Great unexpectations

Around 3pm on Saturday afternoon, Master was naked on the lounge watching war shit and I was writing a blog wearing my poodle pup washing clothes, my green fluffy slippers and had matted bed-hair when the door bell rang.

Thinking it was yet another visit from Jehovah’s witnesses/Christian do-gooders/kids forced to sell raffle tickets by their parents/the next door neighbour saying he had chased a snake into our garden again, I answered the door as I was, ready to give a short, sweet response so I could back to doing what I was doing.

When I opened the door I was greeted by a domly friend who lives nearby. He had brought around a car-full of computer stuff that he was taking to a swapmeet tomorrow. He wanted to give us first dibs if there was anything we wanted and the moment he said that, I could hear Master salivating:

“Invite him in, bitch!” came the yell from the Masterly one as I went in search of some pants and a shirt for him to put on.

“Had a rough night, did you??” the domly one asked me, taking in the ‘normal’ me who wears glasses and green fluffy slippers. He’d only ever seen me in various slut outfits with my contacts in and a completely new face thanks to the folk at Revlon.

“No…umm…this is how I normally look.”

So while Master went out with him to trawl through the goodies in the car, I did what I like to call THE GREAT FIVE-MINUTE CLEAN-UP JOB of 2009 as I knew they’d be coming in for coffee afterwards.

Let me just say that if I’m not expecting anyone over, the house is normally in various states of disarray. This particular day there was crap everywhere and dirty dishes covering every available surface of the kitchen. I hadn’t swept the floor after tracking in a tonne of dirt and sand from outside over the past week and there was a lovely bloody pool outside with flies swarming over it where the poodle pup had just polished off a chicken carcass.

In short, I was uberly embarrassed.

So I went into overdrive while they were outside, sweeping, wiping, throwing all the crap into my bedroom and closing the door (the perfect crime), stacking things in the dishwasher and overall, trying to make it slightly look like something other than animals lived there. There wasn’t anything I could do about myself in five minutes, so I just thought, ‘meh’ and charged around with the domestic goddess spirit radiating from me.

I’ve always had a bit of a Martha Stewart fantasy where people would casually drop around for afternoon tea and the house would be spotless and there’d be a selection of cookies, cakes and cucumber sandwiches with the crusts cut off ready and waiting. I’d like to be that organized and domestically goddessly, but I ain’t – the dishes get done when we start to run out of clean ones and I go out to the clothes line to take off the clothes that I’m about to wear and leave everything else out there.

Therefore, I like people to call before they come, I like them to e-mail before they call, and I like them to think long and hard and give me at least two weeks notice before they email. That way I have time to clean light-bulbs and make perfect little crust-less sandwiches. It’s always lovely to have people come around for a quick chat or whatever, but I swear, I nearly gave myself a heat-attack doing The Great Clean-up Job of 2009.

I also had some great unexpectations at the play party we went to on Saturday, but I think that will be another story.

The back door

I’m a big girl and I’m not afraid to say it:

I love butt sex.

But let me point out something very important here – butt sex and butt plugs are very different.

I hate butt plugs.

They both happen in the same place, so what’s so different about it?,  I hear you say. Well, in response I have three things to say:

Firstly, if you have to ask the question, you’ve obviously never experienced just how uncomfortable a butt plug up your ass can be.

Secondly, having a big lump of something that just sits up your ass and makes you feel like you need to do a poop is just not good.

Thirdly, there is such a delicious feeling of disconnection with butt sex that you never get with a butt plug and it makes me feel totally base and nothing more than a hole.

In summary, butt sex is hawt.

I was thinking about this last night during our interrogation/word porn session. Master often likes to get me to admit that I like being fucked up the bum. He knows it’s hard for me to say and I think he finds it amusing to make me say I’m a dirty slut who enjoys being fucked up the ass, when I like to think of myself as nothing more than a ‘nice girl’.

Then I got to thinking what it was about butt sex that I really liked. I can’t say I’ve ever gotten an orgasm out of it and quite often it can be painful, but I’d much rather be fucked up the back door than my cunt any day. So what makes it good?

So then I started thinking about the interaction you get when you’re facing someone – you see their face, you talk, you kiss, there’s all sorts of stuff happening to make you feel like a person having sex, as opposed to a hole being used. There’s also an expectation that you have to reciprocate by doing all the above, instead of just laying back, closing your eyes and thinking of England.

In comparison, with but sex, generally you’re just hanging on for the ride – or trying to stop your head getting pounded into the head-board and not be suffocated by the pillows at the same time.

This kind of makes me sound like I’m a selfish fuck who doesn’t want to do anything for their partner, doesn’t it? The only thing I can say is that when your kink is non-participation i.e. being forced to do stuff, it’s hard to enjoy anything more than being used like a hole.

I don’t know what it is about butt plugs, but I just don’t feel that the other person gets any enjoyment out of them (well, they might, but it’s not direct, ya’know?) So if they’re not getting any enjoyment out of it, why the hell do I have a big inert mass up my back door that I’m not enjoying either?

This post has been brought to you by the letters ‘P’, ‘L’ ,’U’, ‘G’ and the mathematical variable  ‘Y?’

I’m not a masochist but…

…I can’t stop thinking about nasty things being done to me and it drives me insane!

I don’t like pain. I don’t like losing control. I don’t like being humiliated. I don’t like being scared. I don’t like doing things I don’t want to do, but rarely a day goes by that I don’t have all sorts of nasty, juicy images going through my brain.

How can I fantasize about stuff that I really don’t want to happen to me?

I feel like my mind is betraying me sometimes because my mind is willing but the body is oh-so weak.

What the hell is wrong with me?

Often I feel like I’m a bit of fake in the world of kink because I don’t enjoy what I ‘should’ be enjoying,  i.e. play and service. The times when I feel like a fake are also coincidently the times that I wonder what the hell I’m doing living as a ‘slave’  – I mean, I don’t enjoy it, so why the hell do it?

But after any period away from play and service, I feel myself gravitating towards stories, movies and blogs of a kink nature, I find myself fantasizing more and more about nastier and nastier things and I feel that inescapable tug of living as property. It’s something I don’t want, but cannot for the life of me, deny or move away from.

