We Made It!

Isabel is a Bitch

10:50am. High winds, rain, dark and gloomy.

All preparations made. Cats are unhappy . Sophia hates storms.

Main storm not predicted to hit until 2pm. Will last, they figure til 8pm, then still more, but not as strong, until midnight.

Main computers are off - am on the laptop. Will keep it logged in until power/cable goes out. After that, will conserve the battery. Hopefully, phones don't go out.

Hanging in there. So far, this is kinda cool. We'll still see if I feel that way around dinner time.

3pm, Wednesday: Sunny outside. Party cloudy. Mid 70's. Pretty.

6pm, Wednesday: Completely cloud covered, lightly windy, low 70's. Not so pretty.

8pm, Wednesday: Dark, lightly windy, low 70s. Calm.

I'm going to enjoy it while I got it

Punishment
I’ll take it over guilt anyday.

I said, in an earlier entry: *. No need to drag it out. No need to feel guilty for it. It’s done and over with. (This comes into play for all punishment for me, not just age play.) I have huge issues with guilt, which I’ll get into later.

Okay, well it’s later.

I’ve been busy working to get things ready in case Isabel decided to come busting through my patio doors, but it looks now like we’ll only take on part of the force, not near what was expected. So I’m working toward getting things as back to normal as possible, until I hear otherwise. In doing so, I decided it was time to get back to my writing.

Guilt.

When I was talking to C on the phone yesterday, he mentioned that I’d never told him about how I feel guilty about food, and how I used to hide food as a kid. I told him it was because I’ve just recently put that together with some of my other issues. It wasn’t that I blocked it, it just didn’t come up in my mind when I thought about my childhood. I told him then, too, that it was only one thing in my life that I carry guilt about.

I was raised Catholic. They say folks of the Jewish faith are the guilt-givers (stereotype alert! lol), but I’ll tell you – the Catholics have them at the finish line. I have guilt about my weight, my quitting college, my living so far from my family, my lack-of-gainful-employment. Guilt used to run my life. Now, while I still have it, I don’t let it run me. It’s there, lurking. It only gets a voice when I allow it to.

When I do something that upsets C, I feel terribly guilty.

Somewhere in my upbringing, I lost that piece of information that says “People make mistakes”. I’ve mentioned before that I’m a Type-A personality, but in truth, I’m a perfectionist. But I’m a selective perfectionist. I’m a perfectionist in my relationships, in my business and my work. Anything that I create must be perfect, or I’m displeased with it. My behavior must be perfect, especially with C. When it isn’t, I feel bad.

Punishment, for me, is the answer to that. It’s a swift way to eradicate the guilt and bad feelings I have, and know that instantly, I have paid the price for my misdeeds. They are done and over with. I am clean. I don’t have that with any of the other guilt I carry around.

I sometimes wonder if I want that – meaning, if I went to C, and said “Look, I should have called my folks’ today. I didn’t, and I deserve to be punished.” – would that work in our relationship. I’m not thinking it would. I don’t think it would have any adverse affect on me, but I honestly can’t see C. going for that. It doesn’t seem to “fit” for us, but I imagine we’ll talk about that when he gets home.

During all this soul-searching I’ve been doing re: my weight, I’m trying to shed the guilt I feel about that – and about eating. Maybe if I can crack that wall, I can get through the other portions as well.

I’m not neurotic. I’m just weird.

Well, nothing yet, as far as Isabel is concerned, and it's slowed down considerably. Not going to be near as bad as predicted. I've been spending my time getting ready for being without power, and continuing to work on my discontinued-scent candles. I've been through nearly 50lbs of wax, and I'm only a little over half done. I guess I'll be at this awhile.

Will be shutting down most of the computer equipment tomorrow, and it'll stay down until power is restored (when we lose it - not if - I'm pretty sure we will)

Hurricane Isabel! Incoming!

Egads.

Will keep you updated as necessary, and will be posting until the cable modem dies - lol.

Stop and Think …sometimes a blessing, sometimes a curse.

I have an interior checking system. Sort of like a spell-check or grammar check, but much worse. It’s a thought-checker.

Many times, before I speak or write something, I’ll say it continuously in my head, to make sure it sounds “right”. It checks to make sure that what I say isn’t too harsh, too judgmental, too needy-sounding, too whiny, or too bossy. If it is, it’s instantly re-written into a more “correct” version, or simply tossed in the “recycle bin”. Nothing comes out of my mouth that wasn’t run through this filter, *unless* I am being spanked, or I am drinking. Until recently.

It’s developed into several versions over the years. It started out by pushing out the phrase “I don’t know.” instead of an answer. Well, that is, until it got tired of hearing “And if you DID know, what kind of words would you use?” from C. Now, its taken form to where I just don’t say anything until I’m sure what I’m about to say sounds right in my head.

But what’s right? Is it better to be gut-wrenchingly honest? Or to spend some time thinking about what you’re actually going to say?

