Monday, August 31, 2009


I smelled Fall today on the breeze which licked promise of change into the skin of my want as I drifted through the dark night and followed the trail of restless discontent which drew me along the midnight roads. My mind won’t settle and dread trickles dreary through pore and sinew as I walk the night and watch the stars wheel free above me and yearn towards the heavens and the freedom they promise.

I close my eyes and the whisper of ocean sweeps into my thoughts and I breathe deep the spume which drifts cool through thoughts of rocky shores and yearn with a physical ache that catches my breath towards change and venues unconquered.

I tremble within the prison of thought and emotion and wonder at the human capacity to metamorphosis and the ability to shed skin and mindset together with the seasons which flip time through our lives and leach possibilities from our future. The paths are always there, though hidden perhaps in a fall of leave and loam and the detritus of past actions and spent emotions.

I have been musing lately on the nature of change and the impact on our lives of pain delivered with forethought and intent and without the leavening power of care. Scars change the landscape of skin and sinew and form new venue not always familiar to eyes which reinvent remembered lands now twisted and scarred with thought and deed. Lands which spark recognition then confusion as we pause, certainty confused by new settings.

The human psyche is truly remarkable in its ability to withstand agonies that in hindsight, seem insurmountable and impossible to internalize. Yet many of us do and indeed, find inner strength and purpose that forces us forward, reluctant, in pain yet with fortitude and determination cloaked in inevitability and a stoic need to continue.

A year ago, I was here – and the mantle of rage still sits comfortably there in the front of my cupboard although truth be told, I seldom wear it these days. Nonetheless, it is there, not yet pushed to the back nor do I feel inclined, in thought, word or deed, to put it away anytime soon. For its warmth and strength have sustained me through times of bleakness and the the black fragility of broken soul for longer than I care to recall.

I think perhaps that the rich red expanse of rage will be internal to who I am for the balance of a life that has used its rich cloth often to provide strength through times of need. I have no desire to fight the conflagration of its enveloping folds nor wish to reject its sometimes painful hold.

It is, when all is said and done, part of the entirety of me.

I run my fingers along the scars of a psyche battered by neglect and spite and feel the healing beneath the twisted skin. Like rage, this scarred reminder of past agonies is integral to who I am right now and while his fingers are gentle now and run warmth along the whorls and twists of his creation, I recognize that scars are not just skin deep but run tendrils of change soul-deep.

I recognize too that scars are not intrinsic only to me but that each of us carries with us, sometimes obvious, sometimes not, life’s interpretation of what it means to exist.

Sunday, August 30, 2009

Role-Playing versus Reality in the D/s - Part 2

read Part 1 first

Fantasy Island

You see fantasy doesn’t provide for a whole lot of what I’ve just described. Other than the self-confessions of submissives seeking punishment. Or arbitrary rulings by dominants seeking justification for anger.

Fantasy d/s and m/s means you have finite windows of time when you ‘take on’ your persona; because the REALITY is that you have a wife or husband who probably doesn’t know what the hell you’re playing at online.

It often seems to me that BDSM and the dynamics integral to the lifestyle provide an “excuse” and “justification” to many individuals to basically fuck around. Because almost inevitably, the sexual dynamic of the equation is the motivation for it. Somehow, by taking it out of the realm of pure sexual exploration and bringing into the world of D/s or M/s it can then be seen as a “respectable need to fulfill THAT part of yourself” - you know, the part your REAL partner ‘refuses” to explore with you – and thereby absolves the participant from qualms of conscience, somehow makes it NOT cheating.

I even understand the lure

Damn, game-playing is addictive. I was a megalomaniac with Risk and toppled empires and betrayed allies and took over friendly nations – and role playing in the BDSM world can be equally addictive.

But to me, it is ridiculously simple to separate the wheat from the chaff.

Show me a blog where the submissive is ALWAYS compliant, acquiescent, and servile to her Master. Show me a blog where the Master is all-seeing, wise and always correct. Most of all, show me a blog where the sexual exploits form the crux of the writings, where the prurient details are the primary subject-matter and I would bet money we’re talking online ...

And bringing online off, very, very seldom works.

I know that because I am actually conversant with a number of online into reality relationships, and almost without exception, within a fairly brief period of time, they dissolved in a miasma of disappointment, disillusionment and anger. Because REALITY means maintaining an online persona 24 hours a day, 7 days a week just isn’t possible. REALITY means that claims made are quickly seen to be either true or not. REALITY means that you get to see the aspects of self that had to that point been downplayed or overlooked and now have to be dealt with.

And yes, I do know that some DO work. Because in TODAY’S milieu, meeting online is a valid and sometimes excellent way of meeting people.

And thus it is possible (in theory anyway) to bring an Ms/s or D/s dynamic into reality if both participants are willing to make the changes necessary to suddenly allow for the influx of real life. The demands of children. The financial constraints or worries. Who cleans the toilet, does the dishes, picks up the laundry. Because online of course, those mundane realities are always the submissive’s job, part of her ‘servitude” but offline, the REALITY is she is probably working fulltime, has responsibilities to family and kids, and has a myriad of other demands on her real-time time that preclude the living out of what had been possible in a few hours a night. Conversely, the Master will have commensurate responsibilities to family and job, and demands as well that make him less than willing perhaps to take on total and intimate responsibility for someone else’s actions on a moment to moment basis.

That to me, is the line between fantasy and role-playing dynamics and real ones.

It’s bringing it into the realm where you can’t hide behind a created persona, where you learn to live with day to day pressures and realities and in the living, find ways to interact and maintain the dynamic which you both crave. It is knowing and wanting more than just the sexual servitude or the rush that sexual domination and submission provide, because you have internalized that the true motivation and satisfaction of an M/s or D/s dynamic is so much more than just physical.

In role-playing, you turn off the computer at the end of the night and walk back into your real life.

In real life dynamics, you take your problems and issues and joys and successes and failures with you both to bed.

