Wednesday, December 31, 2008

Blowing away the old year

This has nothing to do with goats, or the abuse thereof. The wind is blowing wildly out there. If we were having snow, it would be a blizzard. But nothing is coming down but tree branches, and I'm saying silent prayers to Boreas that my house can hold its own against the furious gusts.

But in fact, it feels as if this is all an enthusiastic sweeping away of the old year, if not the whole 8 years of the Bush administration. Good-bye tears, good-bye grief, good-bye emptiness... damn, I feel like singing an Everly Brothers song. Except in reverse.

The sun has been out. I deleted my ads from craigslist (I'll tell you soon about the second one). I will be telling almost all my suitors to go away, except for three, and I am meeting the photographer Saturday night. He's the one who peppered me with bawdy rhymed couplets. As I suspected from the second set, he is a dom. And so much more. He has an incredible depth of interests and (most important) is a cat lover. He's looking for something serious.

The other two are quite romantic, and under other circumstances I would be delighted at the prospect of dating them. Which I will, at least for a bit. But if things work out with the photographer Saturday, the other two might not last long. I would feel too dishonest.

He sent me this message a couple of hours ago, while I was taking a late afternoon nap, having been up till all hours writing him the night before:
I'm writing your rule book. I expect you to learn them and obey them, or face what's in the Correction and Punishment Appendix without complaint.
If this had been from anyone else, I would have said who the hell do you think you are already writing rules for me? Instead, I sighed, with such joy and an overwhelming feeling of security, that I know that I'm right to go for a BDSM relationship if I possibly can.

The grief isn't gone. But he has his own, much deeper than mine, for a beloved wife dead of cancer after a very long marriage. We won't fault each other for lingering love.

Time to feed the kitties.
Time for a small bite to eat.
Time to change my clothes and swaddle myself in scarves and sweaters and jacket and gloves and head out to our yearly New Year's Eve party. Last year (she struggles to hold back tears) the philosopher was with me and I was still subdued from a cold. This year, there is hope for the future of the world and the country and my life. Maybe.

At least the prospects look better.

Hugs and kisses and warm wishes and grateful thanks to you all. I hope the coming year brings you joy and love and peace of heart.


Monday, December 29, 2008

Blowing goat

I'm on a year-end shopping spree. I wander from store to store, checking out the merchandise. I take my items to the dressing room, stand before the mirror, and see how they look on me. I remove my clothes, press the new items against my nakedness, and see how they feel. How they make me feel.

Do they distract me?
Do they make me laugh?
Do they make me stop crying?

They say don't buy something new unless you can discard something old. I'm really not ready to discard something old. But I do seem to have lost something. And my heart is empty.

I wonder if I can rent to own, wear some of my choices for a few weeks, see if they grow on me.

You can't do that with clothes.
You can do that with men.

They are certainly ready to try me on.

I went back to the well. I went back to craigslist. After all, it worked last time. I used the same ad as last time. Except I put in a few more obvious references to BDSM. At least I thought they were more obvious...

It's odd... last time the 3 best responses were all from doms. They were beautiful, they had this tension, they drew me in... a few were from guys trying to date me, none very interesting, and then there were a number of fairly crassly sexual content that weren't well written at all. I really wanted nothing more than a correspondence, and I ended up with... well you know how it ends.

This time there are all these guys looking for relationships. Which is fine with me. That is ultimately what I am after. But NO ONE has written anything that compares to what I received last time from either dominick or harry or my red-haired philosopher. Though one guy sent me a string of bawdy rhymed couplets that could have been written centuries ago. He wants to take me out for coffee. Going straight for the sex is also an option, but I told him I'd stick with the coffee for now.

They send me pictures, these men. They are very visual, men are, and don't understand that sometimes it's better to spring the trap with words before letting me see how ordinary they look. On the other hand, there's this one guy.... black, 38, tall... I did tell him how old I am, he doesn't care, and the picture... I didn't want to embarrass him, I didn't want to embarrass myself, so I didn't tell him that I was drooling over it... meanwhile the couplet writer is an artist and photographer and around my age and I have suspicions that he could be a bit dominant in bed...

So OK, fine, sure, I'm amusing myself, I'm distracting myself. And then, this one guy who has been sending me poetry (uh-oh, here it comes) made references to "Some snippet from a past philosopher or poet", and "images of a broken heart", and I burst into tears.

It is all an illusion.

And yeah, you're right, Elspeth, it blows goat. But it's been 5 months now, 5 months since he broke up with me, and I see no reason to believe that one day he will finish the dissertation and say "There, kitten. I'm done. Let's pack up the cats and move to somewhere pretty and sunny. The cats will somehow get along, and so will we. So will we."

I'm trying my best to give up hope.
But this is the Age of Obama.
There is always Hope.

In the end, of course,
I'm not the only one shopping.
I placed my ad, end of season
markdowns, merchandise returned,
repriced for rapid clearance,
slightly irregular,
ragged round the edges,
you'll hardly see the
tear stains as long as you
say a word
about philosophers
or broken hearts.

Sunday, December 28, 2008

You can't always get what you want

I'm on the market.
And FetLife isn't my only marketplace.

I'm writing to men.
I'm writing and I'm crying.
I'm taking halves of tiny little pills to stop the crying.
They work only up to a point.

Maybe if it were Spring I wouldn't be crying as much.

I'm trying to find someone new. It's the smart thing to do. It's a distraction. I might even meet someone really good. Someone who lives nearby. Someone with time and money who can take me to dinner and to the theatre. Someone who will make love to me.

Someone who will get me to stop crying.

Not, I suspect, someone who will spank me, except to the extent that it seems to be making its way into the vanilla sexual repertoire. But I just may have to live with that.

I want someone to spend time with.

I want to fall in love again. With someone who is open to falling in love with me.

Oh, who am I kidding. I'm crying through this entire post. Because in truth, I feel like someone being forced into an arranged marriage, thumbing through the book of possible matches while I grieve over the one who is totally unacceptable.

What do I really want?

"Kitten, I was up at 4 in the morning, reading your blog. Reading your new profile. I can't stand the idea of your being with someone else. I'm no good at this relationship business, I never have been, but I'm prepared to give it one more try if you would let me. Say the word and I'll be on the next Greyhound bus down to DC."

What will I get?

"Kitten, I read your new profile. This is good for you. You need to move on. You need to find someone else. I want you to be happy."

This is reality.
I need to accept reality.