C hates this thought-checker. Frankly, I’m not too crazy about it anymore myself. I’ve made a conscious effort over the last few weeks to shut it down, so that I could write these passages freely. I catch myself once in awhile still doing it, and as I’ve read back over a few of the entries, I can see it lurking there. There is only one thing, I believe, that keeps me from kicking it to the curb, once and for all.

Fear.

Fear of…what, exactly? Well, in this case (writing these entries), I can think of two things: Fear of overwhelming C with too many things all at once, and fear of admitting some of this stuff to myself. The checker has saved me from myself, or so it thinks. It’s prevented me from admitting to myself that I want certain things, so that I don’t ask for them. It figures it’s saving me some heartache. But in the end, all its doing is keeping a wall between C and I. Because until I’m able to admit to him the things that I really want, he’s going to continue on, thinking I’ve told him what I want. I read an essay recently from someone with a similar mechanism. While I don’t agree with her reasoning (She wants to be owned so that she doesn’t have the burden of owning herself – her words), her editor and my checker seem to come from a similar place.


I’m not sure exactly what is going to completely eradicate the checker. I like to think that I’ve overcome it to a great extent, because I’ve been able to write about so many of these things recently. And I guess I’m not sure if it’ll ever completely go away. In some cases, such as dealing with my parents – the non-BDSM world – work – the checker serves a purpose. It would certainly be better for me and easier on C if I could make it go away between us permanently. I’m working on that.

Discuss, discuss, discuss


I hope there are people new to the BDSM reading this. I think it’s important for folks’ to realize that everyone has something to learn about themselves and their relationships. Even after having actively been involved in D/s and SM since 1993 (and before that, without having a name for it. Someday I’ll talk about that, too), I’m still learning new things about myself, my nature, and my desires. 10 years of experiences and experimentation, and I’m still finding new things to discover.

For instance, I never gave much thought to the difference between submission and surrender. I think the BDSM community uses these words in a way that are very different, though.

Submission: 1. The act of submitting; the act of yielding to power or authority; surrender of the person and power to the control or government of another; obedience; compliance. (Webster's Revised Unabridged Dictionary, © 1996)

Surrender: To give up one's self into the power of another; to yield; as, the enemy, seeing no way of escape, surrendered at the first summons. (Webster's Revised Unabridged Dictionary, © 1996)

The dictionary defines them the same was – as I would. The common denominator is the yielding of power or authority. The BDSM community, however, somehow alters these definitions – where submission’s definition seems to have the words “within pre-defined limits” tacked onto it.

Do I have “pre-defined” limits? Technically, yes. But as it turns out, my limits are the same as C’s, so they’re a moot point.

So. Did I surrender? Or submit?

Here’s my question: What the hell is the difference?

We spend too much time, as a community, trying to define each other. Frankly, I’m of the mind that if you’re happy with what you’re doing and the way you’re doing it – that’s the most important thing.

I love discussion – that’s why I own five mailing lists pertaining to the BDSM community. But at the end of the day, you can only take away from those lists what works for you. If you try to start defining yourself by someone else’s terms, you’re going to start to feel woefully inadequate. And who the hell needs that?

Don’t let someone else do your thinking for you. Take away what fits, leave what doesn’t.

(by the way, I am going to come back to the surrender thing later - in this case, though, it was just an example)

Ownership
or...why, after I fought so hard to own myself, I’m so willing to give it up.

There’s no sense in denying it. For the better part of my 38 years, I considered myself a feminist. I belonged to NOW (hell, I was president of our local chapter two years running), I devoted myself to the causes I believed in (and still do), and I stood beside the other feminists when they fought for the things they thought they needed, even the things that I thought were hokey or unnecessary. I did protests, wrote letters to the editors, and appeared on local TV debate shows and news broadcasts. I was a rabble-rouser. I stood for something.

Then I found D/s, and my life changed. But I still considered myself a feminist. Until I found out that NOW had an anti-SM policy (see this website for my experience trying to change that) . It caused me to rethink my whole attitude about who I was, and what I wanted. (I do still have many of my “feminist” ideals, but no longer use ‘that word’ in describing myself)

People are different. What makes one person content will make another unhappy. I realized, after all those years of being my Feminist Self, I really wanted to have a relationship where there was a leader and a follower. My ex-husband and I had an equal partnership on every level and it did not work. I’d tried it before him, and those relationships, too had failed. When I set my feminist ideals aside, and took a clear look at what I wanted, the outcome shocked me. I rejected that “answer” for a long time. I kept thinking about it, trying to find a loophole I had missed. I couldn’t cut loose of the definitions that I had been given throughout my life.

Six years later, I still haven’t found the loophole. I no longer believe there is one.