Role-Playing versus Reality in the D/s World- Part 1

Greengirl asked, in my previous blog, “I am asking this question sincerely: what makes something role-playing or fantasy playing versus a d/s or m/s dynamic? I understand well that people are individuals and that the interactions of two (or more) people are thus unique. I also understand that there is no threshold criterion or set of definitions, but what do you see as being the fundamental difference? “

A valid question indeed!

I realize lately my tone is somewhat strident, my opinion decided. So I want to clarify first and foremost that I LOVE getting questions, being challenged, offered opposing viewpoints. I do not for one second think my opinion is the ONLY one, not even the most valid! It is simply my reality – how I perceive the world and as such, quantify a set of imperatives by which I’ve come to guide my life.

I have also reached a stage in my life where I find myself no longer fettered by convention nor bothered by the possibility of criticism and disapproval from others. While I take to heart disappointment or censure from those whom I love and respect, I am actively – and to a limited extent - liberating myself from the feminine constraints which smother ALL women from birth – rejecting societal pressures to force me into a certain “acceptable” mode of behaviour and demeanour.

So that being said (and I hope clarifying my position), this is how I differentiate.

Role-playing and Fantasy vs. Reality

First and foremost, the difference between role-playing and fantasy and what I believe is a real d/s or m/s dynamic, is at its most simplistic, REALITY itself.

Reality has a way of bitch smacking even the most imaginative individual into facing hard facts. All our realities bring with them, the commensurate pressures of living. Jobs which are often boring and conversely, too demanding. Financial worries. Mundane must do’s such as laundry and cooking meals, homework with children and cleaning the litter boxes. Reality brings days where you feel like strangling anyone that crosses your path, and nights when exhaustion precludes the sex you would like to have but that your tired body simply cannot contemplate. It brings with it moments when you want to scream at your partner – Master or not – and moments when he or she wants to kick a partner (submissive or not) to the curb out of frustration.

All of those mundane realities can be suspended in the online world. Your online Master or online subby is, in their minds and in yours, the epitome of perfection. Masters (and as mentioned before, I use this gender simply for convenience not because of any other reason) are always wise, always patient, have insight and an almost frightening ability to see motivation and to discern need. Submissives are invariably seeking to be always compliant, always humble, constantly seeking ways and means to meet the stated requirements of the beloved Master ... to find within themselves the perfect being whose acquiescence and surrender will fulfill his need for complete and utter control.

Does it mean that none of the yearning need to surrender, the commensurate opposite need to control, the ultimate goal which those of us with these inner compulsions to serve or be served seek is a myth?

Absolutely NOT.


There is a beauty in surrendering. There is an overwhelming joy in submitting to someone who makes your heart sing, who completes the circle so for that moment, that second, that point in time, there is such peace that it can bring you to tears .... and I know, from D’s words and thoughts, that for him, a similar and as profoundly spiritual experience occurred at points in our relationship from the opposite end of the spectrum.

And during our many, many years together, we wove elements of our dynamic into the fabric of our reality. Before we even knew to call what we had a Dominant/submissive dynamic, before we learned to call our dark sides (his sadism, my masochism, which of course are not necessary elements of either the M/s or D/s dynamic but often found there, nonetheless), BDSM – we danced the dance.

We had rituals. We had things I did for him as a matter of course (I am very service oriented). He in turn provided nurturing, he was my rock, my pool of calm in my chaotic ocean. And yes, ultimately, the direction our lives took were largely his choice, good or bad.

D. quite frankly, like no other man in my life, controlled my thoughts, words and deeds. I changed elemental parts of myself to try to meet his expectations. And I did so joyously and because I needed to, wanted to, craved to. And he in turn, despite fighting his need for me, found himself growing and expanding into a life he might never have imagined as his feet walked in tandem with mine down paths neither of us envisioned.

Because you see, reality means you DO impact each other. It means change occurs whether sought or not. It also means that not all changes are positive nor experiences constructive.

It also means there are times in your lives, sometimes even extended periods of time, when the dynamic is in abeyance, suspended and neglected because of other more pressing concerns, when only elements of it are there, strong threads of connectivity and strength that maintain you both, and in dark days of pressure and time constraint and stress, sustain and maintain the ultimate way you interact.

Reality means there is awareness on the part of each individual that certain strengths should be nurtured and appreciated; whether they “fit” the fantasy description of the dynamic you call yourselves. It means that not every moment is perfect, nor every encounter positive. It means people – both the dominant and the submissive, screw up – not once, not twice, but because we are fallible human beings, throughout your lives together.


Monday, August 24, 2009


What are little submissives made of?
What are little submissives made of?
Sugar and spice and everything nice
That’s what little submissives are made of?

What are little dominants made of?
What are little dominants made of?
Snips and snails and puppy dog tails
That’s what little dominants are made of.

Except they are NOT.

First, dominance is NOT gender-exclusive. As much as the ostensible internet doms pontificate about a “man’s natural order is to command” and a “woman’s is to submit” – it JUST ain’t true! There are MANY many male submissives and many, many female dominants. Literature providing advice on domination is almost predominantly female written. Munches often offer a plethora of female dominants and male submissives. The only arena that persists in the myth of male-based dominance and female-based submission as a given is the internet – which is hardly proof of the pudding to continue the nursery rhyme metaphor.

“Indeed, submissive men are the single largest component of the D/s communities and widespread male interest in sexual submission is an observable phenomenon.”

Different Loving – the World of Sexual Dominance & Submission
by Gloria Brame and William D. Brame and John Jacobs

Nancy Friday

“Why did I in fact receive far more fantasies from men that expressed masochistic desires than the other way around – the ratio was 4 to 1”

On a more personal note, D. has attended a fair share of hand-on classes on flogging and other delicious forays and without exception, the classes have been made up of predominantly MALE switches or submissives and FEMALE dominants. His last class on flogging (4 hour class) had 11 participants – 9 female dominants, 1 male switch (who candidly admitted his FEMALE partner insisted he go and become a switch for her edification) and ONE dominant – D.

