I’m Claire Underwood

Apparently designer vaginas are a thing…

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I was very curious when I saw this in my local newspaper, not only because of the offer of 20% off the first treatment (and I loves me a good bargain), but because…well…designer vagina?!? Who the hell thought that would be a good name for an actual medical procedure?

On closer inspection it’s not meant to be a purely cosmetic thing and mostly for post-partum women suffering from incontinence and elasticity problems but still…designer vagina?

Speaking of designer vaginas though, M and I watched a documentary on Netflix called ‘After Porn Ends’ and it followed the lives of several ex-porn stars – both male and female – after their heedy days of fame and fortune in the porn industry.

As expected, it was depressing to see the difference in the experiences of the men and women. The men were treated as gods and had very few consequences later in life (other than being unable to stay in a marriage) while the women were, for the most part, scorned and treated as whores.

But the connection with designer vaginas, well, one of the ladies on the documentary, Houston – who you may remember from such porn classics as The World’s Biggest Gangbang 3: The Houston 620 – apparently used to have large inner labia and she had them trimmed. The trimmings were then encased in lucite and auctioned off.

If that ain’t a designer vagina, then I don’t know what is.

Anyway, now I’ve got that off my chest, let me come back to the title of this blog.

If you haven’t seen House of Cards, it will mean nothing and if you haven’t seen the last episode of Season 3, then it will also mean nothing. But if you have seen it and you remember that bit when Claire says to Frank, “I need you to treat me roughly”, well, yeah…that’s me. Claire Underwood.

After my hormal pms ramblings last Sunday, I had a moment where M told me to put my boots on and get on the bed for a ravishing. I said, “No” then decided that it would be fun to play chaseys around the kitchen island so he couldn’t grab me.

He got annoyed and went to his bed assuming that I would eventually do what I was told, so I went into his room and instead of putting my boots on and getting into bed, I said,

“This…does nothing for me.”

I know, right? Typing out some of the shit I say and do just makes me seem like a monster.

He looked at me, got out of bed and said, “Just remember that you said, ‘no’.”

And if that wasn’t the most ominous thing I’ve heard him say since “Nose ring”, I don’t know what is.

So he was frosty to me and I was frosty to him for a week and then last night I obviously got too close and he grabbed me by the hair (I’d forgotten how much that can hurt sometimes…) and there was some extended cropping with the crop I bought to use in photos for my book covers (it was a bad, bad choice because while it looks good in photos, it hurts like a mother-fucker.)

And after the cropping – during which there was a LOT of swearing – we had a chat and once again he came to the conclusion that he is too nice to me.

And I have to agree. I’m never going to be the sort of slave who takes pride in a collar or is humble and demure. I’m never going to ride home after work on my unicorn and kneel at his feet to ask in rainbows for his collar to be placed around my neck.

The willing slave thing just doesn’t float my boat. I’m Claire Underwood. I need to be chased and held down and have my autonomy wrenched from me. That’s what makes my breath come quicker and my stomach flip.

M said he loves me too much.

While I need love and acceptance in healthy doses, I also need to know that he loves me enough to be cruel when it’s needed.

When I need it.

That picture I posted last week was the aftermath of a beating I received from a Mistress I’ve known for many years and her friend  that occurred during the Great Slave Revolt of 2014. When M saw the pictures afterwards he said that he would never have allowed that to happen to me. He said he thought it was too much, too severe. The ladies were beating on my ass for a good 45 minutes and a friend I went to the party with had to leave while it was happening because she found it was ‘too much’ to watch.

I don’t class myself as a masochist and I know a lot of people who do play that is a lot funkier/bloodier than an ass beating but the experience scratched an itch in me that I don’t often get to scratch – my limits.

I didn’t ask for them to stop. I wasn’t restrained while it happened.They checked with me a few times during the beating and each time I said I was okay. I was even talking to some friendly hecklers in the audience while it was happening. It only stopped when they both got tired and decided they’d had enough.

For the endurance bunny in me, it was a good moment. I’m curious to know what my limits are. I want to know how far I could go. The experience gave me a little indication of what is possible when I put my mind to it.