I love words. I love writing them, reading them, defining them. Words are magic for me. Unspoken words leave holes in me, even when it’s by my own will that I am unable to say them. I’ve said before that when C met me the first time – in that goofy Motel 6 in Lincoln Nebraska – halfway between our homes – he told me he wanted a Master/slave relationship and I balked. At that time, I was still “a feminist”. I still harbored doubts that there would ever be a man in my life that I would be comfortable enough with that I could call myself a slave.

Obviously, I’ve learned differently. Because here I am, talking about it. Again.

I’m a smart woman. I’m intuitive, I’m bright and witty, I’m quick. I no longer feel like I have to give that all up to be a slave – when initially, I thought that’s exactly what I’d have to do. I always told myself that I’m smart enough to make my own decisions – I don’t need anyone else to do it for me. But I was missing the point, and woefully inaccurate in my understanding of being a slave – of being owned – of being property.

I could go into detail and explain to y’all what I used to believe about being a slave, but it seems so erroneous now that I can barely manage to think about it, let alone write about it.

However, the one thing that I kept coming back to – as I read (and lord knows, some of the bullshit out there on the web about slavery is dangerous to people’s belief systems and sensibilities.) about other people’s experiences with slavery, is that they seemed to be giving up their responsibility for their lives – i.e., “I didn’t make the car payment because he told me not to, and now I’ve lost my car, and it’s all his fault” …uhhh…what? Let’s see – you surrendered yourself to him, he told you to do a stupid thing, and it’s his fault. I see. Where’s your mother? She needs to be slapped for raising an illogical fool. (Don’t write me and tell me that there are all sorts of reasons that a Master might tell her not to make a car payment. I know that. It’s an example. I use them a lot.). They were “forced” to believe that “Master knew best” and were unable to give any input into their relationships. They were held accountable for things they had no control over (for instance, a check being delayed in the mail). These things would bother me greatly. I have a logical mind. I can’t try to cram something illogical in there and make it work. I’m just not built that way….

…then I thought….neither is C. Hmmm…

This isn’t really a recent thing with me. It’s been hanging around inside my head since C and I got back together over 3 years ago. I’ve tried a few times to verbalize this to him, but failed miserably, because until recently, I couldn’t put the words (my beloved magic) together to explain to him how I feel. I’m still not sure I have them right, but I believe them to be more accurate than before.

I want to be owned.

Whew. I’ve never said that out loud before. (Well, I still haven’t, because I only typed it, but you get the point).

I want to be owned. I want to be in a relationship where, while I am valued for my contributions, my first responsibility is to please. I no longer see being owned as a negative thing – no longer envision being unable to be my quick-witted, sarcastic self. I no longer see surrender as meaning I cannot be who I am. That was, I suppose in all honesty, my biggest fear about being a slave/being owned. It took so many years for me to allow myself to BE myself, that I feared total surrender would mean giving that up. I no longer worry that I would be forced to give up the parts of myself that I like, because in reality – those are parts of me that C likes, too. C would never suppress my writing or my humor. He appreciates me for who I am, and in being owned by him, I wouldn’t have to worry about having to be “someone else”. I can say with all honesty that I’ve never had any relationship before that allowed me that.

I’m not kidding myself here. There are things about me that he doesn’t like. My self-deprecating attitude (which peers out into the daylight far too often for his liking – but not nearly as much as it used to), my struggle with my weight, my constant need for “something to do.”

I also know that it would not be an easy transition for us, considering our time restrictions and our other commitments. And frankly, I’m not certain that this is something that C would even be interested in taking into our lives right now. I’m fully prepared for that, as well, and full prepared to wait for a time when we are more capable of exploring it fully.

But I want to put it out there. No, I take that back. I *need* to put it out there. It’s been living inside my head for far too long on its own. All this writing I’ve been doing as of late has been very cathartic for me. It’s opened a lot of doors in my mind – to things that had been closed (either by myself or by my own fears or by other people I had misguided trust in), and it’s forced me to look deeply at things that I wouldn’t allow myself to consider in the past. It’s required me to be *honest* with myself. While it’s hard for me to do this exploration, and to have C so far away while I walk through it, I know that were he here, I might not have made the leaps and bounds that I have. It’s because my life is *quiet* right now that I am able to do this. I don’t know if I could have gotten to the point of being able to write my desires and fears about slavery and ownership six months ago. I’m grateful for the ability to do it now. Grateful, and scared. Because frankly I don’t know how he’s going to take it.

I guess I’ll find out, won’t I?

It’s taken me two days to write this and post it. It’s been a difficult thing to verbalize (uhh…you know what I mean), and admit to. But as I’m working on my self-image and my self-knowledge, these things are bound to rise to the surface, and need to be explored. I live with a lot of guilt – for many things, in many areas of my life. I’m working through that. In letting things like this out, I’m working on the guilt-pile that says “You hold back too much.” The pile is getting smaller. Pretty soon, I’ll be able to sweep up the remnants into a dust pan and toss them out. I look forward to that.