I'm going to go wash my hair now.

Friday, December 26, 2008

Would you buy this used submissive?

I changed my profile on FetLife.

I've put myself back on the market.

There I am, standing naked on the platform as the auctioneer extols my many virtues. Or, perhaps more accurately, recites my many sins and recommends suitable punishments, the better to entice sadistic buyers with the prospect of leaving their marks on my ass.

And certainly, my ass is fully displayed as I am ordered to slowly turn around for the fuller viewing of the interested parties. Serious buyers are then invited up for a closer inspection, a twist of my famous nipples, a poke of the finger up my cunt or into my still virgin anus. And finally, I am subjected to a short caning to demonstrate the quality of my screams and the entertainment value of my writhing in pain.

Well, no.
Not really.

But I did change my profile.
And I have declared myself available.

Am I?
Am I really available?
Am I emotionally available?
Would my little Greek chorus like to weight in on that?

This is, in fact, a serious request for input. I'm reprinting the profile below and would love to know what you all think. All suggestions welcome: additions, deletions, correction of typos or bad word usages, anything you have to throw into the pot. This would be a great time for you lurkers to pipe up and make yourselves heard.

You will note that I suggest that all interested parties read my blog, which presents the danger of chasing them all away except for those with overblown egos who are convinced that one word from them will permanently erase the philosopher from my mind and from my... you know. The warm fuzzy thump-thump part. But I figure it's best they know what they're getting into. I'm also resisting the temptation to play. Because in fact I don't play. It doesn't work. And I remember what my demon muse repeated, about how the men who were just after my ass were fools and were missing the best part. My mind. Personally I think the best part is my nipples, but I do know what he was getting at so I'm sticking to my standard. Any suitor must be good with words, and must appreciate mine. Then we can talk spanking.

So. Here it is. Tell me what you think. And start placing your bids now.

PS - FetLife can be an amusing place to hang out. The fiend found me there, and I'm made a few other friends as well. Plus they've got this big Kinky Christmas Stocking give-away going on, so you might want to get your name in on that. You never know...

Anyway, on to my profile. All comments will be seriously considered. Including about whether I should be doing this now at all. Thanks. o.g.
oatmealgirl 59F sub

relationship status: single
orientation: bisexual
in search of:
- a relationship
- friendship

About me
I am a submissive Jewish bisexual feminist baby boomer with pretenses of being a writer. Did I leave anything out? Oh yeah... cats and red hair. That should cover it.

Except not really.

I'm looking for something. For someone. Cautiously. I stick my nose out from behind a tree to see if it is safe, to see if the right person will spot me, will lure me out with the right words, will then pop me in a cage and take me home.

I am VERY submissive, and occasionally and unexpectedly feisty. I need structure and affection, caresses and spankings, encouragement and scoldings and discipline.

I cry easily.
I look very young.
I sound very young.
I have startling nipples.

I write.
I value words.
I can be snared with words.
Hypnotize me with your words and you can have
my body, my mind, and my soul.

I don't play.
I submit.

There are too many first person pronouns in this profile. If you want to know more, read my writings here, and explore my website. Be sure to read the very first post. Then talk to me. Entice me to want to make it all about you.

P.S. - there's another side, too. The ethnic music, ethnic food, goofy over cats, too many languages, Obama volunteer side. The really secret side... it would be nice to be snared by someone who wanted to know about that side, too... picture me beside you at the theatre, squirming in my seat from a pre-dinner spanking, while moaning with pleasure at the brilliant acting before us...

Thursday, December 25, 2008

"Trust this special connection"

From me to the philosopher (a Libra), one year ago today:
je te jure... i don't make this stuff up. i just pass it on...
LIBRA (Sept 23 - Oct 23)
You're complex. Not everyone can
understand you on all of the levels
you want to be understood. But a
certain kindred soul will be your
rock. Trust this special connection.

A year later, yesterday:
me: I'm pretty much alone. [ . . . ] I don't actually have a ton of people I see. I'm alone much of the time. I need someone to love me, but this time of the year I guess I'm not all that lovable. And I'm probably too much of a pain in the ass the rest of the year to be lovable then, either.

I need someone to hold me and distract me from the dark. Not gonna happen.

him: You are physically alone in that your friends are not nearby. But you are part of a large and intimate village, who loves you.

So stop moping you brat.

me: yes, sir.

[she wrinkles her nose and smiles ruefully]

they really are being nice to me, aren't they...

and you have your family.

him: Very nice. Almost as nice as you deserve.

And I have my family.

me: maybe in some ways that's all you need... your family...

and the bdsm... in your head... but maybe nowhere else...

[just deleted a whole bunch of stuff...]

him: Is that pouting?

me: no.

i don't know.

i don't think so.

it's grief.
it's regrets.
it's trying to not feel like i'm just not good enough.
or that i always do something wrong.

i'd rather believe that you're not suited to being with anyone than that you didn't want to be with me.

him: Well, perhaps you're right. I don't know. I'm nearly forty and single, without ever having had a long term relationship. You do the math.

Finally, from the NY Times review of The Curious Case of Benjamin Button, which I saw today and liked very much:
Their love is uniquely perfect and enduring. At the same time, like any other love — like any movie — it is shadowed by disappointment and fated to end.

I don't know what to think any more.
I don't know what to do.

In some ways I could see us living a few blocks apart, with him as a straight, asexual version of the gay best friend. We would hang out together, watch DVDs, make meals, work cryptic crossword puzzles, always there, always thinking of each other, always looking after each other, but separated by an emotion-sparing naturally-extruded protective armor.

After all, he did tell me he was risk-averse.

There will probably always be something, some reason why it can't work, with me or anyone else. If it's not distance or dissertation it will be food or sex or BDSM (too much or too little), or she'll be fine on all counts and then will let slip that she really loves all three Godfather movies.

Is he happy?
Is he content?

If I do really love him (and who knows by now?), shouldn't I just let him become the confirmed old bachelor he wants to be? He's a big boy, he knows his own comfort level, and if intimacy is too much of a challenge then fine. Why should he live any way other than he wants to?

Because it's a goddamn waste!

For some reason, Dr. G (my psychopharmacologist) and M (my best female friend) seem to think it will turn out all right in the end. This is just a stage in our relationship, they say, it's good to have this time developing our friendship. But I'm losing faith. I'm getting worn out. I'm tempted by visions of begging the fiend for forgiveness and crawling back, ready to be content with the little scraps of time he can spare for me. I didn't like that. I hate getting the cake crumbs that are left after all the more important people get fed. At least with the philosopher I know that he IS thinking about me, that I do have some sort of place in his life. I just don't know exactly what that is. But I do know he has already checked this blog twice today.

