It’s a long one…

And while I have been known to get into heated debates with people over whether it’s width or length that matters (for the record I say width) I’m not talking about phallus size (and also for the record, I *heart* the word phallus). What I’m talking about is post length and this one is going to be a long one – without pics! shock, horror! – so go make yourself a cup of coffee and pee and do whatever else you need to do before you settle down and read this one. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.

So now that I’ve got my public service announcements out of the way, here goes…

A couple of days ago I read kitten’s very revealing post about zen mastery. My gist of their arrangement is that whenever she acts up or doesn’t do what is required, there is no punishment. Her acting out is a sign that she’s not ready to submit, so he waits for her to bring herself around so that in effect, she is mastering herself. He holds the reigns but she is picking her way along the path without being forcibly pushed or pulled along.

As I read, I sucked my breath in between my teeth and had that immediate gut reaction of ,’How can he expect her to live by rules if there are no consequences for failure to adhere to them?’

But I kept reading and just as I was forming a comment to ask her that very question, I read the best thing that I’ve read for a long time and it all made sense:

“Surrender is a reaction. Submission is a decision.”

I’ve been a person who is all about the ‘force fantasy’. I’m the unhappy slave, the victim, the one who has her pride and tears forcibly wrenched out of her. I’m not a slut; I’m forced to be one. I’m not a wanton whore; Master made me one. Without realising it, I’d been reacting to whatever Master threw at me and as a result surrendering and not submitting. And while I did make that initial decision to submit and become a slave, I don’t think making the decision once is enough. I need to be making it again and again every day without waiting for a stimulus from Master that I can react to. When I’m standing at the crossroads I need to be making a conscious decision to submit, I need to be choosing the choice that is right for me.

A couple of days back I was thinking back over 2009 and lamenting that it was such a nothing year with no advancements in my slavery – no improvements in skills, no new notches on my slave belt. Thinking about it now I’m wondering whether it was because I did so little in the way of submitting. I did the bare minimum of what was required: brought his drinks when he asked, put on boots when he told me to, sucked his dick when he held me down. In retrospect it definitely seems like I did a lot of surrendering and very little submitting over the past twelve months.

I’m very good at surrendering and I play the role of the slave made to do things against her will with finesse. The whole basis for my existence has always been about me shirking responsibility for what I am and what I do and that’s fine – when there is a stream of force allowing me to be what I want to be – but when the flow ebbs, I’m left floundering like a fish out of water, uncomfortable in my own skin and without anyone to ‘blame’ it on.

With Master I have many moments where I’m frustrated and angry because I get away with so much. I’m disrespectful, ungrateful, sassy, rude, demanding, arrogant, selfish, disobedient and very, very unslave-like 95% of the time and generally speaking there are no consequences for what I do or fail to do. And as kitten says, it’s very easy to live in a situation where there is ‘action=reaction’ because it requires very little effort or self-control on my part. It’s very simple to ride the waves and be the wailing woman, crying that Master doesn’t beat me, doesn’t tie me up, doesn’t ‘treat me like a slave’.

Perhaps he doesn’t often treat me like a slave because I very rarely present myself as one.

If I can lose 40 pounds by sheer will-power alone, surely I can control myself enough to be pleasing and obedient. Surely I can call him ‘Master’, kneel at his feet and even lick his bum if that’s what he wants. Generally speaking, I laugh and walk off when he tells me to do something that I think is silly, pointless or beneath me. But I’m his slave and I should be making the decision to submit, to do what he wishes because that’s what I do.

So, I’m going to start the new year with a clean slate. I’m going to be focused. I’m going to be pleasing. And the first think I’m going to do is to work out my baby steps to achieving those goals, because that’s the secret to everything you know, breaking everything into manageable hunks.

I’m thinking about some dedicated M/s time. Maybe some daily cage time. Routine. A bit of re-jig to my blog. Perhaps a few simple rules to add to what I already have. Some small attainable and do-able things that will fit in to our lives. And these are all things that I’m going to decide myself because it’s my choice. Master shouldn’t have to be dealing with the nitty gritty of me getting into slave space. I’m the one submitting, I’m the only one who really knows what is going on in my head. I’ve got to take responsibility for myself and my choices and BE the slave.

I. Am. His. Slave.

I have to keep reminding myself of that and when I’m standing at the crossroads, with the power to take a multitude of paths, I have to chose the path of obedience and submission.

I. Am. His. Slave.

I choose to submit.

And my answers…

1. Your role? Slave – although by a lot of people’s definitions I’m probably just a whiney bitch who likes rough sex.

2. Current relationship? Owned by my current Master for 3 1/2 years. I had another owner prior to Master who I was with for a year.

3. Your favourite type of play? Bondage that I can’t get out of.

4. Your most hated type of play? Licking at any time and beating when I’m not in the mood.

5. The most annoying habit of your owner/slave/whatever you call your SO? God…can I pick only one?? I’d have to say being noisy. I’m uberly sensitive to sound and he always has to have the tv turned up to OMFGLOUD and I’m generally woken up by him stirring his coffee with his spoon – really, really, loudly.