The Sawhorse
…or, right side up

I’ve spoken before about AOL chat rooms, and some of the people I met there. People that I continued to have e-mail or AIM correspondence with, even after I had stopped signing on to AOL. (I still have an AOL account, which I rarely use, except when I travel).

X. was one of those people. (He married a vanilla girl, years after I met him, and his SM and D/s desires went out the window. We talked occasionally after that, but I could feel his spark fading. His screen name is gone now, and I haven’t heard from him in well over two years). I never really had any plans to meet him, although he did invite me to San Diego once when he was there for work. I didn’t go, even though I was single at the time, and could have easily driven down there from Monterey. I think X was one of those people who were a better part of my fantasy experience than he could have ever been real-time. I wanted to keep him where he was for me – and I think ultimately, he wanted that as well.

He developed this entire scenario around an innocuous piece of equipment. He kept coming up with ways to use and abuse a submissive (me, when we were chatting – lol) with just this one thing. .

A sawhorse.

I’m not talking about one of those padded sawhorses you see in BDSM clubs. I’m talking about a plain old everyday sawhorse you can buy at any K-Mart or Home Depot. Sometimes in the scenario, the submissive would be bound to the sawhorse, sometimes not. Mostly, she was cuffed to it with padlocks and chains, and the sawhorse was anchored to the floor. Sometimes, X would have a single tail whip, sometimes nothing at all. But the sawhorse was a symbol to him – and became one to me – of complete vulnerability and openness.

Think about it. A woman bent over a sawhorse – hands and feet close to the four legs. Everything is wide open, the thighs and ass are bared for torture, the breasts are dangling free and easy to pull or manipulate. And of course, the entire genital area is exposed. This was his ultimate fantasy.

The idea of that kind of vulnerability scared the shit out of me when he and I first started talking. But the more he came up with, the more I started to see where he was coming from. This was trust between two people. This was the thrill of not being able to see your torturer, of not knowing what was coming. There was little need for a blindfold, or any serious accoutrement. The potential for mindfuck is incredible. The submissive is aware of everything at once, including the probability that if she moves too much or too far, she’s going to tip the entire thing over and injure herself. The fear factor would be outrageous.

I found him a picture one time online of a woman bent over a sawhorse, exactly as he had described. I kept that picture myself for many years. It became a symbol for me of what kind of relationship I really wanted.

My friend G and I played on a sawhorse at The Power Exchange in San Francisco once. but it wasn’t anything like X described – G and I were friends and were mostly messing around and experimenting with his new-found domishness (which he credits me for. I find that funny), and in a place like the Power Exchange, I wasn’t about to be naked. Other than that, I’ve never had that experience.

As with nearly anything, you have to wonder if the experience could ever match the fantasy.

Hm. I think I know what C’s getting for Christmas….

Submission is not a gift!

I'm cruising websites this morning, as I finish up some pillar candles. 95% of the BDSM websites I come across make some mention of submission being a gift.

What a load of horse shit.

That's my biggest pet peeve - ever. Submission is not a damn gift.

Rituals, Structure and Time
or lack thereof

I’ve said this – a lot. C and I don’t have a lot of down time together. His job is very demanding – and out of the last ten months, since we’ve been here, he’s been gone for almost six of those. When you factor in 12 hour days (for us both. I was working two contracts when we first got here), being tired, stressed and bleary-eyed, it doesn’t leave a lot of room for much else.

We don’t talk much about the D/s dynamic between us. Hell, we barely have time to talk about which bills got paid and where we should go for dinner. That’s probably one of the things that have prompted all this writing as of late – a need to discuss this, even if just with myself. Being submissive to a dominant man is part of my make-up. It’s what makes me feel “right”. I don’t like to get all fluffy and mushy and such, but I feel, deep down, that it’s part of my essence as a human being.

The D/s thing has been between C and I since we met. We met initially on AOL, in a chat room called “Le Chateau Dungeon” (incidentally, I met some of my best BDSM friends in this room – people I am still friends with today (and some I’m not – lol) – so say what you will about AOL – back in 1994/95/96 – it was great), which was specifically a room that revolved around D/s. It’s always been there for us, even when it wasn’t talked about. Even when the intensity level of it is low, C has never had to fight to get his way. He just *does*. That’s the way this works for us.

Having said that, in a perfect world, I wish that we were able to interact more in an “active” d/s way, rather than passive (which is what I feel we are now).

When I started writing this a few hours ago (I keep getting distracted; part of the price you pay when you work at home), I had wanted to come up with a list of structural things that C and I could do to augment our relationship, and steer it around to a more active participation. Some little rituals that would help us along. Part of me now calls that selfish. Without asking him, here I would be, preparing a list of things I’d like to have happen so that *I* could be happier and more comfortable. I say only part of me, because an element of me doing all this writing in the first place is to share my needs with him, right? It’s confusing. So I’m still working it through in my head.