Worse than the assumption – often given weight as fact – of the exclusive sectioning of gender into either submission or domination, my forays near and far around the web have lately made me somewhat of a cranky pants, engendered in part by the ridiculous assertions, infantile perceptions and no doubt- internet-generated assumptions regarding what in fact does “being submissive” or conversely, “being dominant” mean?

I feel as if I am trapped lately in an endless nightmare of Fetlife nonsense (and yes, I admit I lasted barely a month before I was driven out by what my daughter used to call the “stupid-heads).

Now, having clarified how strongly I feel about gender-based designations, from this point, I will use the feminine tense for submission and the male for domination- simply because that is what I myself am familiar with, NOT because it is the only choice.

Submission first and foremost is something that is GIVEN. Not coerced, not demanded, not taken. It is something an individual OFFERS to another individual who has, through time, experience, understanding, leadership and character compelled a need in her to offer, humbly, her body, mind and heart to his care.


Too often I see again and again, the inevitable MALE self-designated dominant pontificating on HIS demands, what he wants, what is crucial to HIS peace of mind – and very damn little about the other half of the equation.

A submissive is more than a pair of breasts, a cunt.

She is a breathing, thinking, feeling human being with all the complicated psyche of any human being. She brings with her not just a body to fuck or abuse, but a Pandora’s box of past experiences (good and bad), personality traits intrinsic to who she is, a lifetime of personal skills, observations born of a lifetime of her personal encounters, her demons, her angels.

And what she seeks is an honourable dominant.

Someone to serve who deserves her servitude, who both relishes and is grateful for the gift of her pain, a man who himself is multi-dimensional, has his own demons and his own angels, who is humble enough to understand his own limitations and proud and capable enough to be willing to work at and overcome them. A man whose inner strength and confidence make him admirable and whose strength makes him compelling.

Someone who understands that her submission brings with it a commensurate responsibility of care. Someone who inspires in her a fervid and passionate desire to become the best she can be – for his sake and with his guidance.

Someone who understands that a D/s relationship is in truth a DYNAMIC.

dy·nam·ic [ dī námmik ]



1. vigorous and purposeful: full of energy, enthusiasm, and a sense of purpose and able both to get things going and to get things done

2. active and changing: characterized by vigorous activity and producing or undergoing change and developmenta dynamic economy

3. physics relating to energy and motion: involving or relating to energy and forces that produce motion ...

6. physics changing over time: describes any system that changes over time.

(from Encarta)

Apt description is it not? A healthy D/s relationship is “vigorous and purposeful”, it is “active and changing and relates to “energy and forces that produce motion” ... and because we are dealing with mutable, changeable and ever-growing minds and hearts, dynamic ALSO means “any system that changes over time”.

But get this... it is two-way!

And you know what? It is ALL about free will – as contradictory as some of the internet denizens may find that – it is ALL about CHOOSING – for BOTH parties.

Not only hers to submit, but HIS to accept the submission , and AWARENESS of expectations and willingness to relinquish will because it is her CHOICE and her wish to do so and yes, HIS right, if he SO CHOOSES, to accept.

It is not about coercion.

It is not about duplicity.

It is most definitely not about only one individual’s adolescent fantasies.

Monday, August 17, 2009


My hair spills down my back, damp tendrils of curl wildly dancing around my face as humid night slides across my flushed skin and the warm breath of summer breathes hot along the dark road which stretches ahead of the gambolling dogs. I walk the night and gaze up at the sliver of moon which hangs low on the horizon, golden light glowing in the glimpse into the world beyond.

My body feels swollen and fecund, breasts loose under the thin material of my summer dress, engorged, nipples distended and clearly delineated. Skin bared by the skimpy dress stings slightly in the slight breeze which ruffles a slight relief across my moist skin, and I smile as I recall past pleasure. I look about but the night is mine and the shrouded misty street is empty. I reach into the bodice and cup the warm, plump flesh then sighing, release first one, then the other breast to jounce slightly, their slight weight freed from the meagre constraint of cotton, the soft flesh bared to the gloaming night.

I look down and see the pale flesh glow in the refracted light of streetlamps, the nipples dark and swollen. A bruise blooms on the inner curve of my left breast and when I run my fingers gently over the darkened flesh, a slight ache brings a twinge between my thighs.

Slipping into the house a little later, my flesh contracts, the tiny hairs on my arm stiffening as the air conditioning blows cool against my humid flesh. I slip into the dark room, the hiss of the air conditioner breathing in the background as I kneel on the bed, sheets cool beneath my knees.

Barely touching, I pull the sheet down his body and shiver as his unique scent drifts through the cool of the room, an atavistic response to a scent as familiar to me as my own. I lean, breasts hanging, falling from my rib cage, nipples yearning toward the warm, sleeping flesh. I breathe along the length of his body until I reach the sweet juncture of his groin where his length lies quiescent along one strong thigh.

Opening my lips I exhale along the tender, soft flesh, tongue trailing, barely touching its salty tip. I nestle my mouth into the juncture of thighs and tightening my lips push against his loose scrotum, then lick strongly along the perineum. In the light which drifts from the hallway, my eyes gleam in the dusk of the room and watch as he stirs and smile as the soft flesh jerks and shivers.

My fingers dance between his thighs and I hear him sigh and breasts trembling, I follow my eyes to his humid cock and envelop his length in my warm mouth, lips sealing. I feel his flesh jerking and lengthening, hardening as my tongue probes and licks and my mouth suckles at his root, pulling it up and out from the tender, delicate flesh of his scrotum.

His breath catches in the quiet of the room and then quickens as my mouth works rhythmically, my tongue dancing lightning quick around the pulsing length, dipping and rimming the sweet hooded tip, lapping, cheeks hollowing as I pull him deep into my throat. My other hand captures my breast which jounces as my head bobs and I squeeze it reflexively, my fingers indenting its smooth freckled flesh.

Not yet ritual yet comfort and a sweet sensuous moment in a chaotic life of demand and need and reluctant, sighing, my lips loosen and I slowly release his throbbing length to lie solid against his belly and gently, delicately, drop butterfly kisses along its length and up the warm torso and nestle into the crook of his neck and pull his scent deep.