6. Your deepest fear? Being old and alone.

7. Your most memorable public experience (or what you would like to do in public)? The first time I was paraded naked through a house full of clothed, chatting people. Now it really wouldn’t phase me one bit, but at the time I was mortified with a capital “M”.

8. What gets you in the mood? Porn.

9. Favourite method of masturbation? Hitachi & boobie bondage.

10. Scariest thing you’ve seen or heard of in BDSM land? It’s a bit of a toss-up between kaya’s tit-nailing and chakrapony’s being hung from the ceiling with hooks through her knees. I’m also a bit disturbed by the chick who was cattle-prodded into unconsciousness.

11. Number of hours you spend on iFet when you should be doing other things? I pop by once every couple of days and just glance at my friend’s activity page. I can’t be bothered to get into discussions with people who are never going to agree on anything.

12.Thing that was hotter in fantasy than it was in reality? Umm…just about everything. I can’t say that I’ve ‘enjoyed’ anything I’ve experienced. I’ve certainly gotten a sense of achievement or pleasure from enduring, but not gotten hot from the actual thing. I think my cunt piercings were the biggest disappointment and especially my clit hood piercing that does absolutely *nothing* but sits there and gets in the way.

13. Most longed-for experience? Sub-space…if it exists.

14. Ouchiest toy? It would be a toss-up between a strap made with one half-inch diameter strand of rubber and a rubber flogger made with the thinnest strands of rubber. I think rubber hurts more than leather any day.

15.Book or movie that every newbie has to read/see? Hmmm…The Story of O is kind of a classic, I’d just preface it by saying that it’s not a BDSM primer, but a fantasy through and through.

16. Thing you’d like to change about yourself? I’d like to be more sexual and have an orgasm like everyone else.

17.Thing you’re most proud of? Still having my cunt rings in after 3 1/2 years.

18.Funniest dom name you’ve ever heard? URGOD

19. Do your family and friends know? Some of them – my mum, my sister, my best friend. I have a feeling my grandmother wouldn’t care if I told her. She’d probably just make me a cup of tea and say, “Whatever makes you happy dear.”

20. Is twenty questions too many? I could of added ten more, but thought doing a Part II post would give me an emergency topic for later on 🙂

The BDSM twenty questions

Tell me your deepest, darkest secrets and I’ll tell you mine…

1. Your role?

2. Current relationship?

3. Your favourite type of play?

4. Your most hated type of play?

5. The most annoying habit of your owner/slave/whatever you call your SO?

6. Your deepest fear?

7. Your most memorable public experience (or what you would like to do in public)?

8. What gets you in the mood?

9. Favourite method of masturbation?

10. Scariest thing you’ve seen or heard of in BDSM land?

11. Number of hours you spend on iFet when you should be doing other things?

12.Thing that was hotter in fantasy than it was in reality?

13. Most longed-for experience?

14. Ouchiest toy?

15.Book or movie that every newbie has to read/see?

16. Thing you’d like to change about yourself?

17.Thing you’re most proud of?

18.Funniest dom name you’ve ever heard?

19. Do your family and friends know?

20. Is twenty questions too many?

I’ll post my answers tomorrow 🙂

When I can’t be bothered to write a proper post…

…I bring you snippets!

* I broke my orgasm drought! I earned one release for ‘being amusing’ and after holding on to it for approximately two weeks, last night at 1am I was feeling restless and used it. It was a no-frills finger job owing to the fact that my hitachi was in Master’s bedroom and I didn’t feel like charging in there for it while he was asleep. I’d avoided porn like the plague for a couple of months because I knew if I watched any of it, I’d be torturing myself without being able to have a release, so I had a HUGE amount of new porn to click through. It was yummy.

*I’ve rediscovered my piano mojo! After being depressed that my hands just didn’t want to cooperate after nearly a decade and a half without so much as touching a key, a couple of hours of messing around on my new keyboard and it all started coming back to me. My reading of music is a bit woeful at present, but hopefully that will get better with practise too.

* Random acts of kindness rock! Remember a while ago when I said I needed to do 181 quests on WoW to get my deathchill cloak recipe? Well I did all that I could on my own and had about 30 quests left that I needed a group for. After a couple of weeks of no luck with trying to find people to group with an un-geared n00b like me, an uberly nice person grouped with me and helped me do ALL my remaining quests. It kind of restored my faith in man-kind.

* It’s raining! It’s only a few drops, but anything is better than nothing for my poor veggie garden babies. I’ve been lugging out bottles of water every day in an attempt to keep more from dying, but I’ve lost all of my onions and quite a few of everything else to the baking sun. I’ve also been battling with caterpillars, grasshoppers and mysterious creatures that eat my babies in the middle of the night.

* I’ve eaten approximately a whole xmas pudding (the puddings Master made were so completely divine) and half a container of ice cream! I’m thinking that the new year will see me doing a serious detox and getting back on the diet wagon before I can’t fit into my new clothes anymore.

* I cleaned my room! It’s been many, many months since I last saw my floor and today I thought I’d be productive. Master calls my room “The minefield” and while I don’t make it messy on purpose, it’s comforting to know that no-one can sneak up on me in the middle of the night without falling over shit and waking me up.