I think structure *is* important. I think rituals, and in some cases – rules – are important. I think follow-through is important. Consistency.

But in our house, sleep is also important. . And with as little time as we seem to have, this all may need to wait awhile longer.

Cuff me and leave me be


Why is it that people feel so safe in bondage? And by people, I mean me

Choice. As in, I have none. Once the cuffs are on, or the rope is knotted, I don’t have a lot of choices.

We don’t play with safety cuffs or with knots I can easily get out of (when we’ve used rope, which is rare). C has 2 sets of handcuffs that came from Gall’s (item RS005), that he’s had since before we met. I do not have a key for them. He has all the keys. I have some nice leather cuffs that came from my friends Midnight Blue’s several years ago (both wrist and ankle cuffs) but I don’t consider those bondage – those are play accessories for use on bondage equipment, unless you thread a padlock through the rings. Otherwise, they’re for support and while they do restrict movement, I’m pretty sure that I could get out of them if I wanted to.

If I can get out of bondage, what’s the fucking point?

Bondage slows me down . As I’ve said before, my mind goes a mile a minute sometimes, and I’m a type-a personality. If I’m tied up or down, or even just in a pair of handcuffs, I can’t very well act on most of the things going on in my brain. I have to just sit there. After awhile, in doing that, my mind starts to slow down, and I’m able to ‘space off’ a little – or, a lot, depending on what else is going on around me.

I remember a couple times, when C and I first started living together in Cheyenne, that we’d be watching TV, and out of the blue, he’d go get the cuffs, slap them on me, and then go back to watching TV. I just – sat there. Imagine the bliss in that for someone who has a real problem in just sitting there.

I’ve found little else that allows me that kind of quiet. I don’t have to do anything. I don’t have to make any choices. I don’t have to worry about a damn thing, because knowing C – knowing that he loves me and is not going to do anything to harm me (hurt, yes – harm, no) – it becomes a safe place to let myself drift off into nothingness. Meditation works – sometimes. I continue to have failed meditation attempts, where I can’t quiet myself no matter how hard I try. But nothing else that I’ve found really allows me to drift like that. In shutting off the continual racket in my brain, I can often come to easy answers to some difficult problems I’m trying to work out. That’s a gift.

Oedipus in Opposite
or, why I have a thing for “Daddies”

Disclaimer: I’m talking about Age play as it relates to two adults, interacting as a daddy and a little girl – NOT about chronological children and their biological parents

(Note: It’s taken me all evening to write this: four hours. This has been a difficult journey for me, but one that I’m glad I took)

I’ve been stewing about writing about age play all day. I keep glancing over the “topic list” and stopping there, pausing, and then continuing on. But I got an email from a dear friend tonight who sealed my fate in writing about this.

This is a tough subject for me. For a couple of reasons, but mainly because at one time, a couple years ago, when I brought the idea of age play up to C, he initially balked. I think his feelings have changed some, and we’ve talked about it – age play that is – as it relates to us, but I don’t think he’s quite there yet.

Maybe this will help. (Although, getting there will be tough. Bear with me.)

I never understood age play, until one night while I was still living in Cheyenne, having a phone conversation with M. This was maybe 2 weeks after I’d gone to California to meet him for the first time, and before he came to Wyoming. We’d been on the phone for quite some time, and I’d gotten very comfortable lying on the sofa. I was starting to drift off, into my “safe little place”, and feeling cozy and warm.

M had a habit of calling me “his little girl”. When he first started doing it, I didn’t think of thing of it. It was just a sweet nickname that I enjoyed. He sent me cards with Kim Anderson pictures on them. It all seemed very cute and cuddly and warm and I felt really good about it.

Anyway, during this phone conversation, something – changed – for me. I wish I could pinpoint it for you. Hell, I wish I could pinpoint it for myself. It took me awhile to work up the nerve, but I finally asked him if I could call him “Daddy”, and he enthusiastically agreed.

A few days later, I picked up my dog-eared copy of Different Loving, and looked it up, reading each word voraciously. I felt like I had come – well, home.

When M came out to visit weeks later, we continued using age play as a part of our relationship. It wasn’t full time, but it was included at various stages, and the sex that accompanied it was out of this world . Even after I had moved to California, we kept it up.

For awhile, anyway.

One evening, during an innocuous conversation on the sofa, he revealed something about himself that made me want to put a stop to the whole age play thing with him. I didn’t say it to him then (never did, actually), but he’d pretty much creeped me out.

But the desire for it stayed with me.

We did talk about it after that, and we did actively do some of it, but it never felt like that safe comfortable place for me again. When our relationship ended, despite my creepy feelings about the revelation he’d made, I still felt like I lost a daddy as well as a dominant and lover. (As an aside, he told me once that during sex, he never knew who he’d look down and see: Screamer, his submissive. Kanthra, his dominant, or Marie, his little girl. He said that each of them had a different face, and he always took his cue from whoever started to appear.)