Sighing, I rise and crawl off the bed to face my day, leaving him slumbering and dreaming dulcet dreams of creamy thighs and warm mouths.

Sunday, August 16, 2009

Sunday Shout: Internet Seers

I know, it’s not Thursday Rant Day, so I am now instituting a Sunday Shout day.

I actually had a delicious, unexpected and thoroughly enjoyable few hours to myself today; normally I would have brought the bad shepherds to the park and for a swim but it is so excruciatingly hot outside, even contemplating it, makes me ill. I was out for a couple of hours early this morning to run errands and by the time 10 a.m. came I was a mess – this skin, this hair, this constitution still thinks it is living by the cool Atlantic and cannot tolerate this kind of inferno!

So I here I sit, laptop in hand, dogs at my feet, surfing the net ...

And in so doing came across a whole subculture which I will honestly state, I usually avoid. First – I am NOT saying that people living lifestyles to which I cannot relate are “wrong” nor that they do not have the RIGHT to live a life that works for them – but hell, when one put themselves out there (and that includes me) – then we also open ourselves to conflicting viewpoints.

It’s those blogs I see (and I came across a whole bunch, cleverly and erroneously (in my opinion) incorrectly labelled) where the Dominant is the All-Knowing, Invariably Correct God-Man and where the submissive is the Ultra-Feminine, Always Subservient, Always Submissive Little Girl-Woman – you know the types.

First, in MY opinion that is NOT D/s or M/s but more correctly, a stylized, unrealistic HOH or DD – both of which may have ELEMENTS of D/s or M/s and some S/m thrown in for good measure – but in their narrow interpretation of power relationships do not allow for what I believe are a plethora of various dynamics under the umbrella of real life BDSM.

Don’t get me wrong- there are REAL HOH and DD dynamics that I am sure work and work well. Some of my own internet buddies practice this lifestyle and do it admirably and well. The difference between THEIR realities and much of the crap I read out there (and worse are those who present themselves as “experts” and “counsellors”) is that in the real relationships, it is obvious and comforting to understand and read about the realities of life which get in the way of the fantasy. In short, like us all, it is obvious that both parties are fallible, sometimes wrong and most of all, REAL. What they strive for is a concept of a dynamic which fulfills their individual needs with a healthy dose of understanding that any relationship is a work in progress and either individual is capable of making mistakes.

There are just certain platitudes, “assumptions” made that are simply not accurate. Dominance and submission is not gender-based – it simply is not. It is not the “natural order” but rather a religious-based dogma boosted by cultural interpretations and prejudices and bolstered by centuries of misogyny.

Even more illuminating, this entire “concept” is almost ENTIRELY an internet-propagated mythology that does not stand the test of real time dynamics. I often see it as an elaborate and alternate form of “gaming” (Dungeons and Dragons, where are you?).

Most objectionable about the preachy blogs I see out there is the assumptions that somehow the male, simply through (one must surmise) owning a penis, is somehow granted insight, perspective and an almost psychic ability to comprehend, interpret and grasp the intricacies of dialogue, action and reaction that occurs between any two individuals. That in his godhead, he is capable of invariable and incontrovertible correctness in word and deed and is, because of his lofty status, is never open to criticism nor disagreement.

Conversely, the submissive (with the mutable reality of vagina) must in thought, word, deed and demeanour be always seeking to “live up” to the male’s expectations and requirements. In short, she is ultimately and almost irredeemably flawed against the Dominant’s perfection.

Truth be told, it is not really that difficult to separate the wheat from the chaff... for the pretence of infallibility becomes with time, tedious to the extreme. Being perfect, when all is said and done, leaves very little to talk about in the end!

In addition to the Heart of Darkness mentality of the male Dominant in these absurd compilations of bombast and peachiness, there is a commensurate tendency to denigrate and dehumanize the submissive. She becomes one-dimensional and crudely drawn – a collection of female genetalia and vacuous thought processes, which begs the question, why in the world would one wish someone so weak of spirit and malleable to submit?

By the same token, as a submissive, I can’t think of anything more horrifying than submitting to someone who presents himself as having no human flaws nor would never find himself at a loss for words or counsel.

However you describe your dynamic – either in the living or the hope of achieving – understanding and accepting the fallibility of the human beast is the first step towards building a healthy dynamic. Dialogue which is collaborative and mutual is essential. Comprehending and being comfortable with your partner (or potential partner’s) ultimate goals for a fulfilling relationship involves communication, compromise and a fluidity of purpose that would be categorically rejected by our Internet Seers.

D/s, M/s, HOH, DD – these are, when all is said and done, CONCEPTS of a lifestyle to which one can aspire – in the doing, they require an open mind, a cautious soul and an understanding of human fallacies.

Saturday, August 15, 2009

just saying....

if one decides to take up some BDSM-practices again after a VERY long hiatus - let's say, some serious spanking... well, one should keep in mind that we got one bad shepherd in November 2007 and the other in May 2008. Keeping in mind that bad shepherds are VERY attached to their mum and as a breed, VERY protective.

Just saying.

Finn didn't MEAN to rip your pants nor did the Llyr-boy really REALLY plan on biting when he straddled my back and snarled at you after they battered the door down and pounded to the rescue ... you KNOW the bad shepherds love you - ...


they just love me MORE.

Friday, August 14, 2009


(Finbar gave permission for me to post the poem below, one of my favourites of his)

Touching Your Hips

by f-cynyr

I know touching your
hips, that in ages hence,
someone beyond me will
reside in the summer green
of your eyes.

And they will, like me now,
be touching your hips with
wishes on their breath and
allure in their mouth.

And like me, they will drift
in the folds of your body and
ride the puffing billows
of your warmth.

And I will ache, when ages hence,
my hands will be empty
of the heat and form that
my palms and fingers now
decode and solve.

And ages hence, the cavity of
your absence will throb in my
collapsing chest and I will be lost
in the vastness of my future without
the buoyancy of your breath and
the promise of your hips.