*I think I like my iMac! While the magic mouse sucks for playing WoW and gives me major RSI, I’m enjoying having a computer that I can turn on and just do stuff with. We have had a few dramas with networking and sound issues, but overall I think there’s a lot less drama than with Windoze. Once I set it up to right-click, my brain was a lot happier.

*I enjoy going to bed at 2am and getting up after 9am! That’s the good thing about having a week off – the only good thing, because I obviously won’t get a paycheck this week.

*I’m in two minds about whether I want to see Sherlock Holmes or Avatar at the movies. I have a very soft spot for Robert Downey Jr., who I never used to like until I saw him in Ironman, and I hate, hate, hated Titanic, so James Cameron needs to do something marvellous to get into my good books.

*I finished Kushiel’s Dart! Yay! Third time was a charm. I still don’t understand who is who and all the political stuff that went on but at least I can now say I have read it. My thoughts? Meh. It’s a book. Not at all kinky and definitely not enough details about juicy stuff. I’ve started Kushiel’s Chosen and then I’ll see whether I want to buy the third one, just to finish the trilogy.

* I need a new tv series to watch. Now that True Blood has finished, I officially have *nothing* on tv to watch at all. But the really disturbing thing? I kind of started liking Eric at the end of Season Two….now I’m thinking he’s hotter than Bill…I saw an interview with the guy who played Sookie’s brother in the paper the other day. He’s Australian, Sookie grew up in New Zealand and Bill is a pommie. When I watch the show, I always sit there and listen to their amusing American accents.

Retrospect is a wonderful thing

After all the fuss of xmas, and with turkey eaten and pudding digested there’s nothing left this year to do but think about what was, what wasn’t and what should of been.

I tend to get all out-of-sorts around this time anyway, but this year I’m tending towards the almost feral.Why? Because this year has been such a nothing year. No growth, no bettering and I think that somehow I might have even de-evolved somewhere along the line.

My work-life is going no-where, my slavery is stagnating. I’ve conquered nothing, added no notches to my belt, learned nothing new, acquired no new skills, crossed nothing off ‘my list’. So what the hell did I do for the last twelve months?

Like a lot of other people, I became a slave in an attempt to somehow ‘better’ myself. I’m not sure exactly why, but there was a part of me that thought that through service and submission, I’d become whole i.e. a more complete and in some ways ‘better’ person. But as the months and years go by, although I’m feeling more comfortable with myself, I’m doing less and less of the ‘slavey’ stuff and getting further and further away from where I should be.

Talking with a newly-inducted subbie friend the other day, she was recounting some of their new-relationship antics with the enthusiasm of a week-old puppy. I commented to her that it was interesting how willing we are to do stuff when we’re ‘fresh meat’ without thinking deeply about anything. She wasn’t really sure what I meant so I told her the story of my first brazillian wax.

At the time I was in Japan and doing the on-line thing with my owner. He wanted me smooth down there and he wanted it waxed. Now, in Japan waxing is quite rare – everyone shaves. And while chicks commonly shave their forearms and faces, shaving your mons is just not done (trust me, I’ve seen hundreds of bushes in the public baths and I can’t recall ever seeing one clean one.) So I scoured the import shops for some wax strips because I knew *nothing* about waxing and my bush had never been touched in all its 28 years.

I probably don’t need to tell you that the strips got caught in my pubes (I wasn’t even smart enough to trim them beforehand…) and I ended up ripping and cutting the damn things out. It was OMFG torture. But I did it, because my owner wanted me to do it. I knew it was going to be tricky and I didn’t even try to wheedle out of it or ask if I could shave instead. I just did what was required, anyway that I could. I was simply bursting with the enthusiasm of a newbie.

Now, I’ll very rarely even try to do something if I know it’s going to be difficult.

I could call that the ‘wisdom of experience’, but I’m more inclined to call it being a crap slave.

I guess I sort of had it in my mind that things would get easier as I went along – that things would come more naturally and I’d be more compliant, more skillful and pleasing. But alas no. In fact I balk now at things I would of done without a murmur three plus years ago. Is that how it’s supposed to be?

Admittedly, I’ve got a few more health concerns now than I did way back then. We have to be more careful of my circulation, my jaw and I have that nasty habit of fainting at the best of times. I know now that I’m breakable and care has to be taken, but still, I have a feeling most of my problems are psychological, not physical. It’s generally not that I can’t, just that I won’t.

Outside of my slavery this year had some good points – swimming with whale sharks, visiting my family, getting a job where I can use my language skills &  having Master home all the time.

With the good comes the bad: Master losing his job, my family dramas, losing the fluffy pup.  All in all, I’d say it was a bit of year I’d like to forget.

Bring on 2010.

Xmas downunder (no pubes involved)

I suppose I should squeeze something out in terms of a post seeing as I finished work today and don’t have to go back to that place that is so boring it makes me want to open a vein on a daily basis the office for nine days. Personally, I would of preferred to have no time off and get paid instead because I’ll probably do nothing but play wow anyway and these days, money is the preferred option.