I missed it. Really missed it. When I initially brought it up to C, he said it didn’t feel right for him, so I set it aside. I’m not sure, to be honest, how much his opinion has changed, but I’m imagining this will get a conversation about it going when he gets home.

This isn’t something that I’d want to do full time. But slipping into a relationship at various times can be very powerful.

So, why do I like it?

My alter-ego is about 12 or 13. She’s shy. She’s eager to please. She wants more than anything to make Daddy proud and happy. She knows she doesn’t always succeed. She hates to be punished. She loves Daddy’s attention.

There’s a very strong punishment aspect to age play for me. It’s much like the entry where I talked about pain: Pain causes me to cry sometimes, which is something that I don’t always ‘allow’ myself to do.. Crying is exponentially more acceptable for a 12 year old girl than a 38 year old woman in my mind. I find it easier to get to the tears when I’m *there*.

It’s not all about pain in age play for me though. Scolding can be just as powerful. When I’m bad, I can be punished and it’s *over*. No need to drag it out. No need to feel guilty for it. It’s done and over with. (This comes into play for all punishment for me, not just age play.) I have huge issues with guilt, which I’ll get into later.

Feeling safe, even when I’ve done something wrong is very powerful for me. I always know that Daddy will still love me, even when I fuck up. I’ll admit, I’m pretty jaded about adult relationships in that way. It’s not like I’m waiting for the other shoe to drop all the time, but I take my mistakes *much* harder at 38 than I do when I’m “12”.

During age play, I feel very safe and… (Are you ready for this?)

Cared for.

I’m a caretaker. I take care of everyone else. When I was with M, I took care of him – of his daughters – his house – his mental health (ugh, don’t ask). Now, I take care of C – laundry, making sure he has everything he needs for work, making sure that everything is done so he has nothing he has to worry about *except* work. It’s all on me. But I’m the one who put it there – no one else. And I like it that way.

Most of the time.

During age play, I’m the one who is… (Ready again?)

Cared for.

Be it being cuddled and held, or taken in hand and shown the right path, I’m being taken care of.

That isn’t something I do well, in a normal day. I’m used to being the one who does it, not has it done FOR her. It’s difficult for me to let go and enjoy being taken care of. But it’s easy for her to do it, because she doesn’t have a choice. She does it because it’s what Daddy wants.

It allows me to escape the responsibility of knowing every right from every wrong. It allows me to break away from the stereotypical Type-A personality that I’ve perfected over the years. In submission, that’s a “sometimes” (because, as a submissive, I’m also a caretaker, which comes with responsibilities and such). But in age play, it’s an always.

It allows me to be naïve. Innocent. I can still have things I need to learn – about life, about Daddy, about sex. These are not options for a normal 38 year old woman. Hell, they weren’t an option for me when I was chronologically 12.

Maybe that’s why it fits so well with me.

Or maybe, it’s just because I’m a perv.

Of Deep Topics and The Need to Write

I’m looking at my running list of topics (Didn’t I tell y’all once that I’m anal retentive? Well, I am.), and I’m thinking about them. Some of them are pretty edgy – even for me. Nothing new to the realm of BDSM mind you. But things that wouldn’t normally come up in day-to-day conversation either. At least, not in our house.

I talked to C. today. He’s excited about how much I’ve been writing, and looks forward to the envelopes that will be arriving, taking my words across the ocean to him. Not only will it provide a diversion from his 12 hour days, but it’ll give him some new insight into the girl he left at home. At least, I hope it will.

Something opened up in me a couple weeks ago. Something that’s been dark for far too long. I’m not sure what forced it open – or steamed it open – or unlocked it – but something is new and different, and it’s allowed me to talk about things here – publicly – that I wouldn’t have talked about in private before. Blessing or curse? I haven’t decided yet.

I have a suspicion what’s caused this outpouring. It has to do with finally – FINALLY – letting go of a wall that I put up five years ago, blocking any and all “potentials” from my line of sight. I got tired of asking for things that never materialized (BDSM related, old relationship), and tired of being promised things that never happened, so I just *stopped* asking and listening to promises. The wall remained, even after C and I got back together and subsequently got married. Rebuilding of faith in myself? Additional trust in my partner? Dunno. But I’m not one to look a gift-horse in the mouth.

Writing is what I do. It’s my creative outlet. Yes, soap and candles and the like are also creative, as is the stenciling I’ve been doing on some wooden plaques for our master bathroom (I couldn’t find anything I liked that matched). But writing is passion for me. I write in my head all the time. I fall asleep crafting stories (most of which never get written, because I don’t write them down (I *am* trying to go to sleep)). I write essays in my head while I’m driving. It’s not 24/7, but it’s as close to anything has ever come for me.

I used to want to write.

