it often does, my mind turns to the sexual nature of the human beast. I must be a indeed a creature of gross appetite, a being of earth and water and substance, a venal woman whose appetites are unnaturally corporeal… because touch and scent and feel and the hot, thrusting need is something that I have craved and obsessed and been guilty of embracing with a boisterous delight and an unapologetic relish for most of my life.

And yet.

Yet. Female sexuality is such a capricious mistress… a willful, provocative and at times disdainful female whose many faces beckons, refuses, embraces, denies and teases with a confusing logic that defies understanding. She is as apt to desert you at the most inauspicious moments and then, in her petulant, demanding way, claim ingress into your mind and heart and quicken your loins, and swell your breasts and catch your breath in your heart … just when you need your head clearest.

She is multi-faceted and complicated, a creature made up of hormones and thought, of need and desire, with a fillip of rage which sweetens and an achingly needful, all encompassing acquiescence that seduces.

Our sexuality can slumber unassailed and oblivious to our plaintive cries for her aid, then, in her own time, awaken, stretch and yawn, sending her long slender fingers through the complicated byways of thought to whisper want into our hearts and a fierce, overwhelming need into our souls.

The night slips around my silent footsteps and I close my eyes and breathe deep the music of the night, the rich, verdant scent of the earth which wafts on the breeze, the intoxicating bouquet of growing things, which gives shape to green and creates a haze of mist around me which cools my breath and hardens my nipples and I feel the pull of the earth which wheels around a distant orb and the moon’s light spills into my mouth and I drink in its need and breathe out the rich female pheromones of want.

I slip into a silent house and send the beasts to slumber and quietly enter the warm closeness of our room and stand, silent, and listen to his breath and relish the scent of our mingling and kneel, insubstantial, a moonlit sprite, a succubus, upon the bed.

I breathe warmth along the length of his body until the warm, rich scent of him pulls me to his groin. I hover close, my mouth open to drink in the want and although I have not yet touched him, I feel him stir in the closeness of the room and sighing, sink my lips along the soft, velvet skin and sip, tenderly, from the tip, a droplet of need that I pull into my throat.

My hair spills silk along his groin and my hands gently part his legs and my mouth dances my demand along his burgeoning length. My fingers play an adagio along the taut line of flesh running between his thighs under the achingly tender skin of his testicles and my mouth coaxes song from his throbbing length until I hear his breath catch in the silence of the night and the loose skin of his testicles tighten and I feel the thrumming against my mouth and the song reaches a crescendo of aching YES and my throat tightens and then sighs open and I feel him spill down my throat and my fingers between my own smooth thighs work frantically until my own need spills onto the flesh warm sheets and together in the quiet of the night rent now with harsh breath, the song dances and weaves a tapestry of intricate beauty….

And as the moon spills her silver light onto our throbbing flesh, I welcome back my dark lady.

waves to everyone

Nope - NOT dead.

nor have i stopped writing (technically)\


at work, due to people leaving, retiring, one fired.
because they haven't been replacing staff
because they are super busy (good thing)

I barely have time to draw breath.

my laptop has been down so I've had VERY limited access to internet and/or writing at home.

promise though - lots of thoughts in the works and my beautiful laptop is BACK... so hopefully will catch up on everyone's news and get something posted myself!


Monday, July 6, 2009


The storm thunders in on growling winds and lashes the roiling sky with hissing breath and the hot, needling spray of want. I stand on the porch and pull the ozone-laden air deep into my lungs, opening my mouth wide to taste the storm and pull its frenzied chaos deep inside. My skin beads and moisture wells and then runs in rivulets down my cool cheeks and I drink in its breathless being.

Thunder rumbles, a levitation beast crouching in the east and my eyes pull in the darkness which trembles over the horizon and promises a violence I embrace with a wildness long absent. My thin cotton shirt moulds to my small breasts and looking down, I watch, bemused, as nipples peak and harden in the cool rain, their paleness pinkening and darkening against the opaque material.

I taste him on my breath and at the back of my throat, tart and pungent, the remembered scent and feel, so long absent, arousing and comforting, remembered atavistic explosion of thought; between my thighs, I feel myself moisten and swell. My breasts ache and I cup my hands over the rain-dark material of my shirt and feel the throbbing warmth beneath my palms and feel the echo of pain and looking down, I peer down and see, bemused, the bruised mark of his passion blooming dark against the celtic white of my skin.

I feel as if I am awakening, the slumbering essence of self stretching deep inside, sending tentative fingers questioning into my psyche, exploring and probing deep to ascertain if the bleakness which has pervaded my soul still prevails or whether the ridiculous hope which springs eternal in my foolish chest holds sway.

I find the human species fascinating, truly I do!

We are capable of such greatness and such ignominy. There are times I despair of the human race, then suddenly I see or hear or read about something that gives me hope.