I did the obligatory gift-giving thing to my boss today because I had that ‘feeling’ he was going to give me something and I didn’t want to have the faux pas of not having anything to give in return. Even though I’d already told him I was on my own personal christmas strike this year and not celebrating it, I just had that crap-he’s-going-to-buy-me-something tingle up the back of my neck that forced me out into the jungles of the pre-xmas shops. It was not pretty, and after much angst and up-teen entered shops, I ended up buying something boring and just being relieved by the fact that I had something to give.

One thing that really sucks about xmas in the southern hemisphere is that it’s soooooooo not good eating weather. It’s hot, dry and any eating outside is accompanied by swarms of flies. It’s just not the sort of time to be eating roast turkey and plum puddings and all that normal decadently rich stuff that should accompany xmas, and so everyone settles for bbqs and salads. I said to Master that we should celebrate xmas next year in July when it’s cold and you’ve got an appetite for the good stuff.

I spent a sum total of six Christmases in the northern hemisphere when I lived in Japan, where it was suitably cold and I think once we even had a light dusting of snow. Unfortunately, xmas in Japan is generally celebrated with a bucket of kfc and a strawberry shortcake on xmas eve – the reason being that 99% of Japanese people don’t have an oven to cook a roast in and for the 1% that do, the oven is generally only big enough to fit a chicken thigh or two. KFC jumped on the advertising wagon in the 70’s claiming that fried chicken was the closest thing to a traditional roast turkey and xmas in Japan is now forever and ever kentakkii! Dried fruit is also pretty non-existent, so a plum pudding is unheard of and I never did see or hear of that mysterious thing called ‘turkey’ the whole time I was there.

So, I’ve never really had a ‘christmassy christmas’ and somehow I feel like I’ve been robbed. Although I don’t like the cold, food is so much yummier in winter and I’m sure listening to “let it snow, let it snow, let it snow” as I did my Christmas shopping drowning in my own sweat wouldn’t be so ironic.

Master and I have a quiet day planned – just the two of us. In defiance of the weather we’re going to roast a turkey breast and have the whole gamut of roast vegetables. For dessert there is Master’s plum pudding that he steamed a couple of weeks back and that has been maturing since then. It smells divine and I can’t wait to taste it warm with some custard and ice cream. We might head to the beach in the afternoon or just chill for the rest of the day.

Merry Xmas everyone. Have a safe and happy holiday.

Sexy Santa Bunny Slut

Guess what?!? I have ouchies….and there was hardly any licking involved! Yay!

I went to the play party last night dressed in my “Santa Play Bunny Outfit” that I found while out shopping yesterday. While I did consider attending the party in just a santa hat saying, ‘Ho Ho Ho’ thinking that would be more than appropriate, I thought a little something to cover my pink bits would be nice.

Behold…the Sexy Santa Bunny Slut:

Santa Bunny Slut

At first glance I was all excited because thought I had Johnny Depp between my legs, but on closer inspection it’s not…

I found this little outfit in one of those cheap, full-of-pointless-crap shops with a whole group of people standing in front of the shelf. They were all laughing and discussing who the hell would buy one, let alone wear it, so I walked up, took one off the shelf and headed for the checkout. Mmm…don’t you just love how I humiliate myself in public??

We arrived at the party about 9pm and a few people immediately pointed out that perhaps I had my holiday icons confused. Yeah, I guess you don’t see a lot of xmas bunnies. But on the plus side, I was in fashion! Ears are definitely in amongst the goth community in Perth because I’ve lost count of the number of impressionable teenagers I’ve seen around town wearing ears – and not just eleven ones.

At the party I had a thorough cropping that definitely left me tender:

Cropped botty

I’m thinking the tail was great because it was like a little marker so all the hits stayed away from my tailbone – which made me a happy bunny.  For some reason, my tailbone is not in my ass where it should be but it’s right under the tail. But then again, maybe it’s actually my ass that has moved south…

It hurt like a bitch and due to my near-virginal ass not having seen the wrong end of a beating instrument for quite some time, it took all my powers of concentration not to jump around and squeal like a bunny on heat during Master’s administrations.

After the beating a young girl came up and asked us if we had videos posted on fetlife. Master beamed his boyish grin and said , “Yes, indeed we do!” She then said that she’d watched them and thought it didn’t look like he was hitting me very hard , but after watching him in action live, she’d radically changed her opinion.

Being the uberly I-can-take-it-like-a-good-slave wannabe masochist that I am, I somehow neglected to mention to her that he was hitting me lightly in the videos. I figure if there’s one less person in the world who thinks I’m a wuss, it will help me sleep better at night 🙂

At the party there were lots of beatings and needles and the highlight of the night was our psycho lovely masochistic friend carinastarr ending up with an ass that looked like steak tartare and legs striped like candy canes after a thorough beating with a cheese grater and snapping with industrial-strength rubber bands.They did the grater beating outside because they didn’t want to splatter the audience and the walls with blood.

Yep…

Now do you understand why having her play with me is kinda scary??? (not to mention that she used to lick me too…)

It was a fun night but I crashed and burned at about 11:30pm and we came home. We pulled up alongside some friends at the traffic lights on the way home so I gave them a booby flash. Just to give you an idea, here’s an obligatory boobie flash for y’all:

Obligatory boob shot

Where’s Elmer Fudd when you need him to take care of a norti wabbit?