If you think about it, the concept of ‘history’ is utterly subjective and reliant on the viewpoint, prejudices, knowledge and outlook of the individual recounting it. This is true not just of our own personal histories – which are coloured by our perceptions and knowledge AT THE TIME, but by history in general. They say the outcome of battles are written by the victors and the perceptions therefore are those of the victorious; the motivations, reasoning and thoughts of the vanquished are given little shrift. The narrator determines the tone and the perception and a true and unbiased rationality is impossible.

Lately, I’ve been musing on my own history and seeing in it as I cast my mind and heart back to other days and reviewing the fallacies of self and motive in the light of today’s illumination, an ironically poignant understanding of situations that at the time perplexed, confused and oftentimes, wounded me in their obtuseness.

History is a quilt of colour and texture that each of us assiduously stitches each day. Our lives are in truth, a fabric, an ever changing panorama of colour and texture and import. We take each moment, each second of our life and thread emotion and experience, pain and joy into a tapestry of unique design. We run our fingers through the textures of sentiment and shiver as we trail passion along our thighs. Needles can prick and wound our fingers as they nimbly weave what we think is fact into the growing design only to stand back and. in contemplating our work, see realities undetected due to proximity and impact.

Our quilt is quixotic and inimitable, each individual creation a kaleidoscope of colour and design, its own unique blueprint. It is inevitable that at points we step back to contemplate our task and in so doing, find fault with past perception and understanding. Maturity, experience and knowledge gained through insight and the patina of new experience muddy colours we thought pristine and bring a rich, burnished glow to what we once thought were mundane cloth.

We pull our history around us and nestle into its memories and recollections and lift a corner of our past to dab tears of past transgressions from eyes gone cloudy with thought.

The human creature tends to judge history and label it in terms of “bad” or “good” when its reality is that it is neither; it is instead the concrete threads which cobble together our lives; its patterns and textures are woven through the threads of other thoughts and experiences and forms in the end a moving, living tapestry of immutable nows that create in each heart and mind a past.

History is changeable, sometimes capricious and at moments, illuminating.

History can be burdensome or it can be liberating. It can bring with it the warmth of shared memories which preclude the necessity of stolid explanation or lend to thought a sting and a painful reminder of what was.

Ultimately it is mutable and open always to a new interpretation, because the fluidity of life together with the complexity of the human spirit provides a never-ending stream of possible interpretations and perceptions that cannot, should not, will not, be captured in resin…

And each of us, each moment, each second, each breath, wield thread and needle and weave into the intricate pattern of our lives, new thoughts, memories and perceptions that create the fabric of future reflections of past lives…

Tuesday, August 11, 2009


[note: the image I found here in a google search for 'red-haired boy' - it is NOT Drew BUT, when I came across it, I was shocked speechless.... because it is IDENTICAL to how I remember him - and checking with D. he too was pole-axed at the resemblance.]

There is a green sign on the highway to and from Montreal, Route 778 – Moulinette Road, Long Sault. If you take the long winding road, you will reach a small community nestled just up from the St. Lawrence, a pristine wilderness of tree and flower-studded meadows, rocky beaches with pristine inlets and campgrounds much in demand during the hot, lazy days of summer and into the blazing glory of fall.

A spirit waits for me there, on the green verge at the side of the road, dotted with echenecia and black eyed susans swaying in the breeze from the cars which breathe past with a sigh, blind to the figure which drifts through the thick stand of trees stretching deep into the countryside. The transport trucks that trundle along the black ribbon of asphalt like lumbering pachyderms, sense not the quiet soul which waits patiently for my frequent journeys past, dreaming of a youth forever suspended in the past.

His name was Drew.

His hair was a deep, rich dark red and fell in waves and curls well below his shoulders, thick and the envy of many, a source of merriment between he and I as we vied for the wildest locks. His eyes were a clear, glacial blue, at times merry, dancing with humour and affection, but could harden into the street-smart realities of his Celtic ancestry and rough upbringing. But I remember most the soft, limpid kindness of those lovely eyes, compassionate and yearning looking into my own as he once again would blot my tears and cup my face.

D. filled my soul, my heart, my mind and my attention in those early days; his actions and reactions, his absences and small, careless cruelties, his compelling sexuality against which I was helpless obsessed me. He was my puppeteer and like a marionette, I danced and cavorted to the tunes he chose and like a broken doll, would lie helpless in the corner when his interest turned elsewhere.

Often, on those cruel nights when D.’s demons drove him from me with a shrug and a careless wave, it was Drew who would appear beside me, his big hands gentle on my face as he wiped away tears, his voice gentle in my ears as he crooned comfort and reassurance and assured me of my worth. He called me Treasure; I remember that now, though for a very long time I had forgotten. He would walk me home after D. abandoned me, his big arm warm around my shoulder, our hair, almost identical, curling in the hot, humid embrace of a Montreal summer night, our thick, red waves twining and dancing as we walked the deserted streets.

At my home, he would lift my hand to his lips and kiss it gently, and run his fingers along my cheek and take upon the tip, the glistening salt drop of my tears and sip it, gently, into his cruelly beautiful sculpted lips, then sighing, tell me again I was a Treasure and send me in.

Even while I felt grateful for his comfort and caring, I was blind to what I think now might have been more; so entwined was I with my obsession, compelling and overwhelming, with D. that there existed not even a small space in my soul that recognized trueness of caring, the genuineness of want.

But I cared for him, my friend and warrior Drew.

Though somewhat a ‘bad boy’ like many I knew in the day, I felt comfortable and safe around him, relaxed and confident of being accepted and liked. In hindsight, I was an innocent among a lot of rather bad wolves and often marvel that it must have been that naivety, the freshness of it that stayed their hands and made their fierce grins gentle, the predatory slavering want, quieten.