I guess that’s why I identify myself as a slave. If I could turn off my ‘nasty tap’ completely so that not even the smallest drop of nastiness permeated my thinking, I would say that it was just a fad or something I liked to dip my toe in from time to time.

But I can’t.

I have a steady stream that sometimes runs through me like a flood and is sometimes nothing more than a barely discernible trickle, but it’s always there nonetheless.

And then I wondered, do ‘nilla folk feel like this too, but simply don’t recognise the feelings for what they are? Does every one feel an attraction towards the nastiness, but not everyone can put a label on it?

Just something I think about sometimes…

P.S I’m into the home stretch of FFF (food for a fortnight), but I’m thinking about extending it to Christmas and calling it FUC (food until Christmas). Master said he’s going to make me one of his special steam-cooker plum puddings so there is no way in hell, I’m dieting on xmas day.

P.PS I still haven’t earned any releases on my orgasm restriction. I wonder what I’m doing wrong 😉

Work/life/slavery balance

During a lull in work yesterday my boss asked me how my work-life balance was going. I don’t know whether it’s as much of a trendy concept outside of Japan, but all you read about in the Japanese media are stories about how to perfect your work/life balance and things to do to enrich your life out of work (I’m guessing it’s such a big thing in Japan because people have reached a point where they are beginning to think that they don’t need to die at work at that there is life beyond it that could be enjoyed.)

At the moment I work 3 days a week and have four days off. It’s the least amount I have worked for such an extended period in my life and I’m loving it. I work just enough that I look forward to my weekends, and I have just a long enough weekend that I look forward to going back to work. It’s the perfect balance and allows me to get my head into slave space when I need to.

I’ve done the working full-time and trying to be a slave thing on several occasions and it just does not work at all for me. After giving my all to my job during the week, on the weekends all I wanted was some ‘me time’. I didn’t want to be his fetch, carry & cleaning bitch and I resented having to spend what little ‘free time’ I had not being ‘free’ at all.

The only down side to my current perfect work/life/slavery balance is that I earn about 1/3 of what I would be making if I were full-time and as a result, in order for me to continue to live like this, we need another income coming in. And with the economic situation the way it is, things are looking tough.

I realise that I’m exceptionally lucky to have the lifestyle I lead now and I know with surety that it cannot continue for any extended period of time.  People just don’t get it as good as I have it now, and it’s un-natural. That’s why I’m grateful for every day I have and also why I surreptitiously look for a full-time job every chance I get. Sooner or later, I’ll need to work like everyone else and go back to being an even shittier slave than I am now and it will probably need to be sooner rather than later.

On the weekend we caught up with another kinky couple who are going through a bit of a rough patch as the dom has lost his job and there are serious family tensions. The serious family tensions have been continuing ever since the relationship started, so that’s nothing new, but the dom being out of work has just ramped the stress they are both experiencing up to a new level.

He is irritated that the tables have been turned and now he is dependent on his sub for roof over his head and food in his tummy. She is irritated that she’s working her butt off and he’s home all day and doesn’t lift a finger to help around the house. 

He never has been one to help with any of the housework since the relationship started and she used to be okay with that. She would get up an hour earlier than she needed to get him breakfast and put his socks on and she’d go to work, then she’d come home from work and get dinner ready and do the cleaning. He does nothing more and nothing less than he used to do, but all of a sudden his lack of participation in housework is driving her crazy.

In terms of money, even when he was working she was earning enough herself to pay the bills. When he was working too they lived a little more comfortably perhaps, but now with just one income she can still pay the rent and buy the groceries. She also said that he has stopped showing affection towards her and that they are fighting constantly. He is stressed, she is stressed and both of them are just one step away from calling it quits.

The only new variable in their relationship is the fact that he isn’t working and she is.

Interesting, isn’t it?

Listening to her vent on the weekend, I could hear her thoughts behind her words clear as day,

“He’s the man, he’s supposed to be working!”

I wonder how many men have a dream of having a harem of slaves to do their cooking, cleaning and go out to work for them? I wonder how doms feel that their slaves are the ones who should be going out to work instead of them? I wonder how many couples have reversed the traditional bread-winner roles and still manage to make it work against all the pressures of society that say that the man is the one who earns the most money?

I have to admit that I have a traditional view of things and I’m the most comfortable when I’m being ‘kept’ by a man. But that doesn’t mean that I won’t do what’s necessary when the situation demands it. As I’ve said, I wouldn’t be happy about going back to full-time work, but seriously, who ever is happy about their work? I’ve got a feeling that only 0.0001% of the population truly loves what they do as an occupation and the other 99.9999% just do what they have to do to pay the bills. So like the majority of the population, I will do what needs to be done whether it be flipping burgers at McDonalds or scanning groceries as a check-out chick.

I’m not stressed by Master being out of work. I know he’s trying his best to find a new job and as I’ve said, I knew my fantasy bubble of a perfect work/life balance would have to burst at some time – it wasn’t a matter of ‘if’ but ‘when’. I can’t earn as much as Master can, but I can probably make enough to keep a roof over our heads and possibly food on the table – although that food might be tins of baked beans.

I’m thankful for his contribution to the housework (both when he is working and while he’s at home) and for letting me live the dream for as long as I have.

Thoughts for the day

  • Wrinkles on the tops of your toes are a sign that you’re no longer twenty one and perhaps your breasts have headed south
  • Wearing three layers of clothing so you don’t freeze your ass off on the ridiculously-air-contioned bus is great – wearing three layers of clothing anywhere outside the bus is just ridiculous, when it’s this hot
  • Having to do “Security Compliance Training” at work when the most ‘secret’ thing you have access to is the locked restroom, is a joke
  • Even if you have four-day weekends, the weekend is never long enough
  • Drinking coffee at nine o’clock at night is a death sentence for sleep (you would think that after thirty two years I would of learned this by now)
  • Buying a ‘firm’ pillow for ‘side-sleepers’ is good in theory when you are a side-sleeper, but when you keep waking up on your back, maybe you need to accept the fact that you’re not a side-sleeper
  • The house smells much less like a stable now that I’ve moved chaffie (our new hemp rope addition) out of the lounge room
  • 121 strokes seems to be a lot of strokes when racked up as punishment, but requiring me to be in his bed before 9am on my days off in order not to get punishment strokes is like asking a woman in the throes of PMS to ‘chill out’ i.e. stoopid

Thoughts later in the day…

  • Trying to brush your teeth with an electric toothbrush that has gone flat is really, really hard
  • Growing veggies is great when they grow, but a total bitch when they die on you
  • There are only ten days difference between a mangey unattractive poodle and a fluffy white cute poodle
  • Why the hell do I have to lick Master’s bum?
  • Now that I’m pms-ing who else in the blog community is synced up with me?
  • Once again, why the hell do I have to lick Master’s bum?