Now I need to write. The volume of this blogger has increased dramatically over the last few weeks, and I imagine it will continue this way until I’ve either run out of topics, or run out of steam, whichever comes first. The exploration of these topics – some new, some old – is something that I feel a strong need to do.

I’m taking you along for the ride. Well, if you want to go that is.

But lock the door and put on your seatbelt. We haven’t even hit the curves yet.

When He Gets Mean…
I get weak in the knees…..

The growl gets me every time.
The words that sound as if they’re being pushed out at the lowest pitch and from the bottom of his throat.
Bad words.
Dirty words.
Mean words.

His hand in my hair, pulling me – or, holding me in one place unable to move.

My arm quickly jerked behind my back by my wrist, seemingly out of nowhere.

Teeth.

He makes me say things I don’t want to say.
He makes me do things I don’t want to do.
He makes me ask – or beg – for things I don’t want.
He won’t stop when I ask him to.
Just my asking seems to spur him on.

When he’s mean.
I like him when he’s mean.
He has my full attention when he’s mean.
Nothing exists but him, not even the room we’re in.
His eyes – if I can manage to pry mine open – are all I see.
In the back of my mind, I hear the words “fight, escape, break free”
But it’s a tiny voice that whispers those words
Instead, it’s the screaming one inside my head that I listen to
The one that says “Don’t let this end. Not yet.”

Belts
Suspicions about why I’m drawn to the use of them.

I’m going to tell you a little story before I get to the main jist of this.

Back in Cheyenne, in ’96, after C and I had broken up, and I had met M., M. came for a visit. C, whom I had remained friends with, wanted to meet him during the visit. I was suspicious of that, but agreed nonetheless. On M’s first full night there, we all went out and had some drinks (and dinner, I think) and all went well. A few nights later, C. brought his little grill and some elk steaks over, and we all spent the evening together. Call me naive, but I thought things were going rather well.

Later in the evening, we were sitting around the TV, playing Tetris on Nintendo, and I – being my usual silly self – made some comment (and for the life of me, I have no idea what I said or why), and after I said it, C gave me the “evil eye. When there was no reaction from M, C stood up and took his belt off.

Okay, could it BE anymore awkward? I’m in a room with my current dominant and my former dominant – and my former dominant wants to smack my ass with his belt. M said nothing. The room was really quiet, until I finally told C to sit down. We all laughed it off. Eventually, M went back to California, and a day or so later, C and I conversation about the belt incident. C had very strong reservations about M being my dominant. He said that one reason was because M made no gesture whatsoever when the belt came off. C said it had been some sort of ‘test’ and that M had failed with flying colors. (I’m going to interject here that C and I had some *serious* unresolved feelings between us at this point, and we both knew it, but we weren’t admitting it).

As it turns out, he was right. Although not immediately, the reaction that M had (or lack thereof) did show itself in other ways in my relationship with him when I moved to California to be with him.

Here it is, years later. The unresolved feelings between C and I are now (as far as I know) all resolved, and we’re together and as happy as we can be when we’re umpteen thousand miles apart.

And yet, I can still see him taking that belt off. If I close my eyes tight enough, I can feel the way I felt in my living room that evening (well, minus the “I’m-so-in-love-with-my-new-dominant-I’ll-overlook-his-weirdness” thing).

How did I feel? Excited. Frightened. Pissed off (because he knew better than to do that with my new dominant in the room, but he did it anyway, and put me in an awkward position). Defiant. Did I mention excited?

We had never – well, we still have never – played with The Belt. As a matter of fact, I don’t think I’ve ever mentioned any of this to him, and when he reads this, it’ll probably be the first he hears of it.

Did I have any fantasies about being spanked with a belt before that? Not conscious ones. Have I ever been hit with a belt? Not that I can recall. I’ve been threatened with one (coincidently, by M, a few years after this incident) but it was an empty threat.

Frankly, the idea of C hitting me with his belt for some infraction (real or imagined) scares the crap out of me, but gives me that tingly “I really wanna try that” feeling, too.

There’s something about a belt – it’s not as personal as a hand, and it’s not as contrived (I don’t like that word for this, but I can’t think of another) as a paddle or crop. It’s something that nearly everyone has one of in their house. It’s significantly male to me. Its leather, but it’s not scene-related. It’s a normal, every day piece of clothing that could yield some devastating painful reminders on my ass. It looks and feels like punishment.

We’ll get back to why I like the idea of punishment later….

I created 2 new email discussions to go along with StrictlyDs and StrictlySM tonight. StrictlyMs (for master or mistress and slave relationships) and StrictlySpank (for relationships that involve spanking or paddling - discipline, punishment, play, etc).

It's obvious my brain is in overdrive lately.

Let’s talk about food for a minute.

Sometimes y’all get a little more than you bargained for when you come here, don’t ya?

Most people don’t have problems with food. Others have problems like allergies, side-effects and the like.