Long Sault was a favourite haunt of the crowd among which I mingled, a place where weekend bacchanalias of indulgence played out, maenads and satyrs cavorted and played out their riotous revels against the background of campfire and the blaze of stars in a wine dark sky. But for me, innocent that I was in those days, Long Sault was off-limits and though I sometimes envied and secretly yearned to experience the wildness of those summer nights, I remained obediently home, D’s secret escape, his to take or not, his property and despite the heartache and the agony, content to be so.

And one hot, humid summer night, his eyes alight with the dying cry of starlight, with colours weaving and dancing in a moonless sky, his body insubstantial and ethereal, Drew staggered his way to the black river of asphalt and opened his arms and his heart to the glory of light which swept through the hot summer breeze and grasped eternity .

And I do not pass Exit 778 without thinking of my friend Drew and feeling a poignant sadness for the dreaming spirit which drifts insubstantial along the black-topped highway and dreams of youth and a future never realized.

Drew, you are not forgotten.

Friday, August 7, 2009

The Dark Place

Each of us has our Dark Place.

Not the safe warm embrace of dusk where we sometimes escape and nestle in the womblike embrace of silence and gentle dawn, where the absence of noise and strife soothes and replenishes spirits battered by lives that have spiralled into chaos and franticness.

No, the Dark Place is a place of grief, of sorrow and despair. It is a creeping, black place where you stumble and fall, and cut yourself on shards of misery and stumble over intent and stub your toe against indecision and regret.

Every single human being has a Dark Place; as children we recognize and fear it and cry out into the night for our parents who soothe us and whisper lies meant to be truths that there is no Dark Place while frantically beating back the fingers of Dark which reach into their own lives.

The human beast is resilient and the pervasive memory of the Dark Place fades and is thrust deep inside as realities of life claim focus and the fleeting pleasure of thought and action, feeling and meaning bring light and create havens, pockets of small moments that illuminate and provide hope (the Dark Place despises hope).

But the Dark Place is always there. The Dark Place festers like a suppurating sore deep in our souls. Its pull is insidious and at times, powerful. Its siren call resonates in moments of great adversity and echoes in our hearts during intervals of pain and disillusion.

For some the Dark Place is familiar and oft visited, a place of reluctant familiarity, for those, “despised and rejected of men, a man of sorrows and acquainted with grief” ... and cruel realities open the path to the Dark Place’s familiar nooks and crannies, its dark corridors of woeful certitude.

For some, the stay in the Dark Place is thankfully brief, a natural resilience of spirit and belief makes their sojourn in its frigid corridors infrequent and short-lived. For others, the realities of the Dark Place are their everyday bread, its dark embrace more familiar than the light of alternate thought.

As individual as each human being is, so too is their personal Dark Space unique.

I know mine intimately. Its dark corridors are familiar territory, though all Dark Places are ever-changing, moving about and confusing and disorienting their inhabitants. I cast my mind back over a life of contrast and disparity, of places of Light and Illusion and then the inevitable descent into Darkness. and Disillusion and find in the certitude of the inevitable Fall, a bitter irony.

For no matter that when light floods our lives and drowns our gaze in radiant want, cloaking darkness in the refracted glow of hope, the Dark Place survives and waits for dusk to fall.

Carmina Burana

My favourite opera - probably because it was the very first my father introduced to me!

and thanks to the head's up by JZ - here's a version by Enigma

and yet another Enigma, remix version and the Love Sensuality Devosion one that JZ mentions:

Thursday, August 6, 2009

"Modern CRAP"

Florida Dom cited a story about the ostensible “saving of a marriage” here and sought feedback from his readers respecting Ms. Munson’s manner of handling a potential marriage breakdown.

While my gut reaction was immediate and forceful, time and experience (and self insight) made me pause and reflect further.

You know what? Now some two days later – I STILL say – NOT ON YOUR LIFE BUD!

The whole martyr wife thing leaves me COLD.

Together with the “political wife” syndrome where the long-suffering helpmate whose spent countless hours alone, eaten 1000+ plus rubber chickens, put herself “on” over and over to support a husband whose infidelities and betrayals make a fool and a mockery of her sacrifices – I don’t THINK so.

My feeling? Unlike the majority of the 200+ comments on the story, Laura, you’re a putz! Husband, you’re a JERK.

He didn’t come back! He got DUMPED.

Yeah, pretty damn obvious an affair occurred. And that he got kicked to the curb after a few months.

And you know what, Laura? By “ignoring” it and not demanding the respect and loyalty you deserved as his partner, you in essence, gave him permission to act like a spoiled, petulant CHILD – and what’s more, you’ve given him permission to do it AGAIN. After all, what are the repercussions to him?

Not a damn thing! He got to come and go as he pleased. He wasn’t taxed or harassed or told his actions were irresponsible, hurtful and unacceptable. And then at the end, he gets it all BACK, just as if he had never tried to throw it away! You bet your bottom dollar it will be even easier the NEXT time.

First point: treating an adult man as you would a “trantrumming child” is insulting not just to the woman but to the man! Men are not children. Nor should they be treated as such.

Where the hell is his maturity? His sense of responsibility? His honour?

So while he was doing whatever the hell he was doing, salvaging his “pride”- who was paying the bills? Who was doing that lawn that she saw as such a positive step when he finally stepped up to the plate? Who was taking care of the kids and the house and dealing with her own wounded and painful emotional trauma?

And just what did his kids think?

Did he talk to them about why daddy wasn’t around? Why he was only in and out on his own schedule and why he and mummy were estranged?

Kids aren’t stupid you know.

So nice lesson.

Girl child – this is what you do – you suffer in silence. You allow your partner to “find” himself while you pick up the slack and suck up the pain.

Boy child – lucky eh? You get to turf responsibility. You don’t have to stick to vows made nor follow through on adult responsibilities. Sweet deal, eh?

For me, mutual respect is a HUGE part of any healthy dynamic. It is woefully lacking on both their parts here.

Picking up your toys and saying you’re leaving and don’t want to play any more is simply not an option when we actually grow up. Deciding that you don’t like your choices is not unusual and is often passing due to stress or depression or a myriad of reasons. Working through these with the other adult in the equation is the responsible and mature thing an adult does.