Getting ropey

Master purchased some new rope to add to our rope collection so this is what we have in the way of rope at the moment:

Going right to left, we’ve got some stretchy red stuff (5m) purchased from sax leather, some plain hemp (5m x 2) purchased from Osada Steve on ebay, some red nylon (3m) gotten from who knows where, thick black nylon (2m)  gained from a five-finger discount from Master’s work and the new hemp (10m) purchased from the UK on ebay.

Here is a close-up of the new rope:

My thoughts on it? Well, it smells like chaff.

Every time I get near it I feel like I’m in a stable and I keep look ing over my shoulder for a horse. And if you look closely, it looks like there are bits of chaff scattered throughout the rope itself. It was purchased as ‘hemp rope’ and I’m pretty sure it’s made of hemp because I don’t think you can make rope from horse feed, but I’ve nick-named it chaffie anyway.

We wanted some longer rope to do some kikou (tortoiseshell) ties as the five metre stuff just wasn’t quite long enough (although it might possibly be long enough now as there is less of me for it to have to go around…) This is a pic from when there was more of me – with bonus hairy mons:

Kikkou -with hair

I’ve been having a poke around on the internet for Shibari shows that we could go and see while we’re in Tokyo next year. More than anything, I’d love to be tied up by one of the Shibari pros just to experience it, but it seems a lot of them won’t work with shirouto (novices) or gaijin (non-Japanese) and I’m both, so my prospects there are bleak. I’m also not the most flexible person in the world so that’s also a big negative, as usually you’ve got to be able to suck your own toes while they’re tied together behind your neck and play the violin with the one finger you’ve got free at the same time.

But I’m thinking a show or even a tutorial (although they seem to be pricey) would at least be possible. After some discussions with Master I’ve finally got my head around the fact that he doesn’t want to go and see fifty million temples or shrines while we are in Japan. He wants to experience some unique things and eat some scrummy food. With that in mind, I’ve now changed our trip from a sight-seeing one to an eating trip. We’re going to eat our way around Japan and maybe look at some things while we’re on our way to go wherever we need to go in search of damn-good food.

In terms of unique experiences, I’m thinking kinky love hotel and shibari show. Maybe we’ll also stop by a maid cafe or an ear-cleaning salon just for some innocent fun. My head is absolutely bursting with possibilities though and there’s still 4 months to go before we leave! And how the hell am I, as Miss World Indecisiveness 2006- 2009 ever going to whittle down my thoughts into a two-week  itinerary??? AHHHH!

That orgasm denial thing

You may or may not know, but while I was at home visiting my family, Master decided to change a few of the rules around here. As a result, my lolly-jar system (where I’d win chunks of releases and would then mark them off a chart on the refrigerator as I used them) has been replaced by a you’ll-never-have-another-orgasm-again system.

Needless to say, I’m not a huge fan of the new system.

Not that I’m climbing the walls or anything. I’m pretty much ‘meh’ about orgasms as long as I’m not watching my secret stash of 25 second free porn clips from the internet, in which case I pretty much NEED to break out my hitachi then and there.

Funnily enough, there’s only two things that get me horny to that point:

1. Watching someone in bearable pain (I’m talking things that happen to me – i.e. your basic strict bondage, beatings and ouchie fucking –  and to a level where the person is obviously in pain and enduring it.)

2. Watching someone get fucked up the ass (If they’re tied up while it’s happening, that gets bonus points.)

So as long as I don’t watch that sort of stuff, I can ‘happily’ go about my orgasm-free life. Actually I was thinking the other night that I can’t remember when my last release was. Two months ago maybe? But, just because I’m not hanging out for a release fix, doesn’t mean that I don’t enjoy having them up my sleeve. I always like to have things in my pantry for a rainy afternoon when I’m home alone and suddenly I’m tying myself up and clicking open my secret stash.

Apparently in the new system, I have to earn each and every one of my releases by being a good slave (whatever the hell that means) and then mark it up on the new chart on the fridge that Master made for me:

(I think the ‘finger/gonzo’ thing is kinda cute…lol.)

I know a lot of domly folk enjoy the whole ‘orgasm denial’ thing but I just don’t get it. Maybe it’s amusing to see your slave climbing the walls if they’re a two-orgasms-a-day-or-I-die kind of person, but I was always under the impression that you want your slave to be a sexual creature and performing at their best. You know, throwing their legs open to all and sundry and being juicy all the time ready for use. I don’t think being a dried up creature with their holes all puckered up from lack of use is very sexy, but that might just be me.

A slave friend who I have regular emails from told me that her master grants her a maintenance release once a week just to keep her engine ticking over. I suppose that’s better than Master’s system, in that at least she’s guaranteed something every week. If I have to wait until I’m ‘good’, I might hit menopause before it happens.

I know it’s a ‘control’ thing, but because I don’t constantly feel the need for a release, I don’t feel I’m submitting – it’s not something that I’m enduring and instead I just feel that I’m being inconvenienced. It’s one of those, ‘What the hell am I doing this for?’ moments. Which of course the answer to is:

Because I’m wearing the shiny thing.

Today in summary

Big-ass cappuccino & major indecision about what to have for breakfast.

Angst (thirty minutes spent deciding what slut wear to wear).

Drive with Master into town (copious amounts of car-spotting game played on the way).

Master goes for job interview.

Girlie shopping (Japanese groceries, clothes, shoes, bags).

Master getting irate (see above).

Disappointing lunch.

Getting sucked into the land that time forgot at the licensing office trying to change my driver’s license over.