Smokescreen

In a sneak preview of what the 2012 Mayan prophecy has in store for us along the lines of the cataclysmic demise of the earth, we awoke yesterday morning in our fair town of Perth to a bleary, smoke-filled morning and a barely discernable red-glowing sun. Apparently, there is so much smoke from the surrounding bushfires that you can see it from space:

(Perth is hidden under that stream of smoke where it heads off to the sea just above the cloud cover. Photo:  thanks to our friends at NASA for having nothing better to do than take pictures of smoke all day.)

The cover of smoke has dropped the temperature so much that I took turkey stew for lunch AND wore boots to work. Now that’s a pretty significant drop in temperature considering I was ridiculously hot on Sunday wearing nothing but my shiny thing – and even that felt hot and heavy.

I pointed out to Master on Sunday about the said shiny thing feeling like it was on fire and choking me at the same time, thinking that perhaps I could get a dispensation from wearing it while the temperature was nudging OMGHOT like I do with boots during summer, but of course his response was,

“What are you?”

To which I responded,

“Hot.” (of course…)

And he gave me ‘the look’ and I responded with the appropriate required response,

“Your slave.”

To which he said,

“Well, there’s your answer then.”

But I wasn’t about to give up so easily, so I put on my best sad & mournful face and asked him how he’d feel if he was in my position and had to wear the fucking shiny thing (thinking to get a bit of a sympathy vote…)

“I’d hate it,” he said.

Hurrah! I thought. I could see the headlines now:

Sneaky Slave Scores Shiny Symbol Separation

But my celebrations were short-lived:

“But you’re a slave, so suck it up buttercup.”

It’s moments like this I hate that he reads other blogs. They give him all sorts of unsavoury ideas like not giving in to your uberly-cute slavegirl when she bats her eyelids at you.

So can everyone write happy-joy-joy stories about how much of a push-over their domly folk are please? The smoke is starting to clear and shiny-thing-wearing folk are getting desperate!

Born to be hurt

Ever wonder what you’re here on the earth for?

I do. All the time.

I’m obviously not here to cure cancer, propagate the species or entertain the masses with my wit. So what, pray tell, is my purpose for being?

When I found this thing called slavery, one of the things I was enamoured with was the fact that it gave me a purpose. The idea that I existed for another’s service and pleasure was intoxicating and for the first time in my life, I had a reason for taking up space on the planet. I guess that’s why the fire burned so brightly initially – I’d gone from a purposeless soul aimlessly wandering the earth, to a ‘needed’ and purposeful thing overnight. For the first time in my life, I had a reason to get up in the morning and an owner to devote my every waking moment to.

The down-side to this is, of course, that as a result of finding ‘purpose’, I was filled to over-flowing with expectations and desires, fantasies and hopes. If I could finally, after all those years of purposelessness, suddenly have meaning for my life (the one thing I’d wanted more than anything) then surely all those other things I’d dreamed about could come true too?

Couldn’t they?

That’s wasn’t too much to ask, was it?

But it was and even the feeling of purpose I had, was to be a fleeting, transient thing.

There I was thinking that my purpose on earth was to serve a man; acquiesce to each and every one of his wishes and feel nothing but happiness at being able to fulfill my purpose. My owner was everything to me and I assumed that I was everything to him. I felt like I couldn’t live without him, so naturally I thought I was vital to his life as well.

But the problem was, he still managed to live without me. If I didn’t do a task I was entrusted with, the earth didn’t stop spinning. If I didn’t make him lunch, he would go to the fridge and get himself something. If he didn’t hurt me or beat me or use me for his entertainment, life still went on.

The reality was, he could live without me and once I realised that, I’d lost my purpose again after looking for it for so long.

I feel that a lot of my problem is that I don’t feel like I serve a special purpose. I don’t do anything that your average chick cannot do. What makes me special? What makes someone want to own me? What separates me from the rest of the flock?

If I was a masochist, if I was born to be hurt and my owner was a sadist – born to hurt another – then my purpose would be clear. I’d feed his hunger to give pain by receiving it and I’d be one of those very rare folk who can take what another wishes to bestow.

But I’m not.

And that’s why I feel the need to try to ‘prove’ myself in other ways. The rings, the tattoo, the mystery shoppers, the public play, they’re all things that I think an average chick couldn’t/wouldn’t do. By doing these things, I’m trying to give myself ‘added value’ and I’m trying to serve a purpose that no-one else can, by setting myself apart from the flock.

So when people ask, “How could you do that?” I’d like to reply,

“Because I wasn’t born to be hurt.”

But I have a feeling that an answer like that would raise more questions than it answers.

For hire

Classfied ad

So, you know how every guy who owns a chick wants to give/rent/loan them out to others? Well, my owner-type guy is no different. As you can see from my ad above though, I don’t think we’ll have the punters lined up outside the door.

I’m a whore with dubious whore skills.

We know a couple who fund their life by the chick turning tricks whenever they need some cash, so instead of trying to find myself a better paying job before we run out of money and become homeless, should I be honing my whore skills instead?