What a misnomer the title of the column “Modern Love”.

That isn’t MODERN love, hell, that is the religiously sanctioned crap women have been handed for the past several centuries. As if keeping the man is what it is all about. As if sucking up pain and humiliation is our lot in life. As if this is “saving” a marriage.

The whole damn thing is a travesty.

I’m all for saving a marriage or a committed relationship. I believe implicitly that no relationship should be jettisoned without fighting hard to see if the love that inspired it in the first place can be salvaged and revived. But damned if that can be done or SHOULD be done if only ONE partner is doing the fighting.

Here, let me pack your bags for you – my lawyer will be in touch...

Wednesday, August 5, 2009

Pity Party

DISCLAIMER: Please join me in my pity party today- I intend to wallow in it. Not to worry, I’m nothing if resilient and this too shall pass..

I feel ugly.

I think all of us go through moments of self introspection where we turn a critical eye on on our imperfect bodies with a ruthless disregard for extenuating realities such as time and the inevitable march of gravity. Most of us have the capacity to be cruelly intolerant of our perceived flaws, looking at what we think are irredeemable horrors under a microscope, allowing no leavening dollop of compassion or acceptance to mar our total disgust.

Envy cloaks me in shame as I lament the lack of money which would allow me to buy the erasure of time and experience from a face which has seen too many days, not enough sleep and far, far too much stress. I am envious of a friend who I love dearly and her belly, or lack thereof – sleek through a surgeon’s knife, the inevitable marks of childbearing magically erased, skin and muscle magically restored. I envy her visits to a clinic where laser restores moisture and firmness to skin battered by the sun of thousand days, lines etched through life’s lessons and the marks and inevitable tracing of life’s vicissitudes are no longer apparent.

I know the rational explanations for my mid-life hate-fest. I know the trite if well meant rejoinders about time adding character, that I should bear the marks with “pride”....

It doesn’t cut it today – damned if it cuts it any day, but today, it most definitely doesn’t cut it.

I want to look in a mirror and not cringe.

I want to feel desired.

I want the sensuality that I feel in my soul to be sensed and embraced. I want the essence of the being that is me to be wanted and needed and desired. I want to be able to look at my body, into my eyes, and feel there is a reason WHY someone would want to run their fingers along my pale skin, cup my breasts and tease me into hot panting want. I want to feel that breathless, frantic need pouring from his eyes and spill into hands that grasp and demand and seek.

Words are trite.

Actions speak.

And when you have been as physical as I have, when you have embraced and revelled in and wallowed and adored the reality of flesh, having yours rejected endlessly is humbling. It is humiliating. It is hurtful and soul-destroying.

And it is my reality.

And nothing- absolutely nothing – will convince me that if I had the time, the money, the leisure to combat time’s encroachments, I might still be desired.

I feel ugly today.

Tuesday, August 4, 2009

daughter of the sea

The sea isn’t always benign, a soft blue blanket, drowsing under a noonday sun and yawning to a horizon of sky and water that melds and melts into a homogenous whole, a universe of soft breeze and the gentle lap of wave and the rhythmic rocking of surf lapping against the shore.

The sea isn’t always kind, sweet breeze breathing salt along closed lids and puckering lips drying in the heat of the golden heat which spills down from a sky which reflects back the infinity of blue and the wisp of cloud and hope which resonates in your breast as you breathe the rhythm of the surf which whispers sibilantly in your drowsing mind.

The sea is capricious and called cruel when cruelty is a human concept, lending meaning to what is a reality of droplets of salt and precipitation, of cold which snakes up from the depths yet unexplored and is comprised of a thousand million cellular realities of death and life and excretion and endless, repetitive rich cycles of life and death.

And I love it for its capriciousness.

And I love it for its gentleness.

And I love it for its rages.

To stand on a cliff, lashed by wind and feel the slash of salt and frigid water against your skin and hear over the cacophony of your thoughts the roar and rage of water lashed into madness by a night which wheels around your head, a kaleidoscope of light and fury which flashes electric in your mind and resonates a great and powerful throbbing in your heart.

To look through the gloaming dusk and watch the waves vomit spume and heave their great levitation bulk against the standing rocks and send fingers of frigid rage into the crevasses and seek egress to the land which defies its might.

To lose the delineation of skin and sinew, muscle and blood coursing through human veins and feel instead your body expand and reach out and embrace and become one with a sky which wheels and screams and sinks into the heaving brine until the moisture and fury of both coalesce and become a great and wonderful terror that one can breathe in and feel explode in realness in your soul…

that is MY sea.

The one which beckons in the furthest reaches of my soul, that fills my mind with green and grey and fluid depths of cool want and need and makes my heart ache with a physically compelling pain that pulls me towards the water that breathes pretence in its pristine, staidness through the towering steel trap of the city.

The lake I watch with jaundiced eyes mimics the import of words as the lake mimics the sea. They whisper pretence and promise yet carry in them nothing of import or genuineness. I remember when the words would capture me in silken strands of yearning, infused with significance and pregnant with substance and sincerity. I see them now in the harsh light of experience, and while the words wend and encircle my heart in pain and ache, I know beyond their utterances is a vapid reality of lies. Lies, I concur, not always consciously driven nor meant to be not truth.

My youngest daughter runs with a set whose parents utter often the words “I love you” – when greeting, when leaving, when seeing and sighing. I do not. Even before my current reality, I always felt truly that hands and heart and action served more truth up than words which can be released without thought or import or true intent. For me love is the doing not the saying. My love for her is in the creation of meals to tempt a 16-year old vegan appetite; in the stroke of hand through hair when a child is weary, in the knowing and the doing and the nurturing.

Words can carry with them a powerful impact, that I do not deny. But conversely, when the words are exposed and become trite, then the impact is more hurtful, more agonizing in the unmasking of the realty of the moment a harsher lesson by far than mere pretence.

I read the words and I feel a great and terrible rage build.

For I live the reality and it is not those words.