*head desk* (finding out I have to go back to the licensing office next week).

Boy shopping (xbox games, food).

Master having fun (see above).

Drive with Master home (more car-spotting and I was on fire!)

Hallelujah! (my feet after taking off slut boots at home)

Playing with my garden babies.

Really fucking loud sounds of things being blown up (Master playing Call of Duty).

WoW ( I need to complete 114 more quests to learn the Deathchill cloak…)

Dinner (yummy).

Bath (wet).

Blog.

WoW (did I mention I need to complete 114 more quests???)

Boots in Master’s bed, back-scratching & ravishing.

Book (attempt #347 of trying to get into Kushiel’s Dart – I have a feeling it’s not as good as everyone says it is).

Bed chain.

Sleep.

Portents of doom

Don’t you just hate it when other people make you feel inadequate?

Generally speaking, I only feel inadequate when I’m reading someone else’s blog about how motherhood makes them feel complete or how there’s nothing in the world they’d rather do than serve their master, but on Monday I was made to feel totally inadequate by my dental hygienist and it wasn’t about anything even remotely to do with teeth!

What happened is a bit of a long story, but if you make it to the end I promise to somehow weave in the words, ‘retard’, ‘whaleshark’, ‘boots’ and the phrase, ‘what can I fuck myself up the bum with’ (FYI, my top four search terms) just to keep everyone who reads here happy.

So on Monday I walked in at 2pm for my half-yearly clean and check-up to be greeted by my menopausal (she revealed this about 30mins into the appointment) and very anal (anal as in damn that woman is committed to getting every frickin’ microbe of plaque off your teeth!) dental hygienist. She ushered me into the room and the first words out of her mouth were:

“Hi, you’re just the person I’ve been wanting to see – I’ve just been diagnosed with what you have.”

And because I’m at the dentist, I respond with:

“TMJ?”

“No,” she said, “Your bicuspid aortic valve and aortic regurgitation.”

Now…it might just be me, but I don’t usually start conversations with shit like that. So based on the beginning of the conversation, I had a feeling that this was going to be the longest hour of my life.

Just for the layman out there, like you and me, what she was referring to was my heart murmur where my valve doesn’t close properly and some of the blood runs back into the chamber. This means that when I have ‘invasive’ dental work or surgery, I have to have a course of antibiotics to stop infections developing in my heart (because as I mentioned, my dental hygienist is anal and I usually leave my cleaning looking like I’ve sucked face with a vampire.)

When I first went to this particular dentist I told them about my heart murmur and they contacted my doctor over east to confirm whether I still needed antibiotics. My doctor apparently said with the type of murmur I have, that yes I still need to take them and ever since then I’ve had the bicuspid aortic valve and aortic regurgitation thing written in big, fat, red letters on my dental record and they ring me up two or three times before every appointment to make sure that I’ve taken my antibiotics so they can legally cover their asses if I develop an infection.

So anyway over the next hour as she dug, poked, drilled and made me want to safe-word several times, she compared notes with me about who my cardiologist was, how often I go for ECGs, what beta-blockers I was on and what ‘grade’ I have been assessed as.

And I was like, WTF?

Then she wanted to know whether I’d had rheumatic fever as a child or whether I’d been assessed as having Marfan’s syndrome (because they’re apparently the only two ways you can end up with a bicuspid aortic valve and aortic regurgitation) and how my circulatory system was and then we sort of had a pissing-up-the-wall competition about how many layers of bedding we sleep with and how many layers of clothing we can wear (because apparently the sensitivity to the cold is also part and parcel of the heart murmur thing…)

Then we got onto the topic of vasovagal syncope (that’s fainting to you and me) and how the heart murmur exacerbates it, and she ended the discussion with the comment to end all comments,

“Well, as long as they’ve diagnosed you as being ‘mild’, because if you’re ‘mild to moderate’ there’s always the chance that stenosis will occur and then you’ll get heart failure.”

And I’m like, WTF?

If I hadn’t been laying there with instruments and her hands in my mouth, I’m sure my jaw would of hit the floor. 

All I could say was,

“I don’t know.”

Because…well…I don’t know. 

My heart murmur was discovered on a routine trip to the doctor when I had a cold at the ripe old age of 16. After doing the stethoscope thing, my new doctor casually leaned back in his chair while making notes on my file and said to me, “That’s a nice heart murmur you’ve got there.”

And I was like, WTF?

Then followed several ECGs, a couple of trips to the cardiologist and I’m sure somewhere along the line I was given a diagnosis of what it was I have. All I actually remember of it was being told that I needed to have antibiotics if I was going to have any procedures done. I don’t remember being handed down a sentence of doom, or being told that I needed to have yearly check-ups or anything like that. And to tell you the truth, I’ve not seen a doctor or specialist about it since I was sixteen and had that initial round of tests done.

Have I been living with a time bomb in my chest for the last 15 years?

My dental hygienist just kept on firing these questions at me, and all I could say was, “I don’t know” or more accurately,”Aii dow qkno” (because she still had that spit-sucking thing and a pick in my mouth) and every time I said that, she just kept looking at me with an incredulous expression as if to say, ‘How the fuck can you not know about important shit like this?’

So then she gave me the name of  ‘the valve guy’ here in Perth that I should see and I told her I’d get a referral and have a check-up. So now I’m seriously considering getting my records sent over here so I can go and see ‘the valve guy’ and get it all sorted out because I just hate to be made to feel inadequate.

I’ve also being doing a bit of research on the net and the Marfan’s syndrome thing also makes a lot of sense. I’ve got just about all of the genetic traits described by it so at this point I’d just to announce that I’m officially a genetic mutant and need to be cleaved out of the gene pool. Although I don’t know how much stock to put in internet diagnosis because I have, on four separate occasions in the past, given myself a diagnosis of cancer for what turned out to be a common cold.

Yes, hypochondria could be my middle name.