Truth be told, I’ve always had a bit of a romantic image of prostitutes. I would also say that my  20+ viewings of Pretty Woman helped me think that it’s not the worst profession in the world and there can be good things gotten out of it (although I wouldn’t want my white knight to be Richard Gere – he’s a short-ass with squinty eyes.)

I suppose the reality of having to service sweaty, smelly guys and scary women with crew cuts is not hawt, but the fantasy in my mind always is. In my fantasy, I’m more a high-class call girl loaned out to the rich and famous for dinner events and then taken back to their mansions for the night before being collected by my owner in the morning. I don’t get the cash and don’t even know my price, I’m just there as a play-toy for whoever can afford it.

I guess at $1/min I’m cheap. Or am I? How much does a prostitute charge these days? And how ‘good’ does she have to be? Does she need to be able to recite the karma sutra backwards, or is a warm hole or two or three enough for the undiscerning gentleman?

Norti and Nice

(Click here to see the winner (s) of the “I’m an innernets smartipants!” award from yesterday’s post.)

I stupidly worked up the courage this morning on the bus to tell my mum and my sister about Jacque. The act of texting the words, of course, got me all a sobbing again so there I was on the bus at 8am surrounded by fifty smelly, hormonal pre-pubescent high school kids crying my eyes out. Yeah, it was a good start to the day.

I’d been feeling ridiculously guilty because last weekend my sister decided to end her marriage and I haven’t even called her to talk about it and find out what is going on. I know family is supposed to theoretically take precedence over pets and my sister launching out as a single mother of two kids with asperger’s and dealing with an ex who has overdosed and is threatening violence is pretty damn serious stuff, but my head and heart are still firmly wrapped around the fluffy pup and I haven’t had ‘room’ for anything or anyone else.

The separation has been a long time in the pipework so it wasn’t a surprise, but the realities and logistics of it for her are, I’m sure, frightening and overwhelming. I don’t know where to begin to help her considering I’m on the other side of the continent and emotionally messed up myself just at the moment. I know just having a talk with her and letting her know she has lots of love and support around her will have to do, but I know it’s not really enough.

My family haven’t been lucky with marriage. My mother, her brother, me and now my sister have all been married and divorced. We just don’t seem to have the ‘happily ever after’ gene as far as marriage is concerned. As far as my massively family-orientated grandmother is concerned, I’m sure she’d like nothing more than to see us happily married with herds of grandchildren and great-grandchildren for her to coo over, but we’re blessed that she’s so full of unconditional love that she will take us any which way.

Maybe masochism really is entwined in DNA. For some reason, everyone in my family has either consciously or unconsciously gotten themselves into ‘difficult’ and ‘out-of-the-box’ relationships and for someone like me, I can see the patterns.

As for me, I’ve always taken the ‘road less travelled’ and while I don’t do things as extreme as climbing Mt Fuji on my elbows (yes, people do this for fun), I’ve tended to do things ‘the hard way’ and always gain some sort of perverse pleasure in people asking,

“How could you possibly do that?”

I used to think my sister was masochistically inclined too as she was always better than me at making things difficult for herself. But then she told me one day about how she’d tied her ex to the bed with pantyhose and had her way with him and I thought perhaps she was just a sucker for punishment and not the masochistic goddess I thought she was.

I see an awful lot of people who get into bdsm because of dysfunctional experiences so I’ve always doubted the validity of the ‘wired for kink’ theory. In fact, I don’t think I can name one person in kink who is utterly and totally free of emotional baggage and that’s what has always made me lean towards the nurture instead of nature way of thinking.

But then again, I don’t think I can name one person *outside* of kink who is utterly and totally free of emotional baggage either. I guess we are just fucked up from the minute we are born by those around us and some of us go norti and some of us go nice.

Ten truths? about me

In an effort to lift the mood around here, I thought we might play a little game. Hermione did something similar to this a while back, so I thought I might give it a go too, but with a twist.

Below you’ll see ten statements about me, but only one of them is false. Your mission, if you choose to accept it, is to guess which statement is false. Leave your answer in a comment and if you get it correct, I’ll award you the “I’m an innernets smartipants!” award which you can display proudly forever and ever because you should be proud of knowing a freakish amount about me.

So without further ado, here are my ten true? statements:

1. I often stuff catalogues and random pieces of paper down my underpants at work to take into the toilet to read because I get freakishly bored when I crap.

2. I’ve actually had a couple of secret releases in the privacy of my bedroom since my no-release-without-permission rule came into effect a couple of months back.

3. I weigh less now than I did when I was eleven years old.

4. I’ve never read a Harry Potter book.

5. I couldn’t swim until I was about nine years old because I used to be totally scared of having my head under water.

6. I had a goldfish in Japan that I named ‘Harrison’ because I used to be in love with Harrison Ford.

7. The first song I ever sang at karaoke was “The Rose” by Bette Midler.

8. I’ve never cut myself or hit myself, but I have poured hot wax on myself and stuck thumbtacks in my nipples.

9. I have shoplifted something.

10. I failed my first driving test because I did a parallel park ‘too perfectly’.

Are you going to be the winner of the “I’m an innernets smartipants!” award??? (Remember, only one of them is false!)