This is probably one of those posts that I should leave unpublished.

But there's nothing much left to lose. So here it is.

They always tell you not to try to change someone.

Thinking I can persuade him or guilt-trip him into taking the risk of a relationship which he kept trying to avoid and then trying to flee from pretty much the beginning - that's just plain stupid. I need to be grateful for what we had, for whatever is left of it, and keep my tears to myself.

I need to stop babbling.

I need to go to bed.

Maybe I wrote about objectification yesterday because with objectification comes numbness.

Excuse me. I'm going to run down to the 7-11 and pick up a bottle of water from the river Lethe.

Wednesday, December 24, 2008

Decorating for Christmas

he positions her in the center of the room.
he raises her bound wrists and,
through the rope restraining her hands,
inserts the heavy hook looming above their heads.

he pushes her legs apart
with his foot
with his cane
with his knee.

he encases first one and then the other ankle
in green hemp, threading the loose ends through
the holes in a pair of cinder blocks.

he steps back.
he admires his raw materials.
he admires her bare white skin.
he admires her nipples, cloned
it would seem
from Rudolph's red nose.

he examines the collection of ornaments acquired over the years.
he makes his first selection and approaches the trembling tree.
he clamps the gleaming golden bell to the most obvious protuberance.

the tree screams as sap runs down its thighs.


Merry Christmas.
Perhaps tomorrow I should write about some alternate uses for Hanukah candles...

Tuesday, December 23, 2008

A short note of thanks

It's the third night of Chanukah.

I lit one more candle tonight.

Theoretically, the light is increasing.

Theoretically. Because of course I'm still struggling, I'm still morose, I'm still weepy, I'm still feeling sorry for myself.

As my mother used to say, after sniffing my little feet and pretending they smelled bad:


Enough already, before I drive you all away!

Well, I'm trying. I really am. And you all are helping, whether you comment or not, but especially when you comment. I need to feel taken care of, and you guys are doing that for me.

I need to feel taken care, and after a while I need to be told to cut the crap, and I need to be made to think, and I need to be reminded to open myself to the delights of the universe because who knows what is waiting for me behind the next star... and that walking around with too big a cloud over my head might scare away happiness.

One advantage of having you all as a support system is that you can read, you can comment, and then you can go about your business. You don't have to see my mopey face all day, you don't have to worry that some innocent phrase will send a tear to loiter in the corner of my reddened eye.

On the other hand, you can't spank me, which would be very effective right around now.

Ah well.

You've all been great. Truly. But I want to make special mention of Greenwoman, who has said some stunning things. She made a great comment about rituals a while back that I would love to put into a post all its own. Do go check out her blog (one of a few), especially as she, too, is going through a lot these days and could use support of her own.

So she left this long comment on yesterday's post, bits of which I'd like to leave here since I suspect most of you don't get into the comments. And because these are things I want to remind myself to think about.

So here it is. With thanks.
I was thinking that it's likely you are right that the worst of this feeling sad is the 'sorry for yourself' stuff that comes with SAD. [ . . . ]

I was just thinking to myself how much I've thought this to myself. Will I always be alone in the deep places of me? Is it even possible to have someone who can touch all of me? Is it even a reasonable desire? Does it even matter if its reasonable?


The truth is, love is something that should be without stint or condition.

The truth is, if I'm not saying can't/won't/never...then whatever it is that's abundant in the universe; and that's pretty much everything; can get to me.

Can't/won't/never leaves me behind walls. Abundance is not something that arrives with big construction machinery so it can toss something I need over the wall.

Only Gratitude, willingness and an open heart gives it an unimpeded entrance to my life from any direction and what's more, this prepares the ground for every good thing to grow in my life.

Its just true.

And after reading here for awhile, I think you know all this just as well as I do...but just like me...when in the middle of the shit you can't remember shit, never mind what's True.

All one can do at a time like this is try not to let that crap take root with too much time and energy letting it twirl in your head. All you can do is keep on keeping on and trying to find your grateful button and poke it hard as frequently as you can find it.
I'm feeling very grateful right now. For all of you. Whether you're saying anything or not.

Monday, December 22, 2008

Still shining

The sun was out today.
And lo, I could think.

It's horribly embarrassing. Really, how stupid does this sound. "I'm sorry, kitten can't come to work today, the sun hasn't been out for a month (well, that's what it felt like!) and her brain doesn't function any more." And then the sun comes out and whoosh! Here I am again.

I'm quite relieved, actually. I must admit that I was starting to get some very unhealthy thoughts in my head. The kind of thoughts where one is grateful that SAD causes a sort of paralyzing impotency so that the chance of summoning enough energy to do something self-destructive is highly unlikely. Still, it wasn't a good time to be alone.

But I'm better now. And there will be more sun tomorrow. Of course, after that it will be doom and gloom for a week except for Christmas Day. But my friends come back to town on Saturday night, and I have a Chanukah party to go to Sunday afternoon. I'll probably be pretty subdued by then, but my friends make me feel looked after and I like the guy throwing the party. No, not THAT way, he's gay of course.

I have to come to terms with being alone. [cue tears, damn it.] I keep thinking: this is it, no more chances, and then something happens to give me what always turn out to be false hopes, and then I try to stop expecting something else, except then the ghost of a new hope shows its nose and the cycle starts again.

I need to stop trying.

I need to stop hoping.

I can be alone. I spent most of my marriage alone, even when to an outsider it seemed there was someone else in the house. And eventually there was.

My cat.

And then he died and I got 2 more. What do you mean, you can't buy love? A hundred bucks a piece to the rescue group and as soon as I let them out of their carriers their love was mine for life.

Maybe on December 31st I should slip out of the party early so I can toast the end of this wretched year with my two adoring felines. A wretched year - except for the campaign and the outcome. There is some hope for a better future...

Marko could tell I was down and just plopped down beside me and started petting me. Sweet boy.

I guess 2 days of sun isn't quite enough to cleanse my brain of negative thoughts...
Do you need anybody?
I need somebody to love.
Later (midnight) - I keep thinking about this, separating it out from the SAD, from the philosopher, from the fiend.