So yeah, that’s my story about being made to feel inadequate or perhaps being made to feel like a ‘retard’ would be a better way to put it. As a side note, I was also made to feel inadequate last night by Master because I put my ‘boots’ on the wrong feet and he laughed at me. But then I made myself feel even more inadequate because I took  pictures of me wearing said boots on the wrong feet and he posted them to his blog. I also often ask myself, ‘What can I fuck myself up the bum with?’ and while I wouldn’t recommend a ‘whaleshark’ as it is quite large and could hurt, my personal answer appears to be ‘boots on the wrong feet’ or ‘no knowledge of potentially life-threatening heart conditions’.

See, I told you I’d work them in somehow 🙂

Food for a fortnight

In an effort to make myself accountable for what I eat,  I’ve decided to keep a photo log of everything I eat for the next fortnight. I’m naming it ‘Food for a Fortnight’ or FFF for short.

I figure that if I have to go find the camera, take a picture, upload the pic to Master’s mac, edit it, transfer it over to my computer and then post  a pic for every little tasty morsel that passes my lips, it’s going to discourage me from bothering to put those extra norti things into my mouth. Well, that’s the theory anyway. I suppose there is always the possibility of me cheating, but I’m not like that – I’m painfully honest about stuff like this.

So, like the pantry challenge (remember where we lived on $100 for a month?) I’m going to make a little tab up the top of the page where you can check out the banality of my daily sustenance. I’ve been slack of late in the meal planning department, but hopefully doing the FFF challenge will kick-start my motivation as I brought back a few more of my Japanese cookbooks with me and there are things in there that need a cookin’.

When I look at foodporn I often find that I’m the most interested in what ‘normal people’ eat ‘normally’. Of course the scrummy-looking desserts and the drop-dead cute cakes that people make are fantastic, but what I really want to know is what does that person go home and eat after a day at work. Call me bizarre for being interested, but I really want to know if they do make peanut butter and jam sandwiches (and for the record, I’ve never tried one) or if they fry up brains or eat a bowl of icecream for breakfast. I’m really fascinated by stuff like that.

My food is pretty standard when I’m watching what I eat (yes I still have those f*#&%**% last couple of kilos to lose) so there won’t be anything much exciting in there, but hopefully the whole food log thing will keep me away from the carrot muffins and 85% cacao Lindt chocolate.

If anyone else wants to join me, please feel free! Leave me a comment and I’ll come and marvel at your food log and I promise I won’t poke fun at what you eat – unless of course it involves blue cheese or slimy things, which are just wrong.

Tickle me emo

Well, I finally succumbed and finally watched Twilight last night. Now that most of the hype has settled down and with the second movie release on the horizon, I thought it finally would be safe. But just for the record, let me stipulate that I didn’t in any way pay to see it, because, well, I would be embarrassed to pay for something so obviously aimed at the Hannah Montana-loving audience. Yes, I know plenty of people my age and older who watched it and gushed about it and to be honest, I’m stunned.

I felt like I was watching an afterschool special and by the end I swore that if there was one more angst-ridden stare into the camera with tumultuous music in the background, I was going scream. I was also pretty positive that Edward’s hair was getting higher and higher the longer the movie continued and by the end I was pondering how they were keeping it there – were they paying a midget to hide on his head and hold it up? Obviously, I was thinking about this stuff just to distract me from screaming at the emo-ness of it all.

Ahhh…young love and teenage angst. It made me want to puke. Nearing-middle-age bitterness anyone?? Lol.

One thing I did get out of the movie though,  was a reminder of emo-ness and how there once was a time when I wrote bad poetry and thought that I would die if Master was a few minutes late for our 8pm msn chat session. If I’d seen Twilight 4 years ago in the height of my emo period when I was having ‘out of body experiences’ about my calling to be a slave and sticking forks into my heels to prove my submission, I really would of been in emo heaven (well, I didn’t really do the fork thing, but I thought it’s been such a long time since we had a fork joke…)

I kind of miss that emo-ness, the broodiness, the passion where you’ve got to have something or you think you really will die. I guess somewhere along the line I grew up and grew out of my emo phase, learned some patience and all about delayed gratification and put my Evanescence cds away. Once I’d done that, the superficial intensity didn’t seem so important anymore, but the happiness and contentment on a different level did.

Oh and in case you were wondering, I’ve mostly finished shaving the poodle. Tomorrow I might see if he will cooperate enough for me to run the clippers over him once more to even-up his coat, but for the time being he’s gone from hear me roar lion/yeti:

I'm a lion hear me roar

To sullen sphinx with a hint of goat:

 meek and mild

Is that my yeti outfit in those bags?

with yeti outfit

Anyone in the northern hemisphere need poodle wool for a scarf?

I shouldn’t leave my day job

After pouring energy into my garden babies for most of the week, I’ve been giving my other baby some much-needed attention for the past couple of days – no, not Master, the poodle pup 😉

Every time I looked at him in his big shaggy woollen coat, it made me hot just looking at him, so I could imagine how he felt trapped inside the equivalent of a yeti outfit. Yesterday I took pity on him and started to shave him using the $10 Kambrook haircutting kit I purchased with the intention of cutting Master’s hair. Master hasn’t let me near his head with the shaver (probably because he fears retaliation for the ‘hair-raping’ he gave me a few months ago) so I thought it might work for the poodle. And I have to say for $10, it wasn’t bad. What was bad, however, were my grooming skills. While I sometimes dream of cutting the poodle into some amazing design like this:

ninja turtle

or this:

peacock

Somehow, I don’t think my design of ‘mangey poodle’ would win any awards.

Previously, we used to pay the princely sum of $300 to get him shorn, but because he’s so geriatric now, we can’t get him into the Range Rover to take him to the groomers. He also can’t stand up for long periods, so I ended up with him laying in the bathtub where I first washed and attempted to dry him and then I continued shaving where I left off yesterday. Having him laying down makes the job so much more difficult in that you obviously can’t reach the side he is laying on, but it was good in a sense because he couldn’t get away, as to get him out of the tub, I physically had to pick up his 20kg (nearly 40lb) mass and hold him up while he got his legs under him.

I used to think $300 was a bit excessive, but after attempting to shave him myself, I can see why they charge $300 – it is a massive, massive, difficult-beyond-belief job that takes hours. I never knew until I came to live with Master and came face to face with my first poodle, but poodles don’t have hair, they have wool – like wool that you can spin into yarn and knit with if you are that way inclined. So while it is a great medium for cutting and dying into things like ninja turtles, it is near impossible to keep clean and unmatted and so damn hard to wash, dry and cut. I thought I was high maintenance, but the poodle boy really does take the cake for supreme maintenance required.