This post will self-destruct in twenty seconds….

(See the answer here)

The day after

My day today was a mix of random sobbing and staring into space. It kind of went something like this:

1. Open my email – start sobbing

2. Walk to the bus stop – start sobbing

3. Boss asks a question about upcoming shipments – start sobbing

4. Come home on the bus – start sobbing

5. Look at all the spots on the floor I expect to see the poodle and don’t – start sobbing

6. Pass the fluffy pup’s food and water bowl in the kitchen that I can’t bring myself to do anything about  – start sobbing

As you can tell, I’m not taking the passing of the fluff pup well.

So after a fruitful day of sobbing, I decided that some serious comfort food was in order. I’m not feeling particularly hungry and haven’t had much of an appetite for the past few days, but I still felt a need to stuff my face with KFC.

I came home and told Master of my brilliant plan for dinner and because he knows better than to stand between an emotionally traumatized girlie and her comfort food, he drove me to the local KFC where we loaded up with ten pieces of hot & spicy chicken and two large chips.

I scoffed my chips on the drive home and hoed into the chicken when we arrived home, washing it down with a raspberry vodka cruiser. Afterwards, I topped it all off with a huge bowl of ice-cream that I covered in nestle’s chocolate quik and then stirred into a kind of chocolate flurry. I don’t know whether all that made me feel any better, but I didn’t sob into my chicken so maybe I’m making some head-way.

But then again I’m sobbing into my cup of tea while trying to write a blog, so maybe not.

I’m sure I’ll come to terms with the loss of my poodle pup eventually and get back to my regularly scheduled blog programme of angst and porn, but until then you’ll have to bear with me, okay?

Master and I also want to say thank you to everyone for your heart-felt messages that were left in comments and sent as emails. We appreciate all of them.

Goodbyes

We said our final goodbyes to the poodle pup today in a way that I was hoping to avoid. At 1pm the vet administered a lethal dose of anaesthetic and as I stroked his fluffy white coat, murmuring over and over again ‘good boy’, I felt him take his last breath.

It was so very hard.

I’ve known this day would come eventually and as he got older and more unsteady on his feet, I steeled myself that sooner, rather than later, we would have to make the agonizing decision, but any time to have to put your baby down is way too soon in my books.

The vet came to our house and Jacque was home in familiar surroundings, with his chewed up froggie toy beside him. It was amazingly quick and other than a few problems finding a vein due to his age and Jacque to the very end being particular with anyone doing anything near his legs, I hope he wasn’t too traumatized. As the needle went in Master was holding his head and a few seconds later Jacque was drifting off to sleep.

Late last week he got a small infection on the back of his tail and almost overnight it bloomed into a toxic abscess. The circulation had stopped in the end of his tail and the vet said the only thing to do would be to amputate.The infection was slowly leaching into his blood stream and he wasn’t eating and could barely get up. Considering his age, we thought putting him to sleep would be the best thing.

I was supposed to go to work today, and until 7:30am when I called my boss to ask for the day off, I had every intention of being out of the house when it happened. I didn’t think I could cope with it. I didn’t want to see him die. I didn’t want to be a part of it. And I didn’t want to see his life-less body after the deed had been done. But I thought about Master. I thought about how Jacque had been his baby for thirteen and a half years and I didn’t want him to go through it alone.

As it turns out, Master held things together a lot better than I did. I was crying for several hours last night, for most of the morning and I sobbed and sobbed from the minute the vet walked in the door. Master was comforting me, not the other way around and other than Master pouring himself a glass of whiskey (and he only drinks like that when he’s really shaken up) he was strong.

I’ve never seen anyone die before. Someone dead, yes, someone die, no. When I attended my ex-hubby’s grandmother’s funeral, I couldn’t bring myself to touch her. It’s a part of Japanese customs that you ‘confirm’ that someone is dead by touching their face. I wasn’t sure whether I’d be able to touch Jacque after he’d passed, but it was just like he was asleep – warm, fluffy and I stroked and kissed him.

Then Master and the vet carried him out of the house on a stretcher and the vet took him to be cremated. We’ll get his ashes back in a few days in a lovely wooden box with his name engraved on it. I can’t stop thinking about him though and I wish it didn’t have to be this way. I feel bad about every time I yelled at him or got annoyed by him. He was a fantastic dog, with such a great personality and he couldn’t of made me happier.

I miss him. His absence is palpable. I keep expecting to hear his nails on the tiles as he walks around the kitchen or feel his fluffy white head nuzzling up under my arm as I type. It’s quiet. So quiet. Tomorrow when I get home from work, I’ll be expecting to see him at the door, all excited and running around.

But he won’t be there.

Rest in peace my fluffy pup. We miss you and love you.

Just breathe and reboot

Meltdowns are a fairly common topic when I read subbly folk’s blogs, hell, I have them myself often enough and the general idea is that when a meltdown occurs something is wrong, but I’m convinced that often a meltdown is not an indication that something is wrong, but actually that something is right.