The truth is, I'm lonely. I have lovely friends, living very very nearby. But they have spouses and very busy lives of their own. I love spending time with them, but it's not like being at music camp where we're living all together in communal splendor in one room. Even then there is a part of myself that I keep apart.

I'm lonely. I'm tired of sharing other people's lives. I want a life of my own. I want a love of my own, a best friend of my own, someone to sit with, reading, writing, cat cuddling, in comfortable silence, or speaking and sharing with no uncomfortable silences.

Maybe that's what makes it so hard. having had that small taste of something I'd never known and never thought I'd have. I should be grateful for that sample, even if in the end it was a fantasy. Some people never even get that much.

I'm certainly grateful for my new friends in Blogland, for people to whom I can reveal the side of me my regular friends will never know.

The sun will be out again tomorrow.
It's time to go to sleep.
Come on Marko, curl up close against me.
We'll keep each other warm.

The Song of Songs Project

Rather in contrast to my gloomy mood of these latter dark days, I've had this idea in my half-witted brain of writing a poem based on a section (as yet unselected) of the Song of Songs, aka Shir Hashirim. This burst of artistic ambition arose from a persistent tendency towards talking about love and faith, spirituality and sensuality, in comments on Elspeth's blog Acquiescent Leigh. (Do check it out. For one thing, her photos put mine to shame. I pretend it's because she has a better camera than mine, but that's just pride protecting my ego.)

Now in fact, it would an incredible act of chutzpah to think that I could come close to the rich sensuality of language and allusions of the Biblical text, but that's not the point. The project would be a challenge, and a source of inspiration. And my idea was to put out a call for others who might be interested. And maybe the results wouldn't need to be a poem, as long as it were some artistic means of expression.

Anyway, I'm mulling it over. Let me know if you're interested. We could agree on a day when we would all publish, with links to everyone else in the project.

Aha. A small long-lasting fluorescent bulb just went off above my head. How about Valentine's Day?
Upon my couch at night
I sought the one I love -
I sought but found him not.
I'll make up someone to write about.

Sunday, December 21, 2008

Solstice solace

As if to recognize that the Dark had once again lost its yearly campaign to swallow up the world, the clouds parted and the sun returned to the sky. Today is the Winter Solstice, and although in fact it will be a while yet before DC days do truly lengthen, the weather is conspiring in a symbolic celebration.

Today is also the first night of Chanukah, a festival commemorating two more victories against the Dark. One was a historic victory, and the holiday is viewed as a celebration of freedom. The other was a victory of faith over destruction, when a tiny amount of oil, enough to keep the reclaimed Temple's eternal light burning for but one day, lasted the 8 days it took to bring back a new supply.

Every culture has its stories of the triumph of light over darkness, and the holidays long pre-date the excuses we ascribe to them. There is only one story. Light is dying away, and along with it the hope that it will ever return. We know it did last year, and the year before, and the year before that, but still, faced with soul-strangling grey, it is hard to believe the sun will ever return.

And yet it does.
It did.
Today, it did.

I observed the solstice by going outside. I felt compelled to leave the house, where I tend to silently cower over dark weekends, barely speaking except to the cats. I drove the few minutes to a short old street of antique shops, wandered the sidewalks, stopped in my favorite stores, bought a book of poetry, chatted about the coming Inauguration, and took pictures of the sun to remind me that it had really been here.

Tears still clog my throat, partly from the persistent SAD, partly from persistent sadness, but faith has returned that I will survive. Somehow, next year I need to go south for a few days. Drugs and light boxes aren't enough. I'll plan ahead, I'll save up vacation days, and wangle an invitation to somewhere suitable.

Meanwhile, the countdown continues to another triumph of Light over Darkness. A triumph of Hope and Faith, not to mention hard work and an inspired community.

30 days till Inauguration Day.

Saturday, December 20, 2008


she floats unbound
her sails hang sad and limp
with no one at the helm.
she’s going nowhere.
lost and lacking wind
with no hard hand to
force her home
or steer her into harbors
strange and wild
she lies becalmed.
if ships dared dream
she’d conjure a familiar form,
a vessel drawing close,
a chain thrown round her
willing prow, a will now
sacrificed with joy to
he who claimed control.
she does not dream.
she merely stays
silently stranded
and waits for spring.

Friday, December 19, 2008

Fringe Benefits

She sits at her desk, dully and dutifully.
Her will has vanished with the sun.
The sun vanished days ago.
She hasn't moved in an hour.

He rings her extension. Obediently, she rises and enters his office. She notices a small tingling between her thighs and deep in her brain. She is starting to awake.

He closes the door and gives his instructions. With a pinch of animation, she removes her clothes and presents herself for inspection. Selecting a rubber stamp from his desk drawer, he imprints the word APPROVED on each breast in official red letters. Returning that stamp to the drawer, he takes out another one, and leaves his signature just above the cluster of red curls that crowns her cunt.

She emits a barely perceptible sigh of satisfaction and relief.

The time has come.

Firmly, authoritatively, he turns her around and pushes her down over the broad wooden expanse. Systematically, he spreads her legs and attaches her ankles to steel rings permanently embedded at the desk's base. She hears the belt being pulled out sharply through its looped restraints.

As the first lash lands, she breathes a silent thank you.

He always knows what she needs.

Sometimes I need to write things like this. But more often than not, I need to feel as if I am writing them for someone else.

It no longer seems appropriate to offer them to the philosopher. So I send them to dominick, with whom I still fitfully correspond. He knows there is no expectation of response. Whatever he does send back is honest and well written.

Today it was very dark. Never better than late dusk. I pushed my way through a day of cotton wool, both around my body and in my brain. I needed a spark, a sting, a spanking, to stir me awake. There were little tingles as I wrote the above hint of a story, but mostly I was only half-conscious as I typed the word "cunt" sitting there at work at my desk in an open room.

Just a few small tingles, wishing there were someone to take me into his office, someone to jolt me awake with a dose of endorphins from the searing pain he would deliver to my plump white bottom.

Maybe NIH should consider a study on the efficacy of spanking as a treatment for SAD.

Thursday, December 18, 2008

Thought control

I censored a poem tonight.
I cut away the words that let you see into my heart.
The pen I used left drops of inky blood across the page
and slashed my suckling verse.

I killed my thoughts tonight.
I chased away the gentle lines of tenderness and hope,
of happiness from nothing more than being in one place,
of breathing in your air.