I’m Claire Underwood. Sometimes I just need to be treated roughly.

Sunday morning thoughts over cappuccino

My first thought is that I drink a lot of cappuccino…(I don’t know, is four shots in two big-ass mugs over two days a lot?)

My second thought is that I surprise myself sometimes. For a person who measures their worth in ticking things off her bucket list and receiving praise from others, I shouldn’t really be surprised, but I am still surprised when I manage to do things.

Out of the many hundreds of pictures of me floating around the place, I look at two pictures a lot.

This one:

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(a) because I had thigh gap and

(b) because it’s the aftermath of probably the most solid beating I’ve ever had

And this one:

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My obligatory black and white photo of pre-wedding dressing.

I don’t really know why I keep coming back to these two photos.

Maybe they remind me of things I have accomplished and when I’m floundering in a state of limbo it helps to remind myself that I have done and can do things.

I did my 8km run yesterday. I’d forgotten how running gives you a lot of alone time in your head. To distract myself from the constant chatter coming from my body saying, ‘Why the fuck are you doing this to me??’ I usually have a running conversation (no pun intended) with myself about various things. A lot of those conversations involve how I should be getting more – more out of life, more out of relationships, more out of this bdsm thing I dabble in.

I always remember that episode of Sex and the City in Season 6, where Carrie is talking to Petrovsky about having children. She is trying to decide if she really wants children or not and says that if she really wants something in her life, she always finds a way to make it happen so the fact that she hasn’t had a child probably means that she doesn’t really want one.

I think that’s pretty much true for me too. When I want something, I go and get it. Things I don’t really want, I’ll procrastinate over and fart around with; I won’t put my heart and soul into it.

So, bdsm…I dabble every now and then but I don’t make it a priority and I don’t put my heart and soul into it. Based on what I know of myself, that means it’s not something that I really want.

Sometimes bdsm feels like flossing my teeth. It’s something I feel I should be doing, but I can’t really be assed. I used to lie and make excused to the dentist about my lack of flossing and now I just own my lack of interest in it.

Should I bite the bullet and do the same with this sad-excuse for slavery that I do?

Saturday morning thoughts over cappuccino

A couple of weeks back M and I were supposed to go to a play party.

I really find going to play parties to be a two-edged sword: on one edge is the fact that I need to play in front of other people because I have a much higher pain tolerance when I know there are others watching and silently judging (which generally results in much nicer trophies for me!) but on the other edge is the fact that I find it sooooo hard to get naked and play in front of other people when I know they are watching and silently judging.

It takes a lot of pre-party talking to myself to get me out the door and once I’m there, it’s a whole other minefield of small talk with people I don’t know, comparing myself to everyone else and generally feeling pretty uncomfortable.

I’ve said to M a few times that I’d like him just to have me kneel silently on the floor, suitably slave-like and possibly with extended periods of head-to-the-floor time, just so I can minimise the need to do the small talk with people, but that’s no fun for him either because he doesn’t know many people and probably ends up feeling as awkward as I do without me to talk to.

It’s not that I don’t want to meet new people or make friends, it’s just…you know…so hard.

It’s doubly hard at the moment in that the only place we do any play of any description is at play parties. A distinct lack of toys in the toy box after the Great Slave Tantrum of 2014 (a.k.a everything was given away/thrown away/sold) and the noise/space constrictions of apartment-living mean we don’t play at all unless we’re somewhere else.

(Of course, those could just be excuses for a much larger problem, but I do genuinely feel funny about impact toys making a lot of noise in our rather echoy place.)

The day of the play party I ended up getting my period so that seriously put a dampener on things. I’ve been to play parties before with a tampon string hanging out my twat and while it’s not a good look, it can certainly be done. You do need to remember to shove the string up your twat when there are floggers around though…(my, that is a lovely vivid image, isn’t it?)

So I was genuinely glad to have an excuse not to go. I am not feeling good about myself/my body at the moment and the last thing I needed was a lot of young, lithe, slim chicks having fun around me while I wondered what the fuck I was doing and what the fuck happened to me. And then when we didn’t go I felt sad because I didn’t go and didn’t get some play.