I’ve probably spent about 5hrs so far with yesterday and today and I still haven’t finished. Halfway through the Kambrook shaver started over-heating so I broke out Master’s uber poodle shears so I could keep going. They’re noisy and the poodle likes them even less than the Kambrook ones, but by that point I just wanted to get the job over with. Then, after bending over him for two hours and struggling with him and yelling at him as he snapped and snarled, I needed a coffee break and so here I am writing a blog before I go back for Round 325 to finish him off.

Well, it’s time to go back and finish the deed. Think warm thoughts for me that I can get the job done.

Another milestone

Well, I’ve now been a slave for longer than I was a married woman (technically I was with my ex for ten years but we were only married for three of those years). I announced this startling fact to Master last night and asked him in my cutest, please-don’t-beat-me-for-being-a-smart-ass voice whether he felt privileged at ‘lasting longer’ than my husband and instead of being pinched, slapped around or licked he simply said:

‘I do.’

So, for all those people who have the impression that he’s some hard-ass dom who doesn’t give a shit (*whistles innocently at where people could of possibly gotten that idea*..) I’d like to say he’s a very nice guy – quirky, and quite intimidating until you get to know him, but a really loving and caring man.

While I was at home, I trawled through my photo collection intending to bring back as many snaps as I could to show Master. Of the hundreds of photos I have, approximately half of them were taken at my wedding, so I had a ‘nice’ trip down memory lane as I flicked through the pages.

I had one of those ridiculous weddings that at the time I thought was great, but in hindsight I wonder why the hell we did it all. Among the more interesting things was a guy who ran into the assembled guests pretending to be a newspaper guy and who handed out a fake ‘breaking news’ edition of the newspaper that was all about the happy couple and how they met (we’d found a company on the internet that did that sort of stuff) and instead of a champagne tower we had a ‘chemical reaction tower’ that turned blue and glowed in the dark when we poured the reagent (cleverly disguised in a champagne bottle) into it. There was also a church, a boat, a limousine, two buses, two restaurants, an interpreter, an MC, a hair & makeup chick and a photographer who both followed me around all day and the chef who created the official dinner for the Sydney Olympic games involved. We spent an insane amount of money and did everything as originally and to our hearts content as we could. And why did we go to such lengths to celebrate our marriage?

 Because we were in love and thought we’d be together forever and ever.

Three years later almost to the day, I had a collar around my neck and was being bull-whipped while my ex was in hospital suffering a breakdown caused by the blonde-haired girl from across the seas breaking his heart and ruining his life.

So yeah. Nothing is for ever.

Master and I have a very realistic view on life. We know nothing lasts forever and that people change. We know that a nineteen year age gap is going to cause problems somewhere along the line and so we’ve come to the conclusion that the only thing you can do is live in the here and now and enjoy what you have while you can.

Because you never know when your chemical reaction tower, instead of turning a brilliant blue, is simply going to go up in smoke.

Hypothetically speaking

I asked Master THE QUESTION tonight. The one that every slave at one time or another wants desperately to ask and always thinks about, but very rarely puts into words:

‘What would happen if I didn’t want to be a slave anymore?’

I already knew the answer, but I just wanted to see whether the answer had changed at all in the past three plus years.

His answer?

‘You’d be leaving this house.’

Nope. It definitely appears that three years of sharing a life together hasn’t changed what Master wants one iota.

Which is comforting in some ways and disturbing in others. Comforting, in that I really need him to be a rock for me as far as this is concerned now because I’m kind of teetering on a cliff and disturbing, in that a part of me was hoping he was ready to move on and do the ‘normal’ thing.

I’m really ambivalent about things right now. If I was religious, I’d say that I was having a crisis of faith, but I’m not, so the only thing I can say is that thinking about this stuff while deeply in the middle of plague time is a very, very bad idea.

I often think about what I’d be doing if I had never gone down this slavery path. I wonder if I would be happy. I wonder if I would be wondering what things were like on the other side. I wonder if my life would be less complicated had I never gone looking for ‘kidnapping’ stories on the net when I was bored on a particularly low Friday night which got me into this in the first place.

I guess I’m at that age where you start to think about things. You think about whether you should be doing what everyone else is doing i.e. buying a house, settling down, starting a family, because you’re still young enough that you could start again, but too old to wait any longer.

I’ll admit I felt a sort of warm glow being back with my family doing the ‘normal stuff’. I even enjoyed the child-minding duties I did and I really didn’t miss my slavery one iota. Of course, I wasn’t away from it for that long that I felt the loss and, of course, I was wearing my collar and rings and talking to Master 2 or 3 times a day, everyday so there wasn’t anything to miss anyway.

I think about my future all the time. I think about the sobering fact that this can’t last forever and I wonder what will happen when I’m older and it’s too late to do anything else.

I don’t know the answer to any of my questions and I don’t know which ‘side of the fence’ I belong on. I don’t know whether the other side is better than the one I’m on now, or whether the other side will always look better no matter which side I’m on.

All I know is the now and the fact that I am a slave.

That’s what I am.

Mystery Shopper Malady

My UBO (use by others) appointment that was scheduled to occur at 11am this morning was cancelled. I didn’t know this fact until about 9am this morning when I enquired what time I needed to be ready by and Master informed me that our mystery shopper had cancelled…at 6pm last night. Why it took Master 15hrs to tell me that I didn’t need to angst and stress about UBO because it wasn’t going to happen I don’t exactly know, except to say that I’m sure the fucker he got some twisted pleasure out of keeping me in suspense.

My curiousity was piked by the reason for the cancellation. You see, when I heard he’d cancelled, there was a little part of me that immediately thought, “Crap, I’m not good enough and that’s why he cancelled”…because…well, I’m a girl and I always have insecurity issues. No matter what the real reason behind the cancellation – deportation, having his meth lab raided by police or his cat having a hairball and him needing to do the Heimlich manoeuver really, really carefully etc. – my initial gut reaction is always that there is something wrong with me.