I shut the door tonight.
I tried to keep it locked against my stubborn loving faith
but even steel can’t keep my banished dreams from slipping through.
They're in my head and heart if not escaping from my pen
or spilling in unguarded moments on this public page
but I'll pretend they're gone and I won't speak of bread and cheese
and tea and films and eggplant and a party for my friends
or think of how you warmed me when you shared my happy bed.

I think I'll up my meds.

Tuesday, December 16, 2008


I'm very creative in the morning.
Creative and... twitchy.
I settle down in my office chair
and my cunt twitches, waving its
hand in the air, saying
"me, me me, I know the answer!
Pick me!"
Erotic images tease my brain
and leak onto the pages of my
little writer's notebook.
And there they die.
I am a solar-powered poet
with an endorphin-dependent mind.
Deprived of fuel, I idle.
Instead, I swap sweet and
genial messages with my
wild Irish philosopher,
reckless no more,
his sadistic side on
hiatus, surfacing in the
sporadic kinky film plug.
We talk until bedtime.
I don my ex-slave shirt and
snuggle between cool sheets,
sinking into dreams of selkies
submitting to tamers of the sea.

Monday, December 15, 2008

Pink submission

she stands before him, trembling and calm.

slowly, shyly, brazenly, she undoes the buttons of her sweater.

when they run out, she crosses her arms and pulls over her head the soft pink pretense at protection. she stops when its caress encases her head, arms trapped in bondage of her own making, her bare torso springing welts as his eyes scratch her nakedness.

he takes her joined hands in his.

her powerless joy runs down her legs.

Sunday, December 14, 2008

The Light Within

He said I’ll always be his kitten.

I have no idea what that means.
He may not know himself.
He may never even allow me to see him again.
I don't know.

But he said I'll always be his kitten.

And the moment he said that,
something changed.
Something returned.

When I was his kitten,
when I was his slave,
when I was his selkie,
there was this glow within me
an eternal light above the bima,
the child of a lighthouse beacon
and a hot water bottle.

Perhaps it is what some religious people feel when they say God is always with them. I don't know, and I'm certainly not comparing the philosopher to God. But I carried this peace within me, this certainty, this... glow. I can't come up with a better word. I felt that he was always with me, no matter how many months we went without seeing each other.

I lost that when he sent me away, and even though we started writing again, even phoning again, even though telephonically we spent Election Eve together, my eternal light never returned.

Until now.

He said those words.
He said I'll always be his kitten.
And although I don't know quite what that means
and have no expectations that it means anything at all
the glow
the peace
is back.


Saturday, December 13, 2008

Cats against the Cold

An example of the
heat-seeking behaviour
that inspired the story
Cold (when it changed...)

Night Visitor

I came for you last night.
I felt you here and felt your smacks upon my waiting ass.
I idly touched my tiny nub until
it swelled and drowned in love
and then I came for you.

I felt you here last night.
I felt your smacks upon my ass and heard your welcome voice.
You punished me for what I’d done, for all
the risks and pain I took
and I could feel you here.

I felt your smacks last night.
You punished me with hand and belt and cane and scolding words.
You’re not my dom but I’m your kitten still
and I had worried you.
And then I felt more smacks.

I’m wearing pink today.
I’m wearing pink to bring me back to what is good and true.
The sun is out and in some sacred way
I always will be yours.
And so I’m wearing pink.

And I could hear your welcome voice
saying, urging, ordering
firmly in my ear:
Cum for me, kitten.
And as the the soft pink
turned to red, and honey flowed
around my dancing fingers
my body gave you everything
and sobs burst forth and freed me
from the evil sorcerer’s spell.
And so
I came
for you.

Thursday, December 11, 2008

I'm NOT a masochist, but...

vulnerable and open
submissive and lost
naked and wet
with her ass in the air.
won't some stray sadist
wandering by
pull off his belt
pull back his arm
and feed both their needs?

Wednesday, December 10, 2008

Being a Sadist doesn't mean never having to say you're sorry

The fiend is a coward.

He made a mistake.
A big one.
He hurt me badly.
Not physically.
But psychologically.

And rather than deal with his mistake and my pain he walked away without a word.

Oh the big bad strong sadist, not responsible to anyone but himself, not responsible for anything but his own satisfaction.


The dom says: "I'm the boss."
The dom says "I'm in charge, I'm running the show, what I say goes."

The fiend said "This is not a game to me, and I have entered into this with you because I believe you feel the same way."

And it wasn't a game to me. I sank into my submission and my collaboration, and I took it all very seriously. But I wasn't his slave. He already has one of those, a highly masochistic slave who satisfies his extreme sadistic needs. Perhaps for a slave it really isn't a game at all. But for me, there was always this knowledge that a conscious choice was involved in how we related to each other. It wasn't a game, but at no time did I abdicate my connection to the rest of the world or my identity as a relatively good and thoughtful human being.

Being the dom, the boss, in charge, claiming you are answerable to no one but your own pleasure, is a good escape from the rest of your life, from the demands of family and friends, from needing to be answerable to others, from needing to take care of others, and from having to take responsibility for your mistakes.

Our relationship was interesting. The fiend does indeed have an incredibly strong aura of dominance, which I felt through e-mail even before he turned up at my door. But I stood up to him. There were things right from the start that I refused to do, ways of doing things that I said just wouldn't work for me. And he accepted my refusals, and changed things that affected the way others did things in order to accommodate me. That was early on, so perhaps it was part of being sure he had hooked me solidly on the line. But I didn't fight being caught. I swam up to the shore and begged him to scoop me up in his net.

He valued me. He was possessive of me. He resented the philosopher because he knew I love him and that my first allegiance will always be to him. He didn't want my love - in fact, it would have been rather awkward - but he did want to own me. I wasn't his slave, but he did own me. In some ways.

We were collaborators. He taught me, he focused me, he guided me, he ordered me to write, he insisted on more structure. He was just starting to demand changes in the poems. I argued about one change, then read and re-read and realized that he was absolutely right. On another poem he ordered a change and I explained why I couldn't do it. It's a tritina, a form I'd never heard of before, and which resisted me for a very long time. The part he wanted changed was an integral part of the structure and I was able to explain why those repeated words had to stay. We were learning together.

He fancied himself the Phantom of the Opera, and I was Christine. You heard a little of his voice in my poems. He drove me and excited me and inspired me.