Ahh…that two-edged sword has such a delicious cutting edge..

A lot of the time I don’t even know if I want play. I’m not sure if it’s just something I think we *ought* to be doing because we’re in an M/s relationship or whether I genuinely want something to endure. I’ve got nothing to prove to anyone. I get some bruises, post some pics online and then what? It all seems hollow and pointless.

And now I’ve run out of cappuccino so I guess that’s the end of my musing.

In other news, I’m pretty bogged down in rewriting my story (we all knew that was going to happen, didn’t we?) Maybe I’ll have it ready in time for Christmas…lol. Seriously, it will probably take me that long….

I’m also into week 10 of my marathon training and getting to that point where I’m finding it difficult to find places to run distance-wise and avoiding the boredom trap-wise. I’ve purchased some new gear – new shoes, bras and tons of socks in my quest to find the holy-grail of a pair of socks that will help me avoid blisters. And as winter is coming (yes, I’ve already watched the first four episodes of GoT season 5) I’ll probably need to start running at lunchtime soon so that will be fun too…not.

On Relationships and Gaming

I’ve been in a few relationships. I’m not sure whether the amount of relationships I’ve been in (by my tally, it’s 4.75) qualifies as a ‘few’ but I’ve been in more than a couple, so let’s roll with a ‘few’.

I haven’t really learned the secret to a successful relationship, but I think one of the most important things is to find yourself a person you can play Portal with.

I’m pretty sure Portal is the measure by which all relationships should be measured by.

In fact, being able to play Portal with someone you love without killing them should be required before you’re allowed to marry someone. You should have to get your “Portal Certification” before being able to sign on the dotted line of your marriage certificate.

I purchased a copy of Portal 2 last week thinking it would be a fun way to spend the four days of Easter holidays with M. If you’re not familiar with Portal, it’s a lateral thinking puzzle game with a co-op mode requiring you to cooperate in order to complete each level.

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We started playing on Friday and our conversations since then have been carried out at high volume and go mostly like this:

WHY THE FUCK DID YOU DO THAT??

COME OVER HERE!

DON’T STAND THERE FOR FUCK’S SAKE!

YOU NEED TO SHOOT YOUR PORTAL THINGIE THERE SO WE CAN GET SPAT OUT HERE AND GET UP THERE…ARE YOU LOOKING AT MY SCREEN?!? LOOK AT MY FUCKING SCREEN! SEE THERE?? LOOK AT MY FUCKING SCREEN!!

JUST SHUT UP AND LISTEN TO ME FOR A FUCKING MINUTE!!

GREAT! NOW WE’RE FUCKED!

And that’s just what I’ve been saying.

(true story..*snickers*)

It’s been frustrating and makes my head hurt. We’ve both needed to take breaks and walk away from the screen while we cooled down.

But we’ve jumped on buttons at the same time, portaled walkways, diffused lasers, flung each other through the air and like I said, it’s been great relationship training.

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Now, I love me a good puzzle. Most of the games I play have to have some sort of puzzle component or they don’t hold my attention. I’m not really into spraying mobs with bullets and I don’t really know my BMGs from my SMGs. M can grind away at games like Borderlands & Defiance for weeks, drooling over guns and shields, but I need to feel like I’m building something or solving something. So it’s quite rare for us to play a game together but when we do, it’s fun.

The last game we played together was Enslaved (that game got bonus points for the Monkey-based story, hot male lead & slave references).

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Before that it was Tombraider (full of angsty awesomeness.)

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We enjoyed both but wanted a split-screen co-op game so we could both play at the same time. I’d been thinking about Portal for quite some time, but never got around to it for some reason. Now that we’ve had our Portal cherry popped, I feel complete.

I really don’t think I would have been able to play Portal with any of the other people I’ve been in a relationship with. They wouldn’t have had the patience or let me solve puzzles, they wouldn’t have been chill when I fucked up for the millionth time or been au fait at my insistence that I’m right when I’m usually wrong.

M gets me. He accepts me. That’s a beautiful thing.