So I asked Master why he cancelled.

‘Do you need to know?’ was the response he gave me along with The Look™ (that kaya has already trademarked…)

Apparently I wasn’t going to be getting any information that wasn’t on a need-to-know basis. The fact that I *needed* to know to assuage myself that I wasn’t the reason, didn’t register with Master because…well, he’s a boy and he doesn’t give a shit because I wear the shiny thing. The only thing he told me was that the mystery shopper wasn’t ‘in the right head space’ – which could be true (like yours truly) or it was simply a polite way of saying, ‘You suck’.

Another possibility is that he got cold feet. If he did, he wouldn’t be the first mystery shopper that has had cold feet. I have a hard time getting my head around the ‘cold feet’ thing though. Once I say I’m going to do something, I do it. I might be scared shitless or revolted beyond belief, but by fuck, if I promise to do something, I do it. (which I guess is why it takes me so long to make a decision because I know that once I do, I’m totally locked into it.) I find it quite interesting when people spend several weeks setting up a play date and talking through it and everything, only to cancel at the last moment because the reality is a much bigger beast than the fantasy.

The truly sad thing though is along with a HUGE feeling of relief at hearing of the cancellation (because I’m still not in the mood), I’m also feeling slightly rejected. Lol. God, I’m just so sad, aren’t I? In some bizarre way I feel like I turned up for a blind date somewhere and the person took one look at me and left before I even realised I had been stood up.

Whatever the reason actually was for the cancellation, I’m pretty sure it wasn’t me as I’m assuming the person doesn’t even know me, but you know me, all sorts of things go through my head at a time like this.

I’m feeling ranty

1. Why do people feel the need to say negative things about my weight?

Growing up as a fat kid I had my fair share of being teased mercilessly and in my pubescent years I truly enjoyed being given well-thought-out nicknames like, “Fats”. Fast-forward 20 years and I thought being on the other end of the scale would stop that hurtful shit, but apparently not.

When I was at home last week, I spent almost every day being made to promise my eighty-six-year-old grandmother that I wouldnt lose anymore weight. At random times during the day she would interject it into conversation, like we’d be chatting about her cute toilet paper with paw prints on it and suddenly she’d say to me, “I think you’ve lost enough weight. Promise me you won’t lose anymore, ok?”

I’ve also got an acquaintance who, every time he sees me, grills me about how much weight I’ve lost. He also likes to make comments like, ‘You’re wasting away!’  or “You’ve turned sideways and now I can’t see you!”

To be honest, I find the comments about my lack of weight more upsetting than anything I was ever told when I was fat. I’m sure most people don’t go around making random ‘fat’ comments to large people because they know it’s not nice, so why make random ‘too thin’ comments to people who have lost weight?

I’m no-where near uberly skinny. I still have a body fat percentage of around 28% and enough padding in my ass to feed a third-world country. I have a small build and would need to lose another 8kg (15lb) before I would be classed as ‘under-weight’.

Granted, some of the pics Master has taken and posted of me aren’t that flattering. In some positions I can look gaunt and a bit bony, but my body is still adjusting to the weight-loss and everything is sagging. I’d like it if he didn’t post those pics, but he posts what he wants, when he wants.

2.  I’m supposed to be having a mystery shopper visit tomorrow, but I am so not in the mood for it.

My ‘holiday’ at home really wore me out mentally and jumping straight back into work fucked me up physically. My body is also so confused with the three-hour time difference and the daylight savings vs. no daylight savings zones so I’ve felt funny since I’ve been back. My period is late and I’m uberly pms-sy. Oh and have I mentioned I’ve been binge-eating since I got back and my body is aching from my gardening splurge? Not to mention that getting ready for a mystery shopper requires a couple of hours of hair removal, hair-doing and getting ready and the appointment is for 11am tomorrow which means I’m going to have to get up early…

Yeah. I’m definitely not in the mood for it.

I’d like to be a bit more excited about it for Master’s sake, but honestly, I just can’t drum up the enthusiasm in me.

3. One of my piercings really, fucking hurts.

It happens every time my period is due, but it’s like someone is digging a metal skewer into my private bits. They also get incredibly itchy and so I scratch, and that makes them sore and then itchy again, and so I scratch…rinse and repeat for a week every month.

Let’s also not forget that during my period is not the only time they hurt. They just hurt MORE during my period.

4. I’m trying to get back onto the weight-loss wagon, but it’s not working.

For the past eight weeks my weight has been yo-yoing around and it annoys me to no end that I just cannot reach the target weight I set for myself. It’s not that I can’t reach it physically. It’s very attainable, but some part of me just can’t make that final commitment to knuckle down and get there once and for all. Every time I lose a little bit I reward myself with, of course, food and then the cycle starts again. Normally I’m a very disciplined person and so it’s driving me insane that I’m just not doing what I need to do!! AHHHH!!

5. Slut wear is not practical.

On Friday I went to the garden centre in platform heels and an impossibly mini dress. Bending down to pick up plants exposed my beaver. Then, I nearly broke my neck walking on the slippery concrete after they’d just watered the plants.

After the garden centre came the fruit and veggie market. Firstly, you can’t hold a bulging basket of fruit & veg and pull your dress down at the same time as you weave between screaming children. Secondly, platform boots with stiletto heels won’t save your toes when you get run over by a guy wildly wielding a trolley of onion bags.

Then came the supermarket. Walking up and down the aisles with the teeny-tiny steps I needed to take totally buggered me. Then my stilettos kept sinking into the lawn as I tried to carry the shopping bags inside. It was stinking hot and by the time everything was unloaded and packed away, I just wanted to get naked.

Maybe that was Master’s plan all along.

I’ma gonna git domestic on yer asses

Master and I have been busy the past few days doing a couple of projects. He’s building me a St. Andrew’s cross:

partially completed cross

After this photo was taken he added some hinges, a back brace, some eyelets and did some recessing and other wood-working shit that I don’t know the name of and now it’s mostly complete except he mumbled something about needing to do some routering.

Apparently after completely it though, Master decided that he wasn’t overly happy with the end result and has proclaimed it a ‘prototype’. Apparently he wants something more ‘robust’. Why he needs something more ‘robust’ and the implications for me, are things that are likely to keep me awake for the next couple of nights.