I find that my meltdowns generally occur when something ‘new’ is required of me – when there’s a ‘ramping’ up of rules or routines or when a new form of play is introduced. I see these new requirements as an almost insurmountable wall in front of me and in order to get over that wall so I can go forward, I have to achieve/attempt/do what is required.

When I face a wall, my gut reaction tends to be, “I can’t do it!” and that’s when I dig my heels in and mentally start grilling Master over the flames from the ninth pit of hell, thinking he’s a cruel, harsh, insensitive bastard and wondering how could he possible expect a,b or c from me. I generally give him the cold shoulder, stomp around the house and reply to his interrogations with my famous phrase, ‘You can do WHATEVER you want’ (with associated eye-rolling and bored expression). If it’s an exceptionally high wall, there may even be tears, screaming and assertions that I can’t do this ‘slavery thing’ anymore.

Then after a few days of internal struggle and grief and generally after a few long conversations with the domly one, I see a way over the wall and once I’m on the other side, I look back and wonder what the hell I thought was so hard about it.

I used the word grief to describe my feelings during the struggle because that what it really feels like. It feels like I’m mourning the loss of another part of my freedom and until I work through that grief and accept it, I fight it. For all that people talk about freedom in slavery and how freeing it is to lose control, I still feel that the loss of freedom is hard.

It’s hard to re-write your wiring to go from an independent, in-control human to being to property needing to submit to the will of another. It’s not a natural progression. It’s not a smooth landing on the runway of submission. It’s angsty, gut-tearing stuff that really messes with your mind, but if you make it through the quagmire and get up and over the wall, there’s another notch you can add to your belt of submission. It’s another hurdle that you’ve cleared and I guess in the ‘slave scheme of things’ you’ve become a ‘better slave’.

So I think that moving to the next level of submission produces meltdowns as a byproduct  and just because a subbly one is having a meltdown doesn’t mean that they want the relationship to be over. I’ve got a domly acquaintance who tends to throw all his toys out every time one of his partners has a meltdown because he thinks, “I can’t do it anymore, I’m scared” means “I want off the ship, every man for himself!” instead of “I need some time, help me adjust.”

I’m wondering how many hundreds of dollars he has to spend buying stuff…yet again…once the meltdown has passed before he realises that meltdowns aren’t always bad things.

Sometimes when it gets all too much and you’re frozen in front of the wall, all you need to do is breathe and reboot.

Wanted: army to eat leftovers

We had one of our regular luncheons for fabulous kinky folks today and Master made more than enough to feed our eight guests. The theme for the day was Spanish tapas and once we’d laid all the dishes out on the bench, it was groaning from the weight of food:

Along with three types of dips, three salsas and two salads, there were also beef enchiladas, chilli wings, chicken chimichangas, stuffed capsicums, a vegetable frittata and cornbread.

I thought the colours in this frittata just looked so summery and yummy.

Master also makes a mean guacamole and kidney bean dip:

When the man cooks, the man cooks.

My new favourite dish of the day was the mango and pineapple salsa:

I’ve never really understood the concept behind fruit salsa – liking my food to be either sweet or savoury and not both at the same time – but this was divine. The chilli and onion added another dimension to the mix of orange, lime, pineapple & mango.

For dessert there were baked apple enchiladas (like apple strudel but made with tortillas instead of pastry), strawberries with cream and ice cream and my dulche de leche cheesecake – which looked very exciting as I got all arty-farty with decorating the top and made the rustic crinkly edge by folding the baking paper lining:

It tasted quite scrummy (it was also a bonus that nothing exploded in the making of this cheesecake.)

We fortunately managed to send our guests home with sizable doggie bags so there isn’t actually that much in the way of leftovers, and I also made it through the lunch without being stripped naked and strung up as the pinata.

I wonder what would of fallen out of me if I had? 🙂

Crikey

Along with the clamps-up-my-nostrils joviality on Saturday that I discussed in my last post, we also had a bit of an impromptu photo session as there weren’t many people there and things were a bit quiet. We got a couple of nice pics that I’m thinking of using on the xmas cards for this year:

Hanging around

On the cross...again

Or maybe I need some clamps with bells on them somewhere to make it more festive. (BTW, I’m just joking about the xmas cards thing… I can’t even be bothered to buy cards from the $1 shop and send them out, let alone make them myself!)

In domestic goddess news, I’m currently making dulche de leche for a cheesecake I’m making later – because the only thing to do when it’s 38 degrees (100F) is, of course, to have the stove and oven on for three hours. Yeah, I’m really good at choosing my days for things like that. After thumbing through the various ways of making the sinful stuff, I settled on the most dangerous/interesting one: boiling a sealed can of condensed milk in a pot of water for 3hrs.

I’m a bit of a scaredy-cat when it comes to cooking. I don’t do pressure-cookers and I don’t deep fry. Normally I also don’t boil sealed cans for hours because it says in big, bold letters on every can: DO NOT BOIL CAN. But in order to provide my luncheon guests with the best possible dulche de leche cheesecake tomorrow, I’m willing to risk life and limb.

So after feeling all proud of having conquered my fear of boiling sealed cans, I then went outside to hang out the clothes and I saw this next to the clothes line:

and I thought what the hell is so scary about this:

Just call me Steve Irwin.