I want my sea and the lonely aerie of sky and brine and the harsh crying roar of an ocean which calls me to its frigid embrace. I want to leave behind the words which wound and cut me like the sharp jutting reality of rock and cliff against which my sea pulses and tears and weeps salted tears of despair.

Musings on Dynamic - Part Two

(Note: I have cited in italics some of the comments to which I refer, but others can be found under the original post)

In view of the wonderfully enlightening and insightful comments, I felt this subject deserved another visit. And rather than address each one in the comment form, I think it helpful and more likely to engender more thought here in another blog.

There seems to be a general (if not total) consensus that there are several factors at play here.

First and foremost, the “bullshit” quotient – which Buffalo brings up and which many concur with – including me. I concluded some time ago that it was physically impossible in terms of reality for ANYONE to have the sheer number and variety of “encounters” described in some of those silly writings. Not and actually have a real time life – you know, jobs, housework, kids, family, friends – the sort of mundane things that most of us actually deal with on a day to day basis! The fantasy of endless erotic play, extended and frequent flogging sessions, the never-ending priapism just don’t ring true after repetition day after day after day.

In this context, some of the more extreme descriptions of what is termed BDSM play are also suspect – albeit I am well aware that extreme BDSM play does exist and occur (I’m not arguing that)- but I find it easy to discern the reality versus the fantasy if you read regularly as after an extreme session, the “real” person usually is quite straightforward about the recovery period required and the ongoing effects – our bodies, when all is said and done – ARE flesh and require a certain period time to recover!

Second, the fantasy element is also obvious when one looks at the many insightful comments.
Christina’s experience for instance is I think a common one. Thank god that she and others are savvy enough and have enough self-esteem to refuse congress with someone who demands unprotected sex yet admits to multiple partners!

I think Sara hits a very salient point in that many individuals accept abuse under the guise of BDSM play due to emotional issues. As I said in my first blog- I don’t deny these individuals the right to garner whatever satisfaction they can from what are in essence, abusive relationships in sheep’s clothing – but at the same time I am not going to be one of the crowd watching the naked emperor stroll by and pretend he is clothed. As Sara says, “Bottom line, while I don't think you can peg one particular practice as good or bad, I believe there IS a difference between healthy and not healthy, sane and insane, and BDSM doesn't fundamentally change those lines.”

It is done because it can be so.” insightful Liras points out and she is absolutely correct. A lot of its DOES happen simply because it can.

I call it abuse, they call it love and fulfilled passion.” she goes on to state and again, I can’t argue. Nor do I have the right to step in and try to “correct” what I see as a skewed and unhealthy viewpoint. But while I do not have the right to interfere, I DO have the right to state categorically and honestly what MY perception of the dynamic is! As they are entitled to live that relationship as otherwise rational adults, so too do I have the right to state I think it abusive and harmful.

That is what an ostensibly “free” society allows.

JZ, newbie or not, has good instincts (in my viewpoint anyway). “Submission is, for me, a way of integrating and becoming more completely myself. How does participating in the destruction of my self-respect have anything to do with that?

There are those of course who will argue the opposite – that a submissive must be torn down and “re-created” – that she (for it is ALWAYS a she – another sore point for me – you seldom see male submissives treated in this fashion), but I would argue as Jz does: “So what he'd be getting is no longer something either of us can value. What's the point of that"– and that has always been a point that perplexed me. Why indeed are you trying to completely and utterly alter the essence of the submissive who one could safely assume attracted you for certain innate personality quirks that belong only to her?

And darling M:e focuses on an important part of a dynamic – “D/s has the power to be enhancing to a relationship, but also extremely destructive.” – about which most of my insightful readers have voiced concern – that an M/s or D/s dynamic carries with it not just physical impact and the potential realities of physical harm but almost more potentially dangerous is the emotional blast that can occur when involved in a dynamic which demands giving up not just your body but your will and your heart.

Amber, Sir J. and vanilla imp both question when does a submissive become a victim, and why... and are excellent examples of healthy individuals who are able to recognize the difference bewteen surrender and victimization. I also think Amber night have a good clue in that she points out it is not necessarily the act itself that causes concern, but the “attitude” or manner in which it is vested or received.

And the Imp like a few other commentators bring up something often seen on the web (not sure about real life) wherein the submissive herself somehow sees the ability to take the most extreme form of physical and emotional pain as somehow placing her in a superior position to others. I’m not really sure where this concept arose nor why snagging the badge of the ‘most harmed’ is somehow a positive but it is probably largely responsible for my very short tenure on Fetlife where I found the one-upmanship patently irritating and absurd!

Annie offers an eminently rational explanation – and one with which I wholeheartedly concur. “Self-destructive habits are also an addiction. Emotional pain is something people indulge in as much as any other familiar source of drama and stress.” In a nutshell, I think this probably accounts for many destructive relationships – I know that at one point some time ago I wrote about my own perceptions of those who seek emotional and physical trauma again and again and Annie’s words capture my own thoughts perfectly.

And finally, just to address Florida Dom’s comment: Indeed! that may be so – but I guess your words simply illustrate the point I’m trying to make. Whether a submissive has multiple orgasms or NOT is no indication to my mind that the relationship is in any way healthy or in any SENSE positive to her state of mind.

I absolutely concur that no one size fits all – and reiterate again that I do not consider myself in any way superior or able to pass judgment on other relationships – however, having said that, I still would state categorically and emphatically, many self-labelled D/s or M/s relationships I see out there are not what I personally consider truly indicative of MY perception of the dynamic – and most likely under most circumstances would indeed be labelled clearly and unequivocally ABUSE – orgasms or not.

In the end, each of us must draw our own conclusions.

While I fret (as do many here) about the perceptions and internalization of what to my mind is destructive behaviour in some writings, I also feel that each of us must take responsiblity for making our own choices, drawing our own conclusions and giving to others the same freedom of thought and action to which we are entitled.

At the same time, I will retain my lance and continue to tilt at windmills ....

Sunday, August 2, 2009