While Master has been making his cross, I’ve been busily making babies!

Propagating seeds in egg cartons:

egg carton babies

I’m seriously getting into this whole gardening thing!

seeds

Do you think I have too many packets of seeds? Lol.

The herbs and lettuces I planted a few weeks ago have been simply roaring along.  Coriander anyone? baby coriander

I’ve also got lemon basil, sage, flat leaf parsley, curly leaf parsley and chives.

If lettuce is more your thing, how about some gourmet or cos lettuce?

lettuce1

lettuce2

The other night I actually started harvesting some of my lettuce babies and had them in a salad. I felt a bit guilty, but alongside the chicken roasted in the turbo oven, they were scrummy!

chicken and salad

Now, normally I’m not the gardening-type. Previously, the only time I ever ‘gardened’ is when the weeds were so thick that the poodle pup couldn’t find a space clear enough to lift his leg. But I’m really getting into this growing-things-to-eat deal. Maybe it speaks to my love of frugality – although I think we’ve spent more on seeds, potting mix, fertilizer, insecticide and other assorted goodies than we would spend on actually buying vegetables in a six month period, but hey, at least it’s a wholesome hobby and keeps me away from playing WoW!

Yesterday I actually spent FIVE HOURS clearing a patch in the garden so I could replant my lettuces as they were getting too big for the pots. I’ve also decided to clear a patch on the other side of the house to plant my corn and onions and some of the tomatoes. I can’t wait until I can harvest some of these goodies!!

Somebody kill me now before I get too damn domestic and start talking about knitting!

I’ve lost the ouchie gene

Remember the other day how I was saying that I’m not as ‘into’ the whole bdsm thing as I used to be? Well, I’ve had a bit more of a think about it and I’ve come to the conclusion that there is one facet of it that I’m a whole lot not as into as I used to be – the pain thing.

I’ve never been one to actively seek out pain, but I think I used to definitely tolerate it a lot better than I do now. In fact, my tolerance for pain now is right around the nada, niente, no-way-jose mark. I just don’t want it in any way shape or form. I don’t even find the thought of it slightly titillating or norti. I just really, really, really with every fibre of my being do not want to have to feel anything that is ouchie.

Which is a wee bit of a problem for a slave in a bdsm relationship, don’t cha think?

I tend to do a lot of my thinking at really bizarre times. Sometimes it’s on the toilet or when I’m munching on my vegemite toast, but today’s great thought came when I was walking to the bus station after just getting off the train. Somewhere between the up escalator and the ticket gate, the thought struck me that the feeling I have towards things ouchie these days is none other than…fear.

It’s a deep-seated, stomach-churning, I-do-not-want-to-be-there feeling that either (a) makes me want to vomit or (b) makes me want to cry. Even when something is not really that ouchie, the thought of it being even slightly ouchie is enough to set me off. And I don’t think it even has to be ouchie to induce those feelings, even just ‘uncomfortable’ is enough to set me off.

That’s why I don’t want to be beaten, don’t want to insert anything up my bum and I haven’t even given bondage a second thought – which is soooooo not like me. Any time Master even gets the faintest hint of a glint in his eye that he wants to do something, I can’t get away fast enough. I just want to be as far away as possible from anything that is going to cause me anything but neutrality or pleasure.

If he wants kisses or cuddles or even relaxation therapy (when my tmj cooperates) that is a.o.k. Ravishings are fine. As are banter sessions. I also don’t have any sort of issue with Master himself; I still love spending time with him and he does make me very happy, but when he wants to do ouchie stuff, he might as well be offering to lick me from head to toe.

I used to be the sort of person who got some sort of twisted pleasure from the struggle of being forced to endure pain. There were many times that I even asked for more ouchies, having thought that Master hadn’t given me ‘enough’. While I never felt pain as anything but pain, I got some sort of satisfaction out of it that helped my tolerance.

Now? I got nothing but fear and loathing.

The last time I felt like this was that morning I was on the bus going to that really horrible government call centre job I was doing last year when I suddenly decided that I just couldn’t do it anymore and I once I arrived at the office I quit. I had just reached that point where it was totally beyond my tolerance level, like over the last 6 months I’d somehow filled up my allowable quota for shittiness and now that I was full I could take no more. There was nothing for me to do then but quit that job. I could not, physically and mentally, stand another day there.

Comparing my feelings towards pain to that shitty, shitty job is probably not the best thing though. I’m not saying that I’m ready to quit slavery or that my feelings towards Master have changed in any way. I just don’t want to do the pain thing any more.

I don’t.

I can’t.

I’ve reached that point where my mind is just saying, “No”.

And for some reason I’m scared.

Yeah.

This is one of those times when being a slave sucks.

 

I’m famous

Apparently when I arrived at the airport on Monday night, a local radio announcer witnessed my arrival and on the radio the next morning decided to talk about the bizarro chick in the what-the-fuck-is-that? outfit walking through the domestic airport. Apparently they were debating the reasons why I was wearing what I was and why some ‘guy’ was furiously taking photos. After some debate, they couldn’t decide on a reason and asked the ‘bizarro chick’ to call in and satiate their curiousity if she was listening.

At the time, Master and I were listening to the radio as he took me to the train station so I could get to work. Unfortunately, we were listening to 94.5 instead of 92.9 *smacks head*. Wtf were we doing listening to the other station??

Could you imagine what the domly one would of done if we’d be driving along and suddenly their conversation turned to me? I shudder to think. I also shuddered when I came home today and found Master about to send an email to the station saying that he had details and they should call him for information. Fortunately he thought better of it and the email was summarily deleted.

So if we weren’t listening, how did I find out about it?

Master posted some of the slut cop pics to Fetlife and a friend commented that they already knew about the outfit before they saw the pics. I was curious as to how they knew as I’d not told or shown anyone my outfit except my 86 year old grandmother who was highly amused by it. It was then that the story about the radio came out.

Lol. I know I should probably be horrified or something, but all I can think of is how funny it is.

So if there are any Perthites out there who heard the Em & Sam Mac brekky show on Tuesday and heard them discuss yours truly give me details! Please?