I wasn't in love with him. He wasn't my friend. But there were conversations about music and literature that made me tingle with intellectual stimulation. He woke up my mind, and took my creativity on another step out of the darkness. A manic fit over 2 years ago broke the spell that kept me creatively silent, and the philosopher kissed me fully awake while giving me the gift of my submission. The fiend pushed me to be more serious in my writing, less impulsive, and carried my submission further, teaching me more about what I was and what I was not.

He taught me that I'm not a masochist. And in some ways, the lesson which he blew so badly was more along the same lines.

It clearly was a mistake. I don't know if he miscalculated, or was just too caught up in his own perceived cleverness to see what a bad idea it was.

He had recorded something on his cell phone that he wanted me to hear. He sent it as a voice mail, with the order to listen and then immediately, as usual, write him with my response.

What he sent was awful.
And very upsetting.
I wrote back immediately, very upset, very angry, and not at all submissive.

He said nothing.
Not a word.

I didn't have a safe word.
And I never received aftercare.
He would come, do his thing, and leave me holding my position until I heard the door close.
But I was ok with that.
I really was.
I trusted him.
He was very experienced.
He sensed my limits and pushed me very slowly to their edge and a step or two beyond.
He taught me about submission and pain.
He taught me that I'm not a masochist, but he taught me the communion of pain.
We never had sex.
He never took of his clothes.
But still, there was an intimacy.

He said he was fond of me.

And he threw it all away.
Out of cowardice, I think.

In his early declaration of principles for my service to him, he wrote the following: "I will use those qualities in you for my pleasure, and leave you without the slightest thought of your well-being, except as to how it may affect your next service of me. " The italics are mine. You can say that his having done what he did, and then his ignoring of my distress, violate that phrase in italics. Because that was the end of my service to him. If he had replied, if he had expressed any regret, perhaps he might have saved it. Perhaps... but he didn't even try, not even in the mostly domly, high-handed way.

But I think of something else. In the early days of something that lasted only a little over 3 months, we were sorting out who, what, and how, and sometimes he misinterpreted what I said, and thought that I was calling things off. I wasn't. But in any case, he never tried to back up and figure out what had gone wrong. He would assume this was the end, and if that was the case, would thank me for everything I had given him till then. I was his treasure and he treated me as such. But he never fought to keep me. He always gave up too easily.

This time he didn't even thank me.

He said nothing.

Dom or sadist or whatever the hell you say you are, if you are the writer and director and producer all rolled into one, you have a responsibility to your cast. Especially when your star and sole performer is an independent contractor.

I wondered if he was waiting for me to crack and write again.
I wondered if he assumed I would.
I don't know. My letter was pretty clear about how deeply upset I was.

Well, finally I did crack, but not to come crawling back. I just wanted to give him a chance to say something. Anything. It was hard to believe that this man who acted like the King of the castle, this large man who carried his weight with authority, who walked in as if the world were his by right, was so destroyed by having screwed up that he would just toss away something that obviously gave him pleasure on many levels.

I wrote.

If you're expecting me to come crawling back, saying I'm sorry for the tone of my reaction to your little gift, it should be clear by now that it's not going to happen. I assume by your silence that this is what you've been waiting for.

Still, I'm curious.

You send me something you know will upset me.
You demand my immediate reaction and you get it.
You certainly can't fault me for my honesty.
You played on my vulnerability and I bled
and I sent you a picture of the mess on the floor.

I honestly don't know what you expected.
And I'm disappointed, really.

I trusted you.

Yes, I know you said I shouldn't, and true you're a sadist, but you also seemed pretty clear about your own self-interest, and VERY clear on my limits. I admired you for that, and respected you. I can't think you deliberately wanted to sabotage our collaboration, but you did.

I didn't actually throw up, but it was close, and I try very hard not to think about it because the nausea just comes right back.

So no, no submissive apology.

But yes, I suppose you can pride yourself that I did blink first and write first. If that's what you need.

And I'll miss the intellectual stimulation.
You gave me a lot.

It's too bad...

His reply?

I agree

That's all.

So that's it for the fiend.

I WILL miss it all. I'm sure my poetry production will suffer. And I was counting on his pushing to get me through the next month or so of SAD season. Sadistic patrons of the arts don't give out mental health days. But I'll be ok. I'll keep exploring poetry forms. And he was trying to get me to write on topics that weren't about him. Poems I could show my mother. He made me work. I'm not sure I can do that for myself, but I'll try.

I'll miss my submission.
I'll admit to that.
It's a drug.
An incredible high.
I don't do drugs other than prescription meds and I don't drink (blame the same meds), so my submission was my route to an altered state of consciousness. I was going very deep, and I loved it.

But some things are more important.

The philosopher called me Monday night.

The events of Monday night fit together like carefully milled pieces of a wooden jigsaw puzzle. I wrote my post about SAD, and was finishing it when the fiend's voice mail came through. I was just finishing my response when the philosopher called. He was worried about me.

He was wonderful. He was everything I needed. Still, I held back, because I wasn't ready to talk about the voice mail. I was too upset and shaken.

He called and he was there for me. When I need him, he takes care of me. We talked of my SAD and of other things and I cried and I laughed and things felt... right.

Then last night I posted about the Phantom.

Again, as soon as he read it, he called. And when I didn't answer, being downstairs with Rachel Maddow, he e-mailed.

I called back.

And again, he was there for me.

He said "You'll always be my kitten. I know that now."

I said "You always take care of me. But you don't have to take care of me."

There is something between us.
It doesn't go away.
We just can't quite figure it out.

I need to relax about it.
I need to take a deep breath and relax and stop trying to figure it out.

I need to take a deep breath and relax and smile, knowing there is this sweet, smart man with flowing red hair who wants to take care of me. Even though he doesn't have to.

The philosopher is a sadist, too.
Not a mean and nasty sadist.
But a sadist nevertheless.
A sweet sadist.

And when he accidentally brought his belt down very very hard on my poor defenseless cunt, and I screamed from here to Baltimore, he was filled with remorse and apologized profusely, while my arousal ran all over the ottoman.

THAT is true strength.

Sorry for babbling on like this. I had a lot to get out of my system. Thanks to all of you for putting up with me - and I'd love to hear your opinions on the issue of doms and sadists and taking responsibility for your actions. [12/11/08 - The discussion continues in the comments. Do please stop by and weigh in. And thanks fo0r being supportive.] --o.g.