Our spirits are so fragile, yet so resilient. So tender yet can withstand blows that you think would destroy.

Most perplexing yet awe-inspiring is the human capacity to dig deep within the complex, complicated mess of emotions each of harbours in our unique mixture of genes and traits and find among the mess, a thin thread of hope. Realities of past experience which have scarred and marked psyches and battered beliefs linger, yet bolstered by that human capacity to dream, we dismiss rational thought and turn our faces to the sky and reach out again and again to grasp hope.

At work now, I watch dawn break and flood the sky with red promise and certitude and stand quiescent at the prison of glass and watch the storm battle with the promise of light.

Looking out over the expanse of water in the distance, whose restless surface undulates beneath an uncertain sky, I feel my heart lift as molten sun spills a golden stream of brilliance through the broiling grey of sky and horizon until my eyes are dazzled and the sky sparks and glows and shines with a brilliance that aches and the day breathes hope and night flees, pulling behind it tattered remnants of cloud, enveloping its dark soul in a cloak of affronted dignity.

Despair has etched scars into my soul that I know cannot be erased through time, but scars though visible, can eventually heal and except for the distant ache of the knowledge of the their former pain, can be incorporated into the reality of existence.

Uncertain, I pause, unbalanced and distraught, wondering if the small, fierce ache in my soul is hope or the foolishness of windmills.

I think I am seeing more clearly now (or think I am – the burden each of us must carry is the knowledge that perceptions are often most distorted when they seem the clearest).

I fear yet the resiliency of the human spirit spurs me to step….

For life itself means the inevitability of change and without change there is an absence of life and the knowledge that pain itself means there is life is a bitter pill yet one pregnant with veracity.

Shall I step?
although truth be told, I think that decision has been made....

Saturday, July 4, 2009


Meeting online friends in real life is a situation rife with potential delight on the one hand, and expectations of disaster on the other.

My own recent and vastly unsatisfactory meeting with a former blogging buddy (here) is a case in fact.

So like morningstar, the morning of our coffee klatch rendez vous, butterflies as big (but not nearly as pretty) as the one on her enviable chest were fluttering in my stomach.

Initially I wasn't that nervous; the reality is that we have corresponded fairly regularly and both through emails and through her wonderful blogs, I feel as if I had met a kindred spirit. Morningstar's puckish sense of humour, her ruthless, awe inspiring honesty, her prolific and vastly enjoyable musings have always run so true with me. So often have I read her thoughts and thought I KNOW what that feels like, I KNOW how she feels, that a part of me felt I would recognize her immediately.

Which was fairly dumb of me when all is said and done!

Somehow in the flurry of emails where we excitedly planned our meeting, BOTH of us forgot to actually pinpoint something that would identify us!

Of course, driving to the meeting place, I thought I COULD have asked her Sir to "bell" her LOL ... then I could walk into Timmys and say loudly "could all ladies please stand and shake your booty" and follow the tinkling resonance to its source ...

However, that was in hindsight.... grins.

Regardless, as morningstar points out in her own blog about our meeting, it was as if we were old friends and almost immediately, we knew each right away!

Hugs were spontaneous and sincere on both our parts (she gives an excellent REAL hug too) - and within a few minutes we were chattering away like a couple of magpies, words tumbling over and out and spilling across the small space dividing us like a wonderful silver stream of thought and sharing and emotion that sparkled and danced in the fitful sunshine which speared through the cloudy sky outside.

And before I talk further, our lovely morningstar is definitely looking through the world and into mirrors with vision that is definitely askew.... she is absolutely lovely - lush and feminine and so very pretty with the most GORGEOUS eyes and the loveliest face made even prettier by her personality which simply shines and captures anyone in her vicinity with her charm.

As icing to the already delicious, decadent and wonderful "cake", morningstar's Sir was utterly wonderfully kind to take some time out of his own busy day to join us for coffee and meet the Irish lass! I was very very grateful that he was inclined to check out his littleone's blogger buddy (although, truth to tell, based on the fact that both she and I are shall we say "inclined" to be naughty subbies at times, perhaps he was there to keep an eye on us? grins widely).

Sir is as distinguished and charming as his Littleone's words and his own have promised and his delicious sense of humour is even more delightful in person than online!

All in all, several hours passed in a blink of the eye ... conversations sparkled and danced as we sprang from birth talk to bondage and back again. Sir was the first to leave as duty called and it was with reluctance a little way later morningstar and I bid adieu ... with promises to return and have further meetings and dinner next time D. and I were in town.

Thank you morningstar. Thank You Sir.

I had a wonderful, thoroughly satisfactory meet that restored my faith and exceeded expectations!

I look forward to meeting again soon!

and just as an aside - I haven't deserted my bloggy friends and am not ignoring posts - rather, I've been in Montreal for the past week doing some fairly extensive work together with D. on my mum's house. Promise to catch up with all on my return to To.