Me? My problem with food is that I feel guilty eating it.

I’ve always been heavy. My father is heavy. My aunt is very heavy. My grandmother was no small person, either.

I’m not sure why, but my Mom always had an issue with my weight. I think that maybe if she hadn’t, my head wouldn’t be so fucked up about it now. I’ve always felt “inappropriate” because of my weight. Because if I was okay the way I was, my mother wouldn’t have been trying to change me, would she? (And for the record, I love my mother dearly, and have no angry or unresolved feelings about this with her. I’m past that. I don’t blame her for my weight, or the problems I have in my life because of the weight.)

When I was younger, it felt like every bite I ate was watched. Mom would sometimes give me a stern look, or even yell at me for eating something she thought I shouldn’t. Consequently, I learned how to hide what I ate. I learned how to hide food, to eat in private, to enjoy those “stolen treats” more than any meal I’d eat sitting at a table. The food I ate secretly was what I enjoyed. Meals were just to cover and pretend to be “a good girl.” I remember loving it when she worked part-time sometimes, because I could come home from school and devour half a package of Oreos before she got there. And I did sometimes, even knowing that she’d come home and find them gone and yell at me. Maybe it was defiance or rebellion.

I’ve carried that stupid ass trait into adulthood. I *still* have a tendency to eat in private, although I’m not nearly as psycho about it as I used to be. And I don’t hide food anymore.

But I still have the guilt. And that’s what I’m working on right now: The guilt from eating, and the feeling “inappropriate” because I’m overweight.

The last few days, I’ve just tried eating only when I’m hungry, and only what sounds good. If nothing does, I keep looking until something does – or – munch on some pretzels until something does.

As far as how I feel about being “inappropriate”, that’s taking a little more work. But I am working on it.

Vague?

Expressing Needs, by someone who hates being needy.

I can quote my husband many times: “Could you BE anymore vague?”

He says that to me a lot (though, I’ll wager a guess he’s not saying it now, with all the writing I’ve been doing lately). When I tell him I want or need something, I don’t make myself as clear as I could, giving him examples and such. I didn’t know why that was for a long time. I tried to be clear. I tried to give examples. I tried to define just what it is I was wanting and/or needing.

But the fact is that I wasn’t. And why? Because I hate needing anything. I hate feeling “needy” – and needing something and needy go hand in hand in my head.

M drilled the word “need” out of me. For four years, he didn’t want to hear that word. Not from his lips, not from mine. It was taboo. And it’s stayed that way for me, because I haven’t found the little button in my head to push to say that it’s okay to need something again.

Truth is, though, that I’m a human being. And all human beings have needs. Some things that we think we need are really wants in disguise, but there are things that we need in our lives – that make us feel like…well, us.

I think, too, that there’s a difference between “survival” needs, and “well-being” needs. Survival needs are things like food and water. Well-being needs are things like love, companionship, and a good sound thrashing now and then (whoops – did I say that out loud?). Both of these things are important to us – one physically, one emotionally.

Are our emotional needs less important than our physical ones? Or, is it just easier for us to spell out own physical needs, because those are something we have “no control” over. “I have to have fluids to drink. Human bodies are built that way.” Whereas, if we say “I have to have love in my life. Human beings are built that way” it’s seen as something of a weakness – an emotional hole that begs to be filled – a requirement or demand another person in our lives?

Regardless of all that trivia, the fact remains that I – Screamer_Girl – have trouble expressing my needs in a clear and direct manner to my dominant. I’ve begun the process of sorting out the wants, needs, desires and curiosities from each other. It’s a lengthy process, but I’m dissecting each thing as it comes down the pipe. Is this something I want to do? Need in my life? Am curious about? Is it something I’ve done before with C? With someone else? Is it something I’ve written about? Dreamed about? Fantasized about? What about it appeals or repels me? Is it something that makes me hot? Makes me feel more vulnerable? Makes me feel more submissive? Does it hit the “Top ten ways to make Screamer scream” list? Does it make me feel giddy? Guilty? Abnormal? Am I willing to put myself on the line to ask for it? Is it worth getting into a heavy discussion over? Is it worth the pain of being rejected for? Ridiculed for?(*note, C has never ridiculed me for anything I’ve asked for) To be clear with C, I need to be able to be clear with ME. That’s not as easy as it sounds.

(If you’re asking yourself why I’m writing this, it’s because I know I can’t possibly be the only submissive that feels like this.)

In all that I’ve written the last week or so, I feel like I’ve started to break through that. I’m not there yet, but I’m at least on my way. I’m going to write an essay for C that explains to him what it is that I *do* need. I started working on it, but it’s not nearly done. Writing in the blogger has certainly helped me along though. I find that if I pick a topic, and stay true to it through a dissertation, that I can pull my own desires from that, while still writing about other parts of it.

For someone who’s as verbose and long-winded as I am, you’d think I’d be better at this.