Tuesday, December 9, 2008

The Phantom Removes His Mask

You know how the story goes –
Christine pulls off his mask.
She turns away in fear and horror at
the putrefaction bubbling below.
But you can’t blame her this time.
She preferred the illusion.
You can't blame her.
You revealed your own horror.
You shoved your grisly soul
beneath her nose. She threw up.
Don’t tell me you’re surprised.
You’ve known the ending all along.

From now on, I’ll be my own angel.
From now on, I’ll sing my own songs.

Monday, December 8, 2008


There are many forms of evil in my life.

There is my demon muse, of course,
And the pinching imps of memory.

But for pure evil, no redeeming social or erotic value, I need look no further than the inside of my head. The grey inside my head.

SAD is winning.

I'm going down. And it's not an enticing descent such as topples me in subspace. This is grey going into black. This is an inability to think. This is tears hovering on the edge. This is self-esteem being vomited up on the lawn outside the front door.

This is feeling utterly worthless and unwanted and seeing no evident reason to get out of bed.

Luckily, I haven't maxed out my antidepressants yet, so there is hope once the extra dosage kicks in. Till then, I just want to dissolve and be gone.

And I want something I know I can't have.

Sunday, December 7, 2008

Seasonal Affective Dominant

He tries to keep me in bed all day. I struggle, and eventually break away from His chains of indolence, but He tries His best to keep me in bed. He is my Master, at least for now. He force-feeds me seductive carbohydrates, to make me fat and sleepy. He saps my will and dulls my brain. He declares Himself King, with Dominion over all, my Lord and Master whose Power will triumph over all others who pretend to own my body and brain.

I struggle.
I arm myself.
I have my advisors,
my potions and pills,
my magic lights,
my furry familiars
who demand obedience
and eventual breakfast.

But day by day He pulls me under, further down into the grey sea of December. I don't even gasp for air. I give myself to His suffocating love, His yearly attempt to claim me permanently as His own.

I struggle, I moan, I fight my way out of bed, I fight the seduction, and mark off the calendar squares until the day His spell goes up in flames.

On the other hand, it could just be a cold.

Friday, December 5, 2008

Help me, Hieronymous

They swirl around me like imps
pinching in tender places.
Memories of men
fantasies of men
men real and imagined
men I have touched
men I have kissed
men who have spanked
my ass or
my mind.
I’m dotted with bruises,
a permanent collage of black and blue
displayed for my eyes alone.
At odd moments the suffering renews
and I squirm in my seat with pleasure and pain,
panties stained with the tears of my need.

The pinching imps yet unmet
torment worst of all,
a dangling string of desire
doomed to remain unsoothed.
Perhaps it’s for the best,
protection from disillusion.
Can reality ever live up to
the seductive power of words?


Thursday, December 4, 2008


I thought I was OK. I really did. I consciously had observed to myself – you’re doing OK, you don’t think about him all the time, your allegiance has shifted, you’re letting go…

And then I saw the shirt. There, in the latest of the almost daily catalogues from a desperate LL Bean. A beautiful dark red-brown plaid flannel shirt. It would be perfect for him, with his dark red-brown hair and pale skin.

I’ve seen him in shirts of this color.
I remember him in shirts of this color.
I snuggled up to him
on this very couch
while he wore a shirt of this color
and worked a cryptic crossword,
his hair red-brown and perfect
over a small contented smile.

I thought I was OK.
Then I saw the shirt.
And I started to cry.

Wednesday, December 3, 2008

Possession - noun

7. The state of being dominated by or as if by
evil spirits or by an obsession.

It sneaks up on me.
An itch
a pulse
a flood
rolling convulsions
anal contractions
a glazing of eyes
and I’m gone.
One minute I’m
struggling with Microsoft.
The next…
beyond resistance.
Walk into my office.
Nod your head
My clothes disappear.
I bend over the desk.
The smacks echo two floors down.
My screams drown out
the wails of the fire trucks.
My arousal runs
down shaking legs
and stains the threadbare carpet.
One more smack and
you’re gone.
The others act as if nothing happened
while I, extending one arm from subspace
re-cover my pale bare body
and resume my seat

Tuesday, December 2, 2008


We begin the journey home.
You are self-satisfied.
I am stunned.
I am no longer who I was
but not yet what I will be.
You smashed me into
shards and splinters,
crystals flashing rainbows
in the sun around eyes
dulled from debasement.
It is time to rebuild.
You pull off at a scenic
invitation and lead me
almost gently to the rail.

Look, my pet, my angel,
my toy. Look at the beauty
that now is this world,
the earth that once was
unformed and void.
And you are my creation,
you are broken and empty
and I will fill you with my
light. I am your sun and
your moon, and I will
dominate your day and
your night. And the water
of your desire will flow
down your legs, and
you will sprout with
the produce of your mind.
And I will look on my creation
and see that it is good.

And standing behind me
you lift up my skirt
and plow yourself with
deliberate brutality
into that sore orifice
so hard and cruelly used.
Feel the sun, my pet,
feel my delight. And
as I moan with pain
and blush with pleasure
I smile in your ownership
and in my eyes
there is light.

Posted after pleading for permission
and earning the privilege
with personal service.

Sunday, November 30, 2008

Raped and conquered

I'm sitting on the edge of my bed,
too tired to remove my clothes.
Too tired to brush my teeth.
I'm sitting on the edge of the bed,
eyeing the corner...

My body remembers. More than
my mind, my body remembers
the position, the pillows, the sense
of you behind me. The sense
of your erection. The sense
of an eye that is also a mouth
focused on the target,
focused on the entrance
that was meant to be an exit.

I shiver. And the portcullis drops. Small
protection against determination and right.
The troops have fled, the oil is cold, and
the castle herself is ambivalent.
Bring on your battering ram.
Splinter the oaken door.
Rape, pillage, despoil, humiliate -
it's all mere ritual. The kingdom was
conquered months before. This
is but the final proof.
You drag your royal captive
naked through the streets.
You drag her bare and weeping to
the crowded village square.
You chain her in position and
you flog her till she bleeds.
And then the final proof, the
final act, cruel and clear.
You fuck her like an animal,
out in the village square.
you pierce her virgin asshole,
you fuck her till she screams,
you use her like your whore
and then you toss her to your troops.

But late that night
soldiers' seed
spilling from each hole
she crawls back to the castle
scratches on the door
begs for admittance
begs for an audience
abdicates her crown
and pleads to serve her Lord.

Thursday, November 27, 2008

Giving thanks

Despite all the angst, all the tears, I really do have a lot to be thankful for.

To WHOM I will direct this thanks is an open question. My rabbi calls me a pantheist, and seems quite happy with that characterization. I love the ritual and ethics of Judaism, the commitment to making the world a better place, the awareness of rhythms and contrast, but my concept of God is pretty open and expansive and undefined. I have had odd experiences of... feeling something... it makes me uncomfortable to talk about it, I was brought up a Jewish atheist, not a Jewish pantheist, and these were not experiences I was looking for.

So I come equipped with this commune of deities of a sort.
The sun, for sure.
And Louise, the goddess of parking.

I have this vague sense of a deity of BDSM, who can be credited with (or blamed for) my discovery by the fiend. What happened thereafter all gets credited to my demon muse himself. When he wants something, he gets it. No question.

And then there is my captivating cane-wielding collector himself. I have occasionally referred to him as Apollo, who is, after all, the god of the sun, as well as of music, poetry, and the arts. And I do worship him...

So here, then, is a small list of thank-you's, sent out into the ether, and anyone or any thing is invited to accept responsibility where deemed appropriate.

First, thank you to all of us who made Barack Obama our new President, whether by knocking on doors or making phone calls or making the Great Schlep to Florida or persuading one neighbor or sending $5 or even just voting for him. I have never in my life felt like this, even in other cases where my candidate won. I have never before so truly felt that WE made this change, he is OUR president, and we together will make things better. I see him on television and I smile and say again, Yes We Can, together we can and he will lead us.

I am very grateful for having a job, because if I didn't it's unlikely I would get one for another two years. I'm especially grateful that my office is only a mile and a half from home, so that I can go home for lunch with the cats, and that I do seem to help some people - even if only by getting them to smile for a few minutes.

I am extremely grateful to and for my cats, who love me no matter what and make me feel needed. They are the only children I have.

I am grateful for my friends who are my family, and whom I know I can rely on in a crisis.

I am grateful for my blood relatives. Things could be a lot worse. (I know that sounds awful, but not everyone is comfortable with their family. Still, after years of making me feel as if I were a disappointment, they are a lot more accepting than they might be, and they didn't reject me when I came out as bi. They don't talk about it, but they didn't reject me.)

I am completely incapable of expressing how grateful I am to my demon muse. For everything. To start enumerating what he has done for me would be to trivialize it. Thank you, Sir. I will continually strive to be worthy of your selection of me.

And finally, the philosopher. I am ever so thankful for having had the philosopher in my life, and for whatever role he may continue to play. He opened the world to me. Whatever it all was for him, whatever it is for him now, whatever he can handle - he taught me about love, he brought a light into my life, and awakened my submission. He taught me what it is like to be friends with a lover. And if I have such a hard time giving it up, it's because he showed me how good it could be.

Wednesday, November 26, 2008

Re-writing reality

I'm very creative. That's why I fell into the clutches of my caning curator. But it's more than a question of talent. It's almost a compulsion. My brain works overtime.

It's not something I do deliberately. It's more as if they forgot to install an on-off switch. If my mind isn't engaged in some other activity that forces it to connect with the solid, present world, it is concocting poems, stories, scenarios...

This post took form as I transferred the laundry from the washer to the dryer. It continued as I prepared dinner, and acquired a title then as well.

This is not always a good thing.

When I arrive at work in the morning, I sit down at my desk and turn on the computer. At this point a responsible employee would settle down to work. And in a way, I AM being a responsible employee. Except not to the people who twice-monthly deposit my salary into my bank account. And I'm not acting as an employee exactly. I'm fulfilling my duties as a literary service slut, a wholly-owned pet poet, a modern-day Anaïs Nin creating on command for the erotic pleasure of my cruel collector. I sit down at my desk and poems rape my brain until I have to free them onto paper - or directly into an e-mail. Then I get in trouble because I rush them out and miss typos in my eagerness to say "Look, Sir! Look what I made for you!" like a child rushing home from pre-school with the day's finger painting, hoping to see it enshrined on the refrigerator.

My poems don't get hung on the refrigerator.

But it is not these creations that get me in trouble. I create scenarios. Fantasies of how I wish things to be. Fantasies that are so real, so plausible, so desirable, that I am disappointed when life has its own ideas.

You can, of course, see where this is going.

I wanted to believe that I could have a "real" relationship with the philosopher. I wanted to believe that he could be John, my boyfriend, as well as the philosopher, my party in playful perversion. He gave me almost no reason to believe that could be the case, he fought it every step of the way, he fled from almost anything that would be a step forward, and I adamantly, needily refused to see what was being shoved in front of my purple glasses. I hung on for dear life to the things that did speak of a real relationship, and took them to mean more than they really were.

He has a very hard time with the distance. If I lived nearby, he says, we could just be together, commune without speaking, get through the hard times on the strength of our uncanny connection on an almost soulful level. And then it might have worked. But there would have been another option as well. He could have come by for a few hours. We could have done our D/s thing, our whole scolding, punishment, redemption thing, gotten out of it what we each needed, and then he would have gone. We wouldn't have seduced ourselves with the perfection of the time we did spend together as... as together. As so close together. As so comfortable together. As so right together. Those rare amazing visits that made me think it was real, that made me write scenarios in my head, that made me expect, assume, WANT him to say he'd come down more often, he'd let me have dinner with his brother and sister-in-law, he'd resume our relationship on Labor Day...

I can't stop. I can't stop the fantasies. I see possibilities that seem reasonable and then I let myself in for disappointment when they don't come about.

I see him coming down for New Year's Eve.

I see him coming down for the Inauguration.

I see his mother, who was half-way to talking to me on the phone during those many long calls on Election Day - I see his mother saying "John, why don't you invite your friend up for Christmas?" And he goes pale, and gulps, and then says "Sure, Mom! I'll call her right now."

I set myself up for getting hurt.
I do it every time.
It's not his fault.
There is no one to blame but myself.

Tuesday, November 25, 2008

So much to say...

I've been writing a lot these days. But not for here. Sometimes three poems in the space of as many hours, interspersed with intense messages of a poetic flavor.

You've seen a few of the poems. But most of them feel too private. I write them for the man whose role I can't define with a single word, the man whose role is especially indefinable within the usual constructs of BDSM. I write for him, I write about him, I write because of him. He inspires me and pushes me. He prods and punishes and guides and instructs. He tells me what I've done and what he likes and what he wants, and when I look at poems from before he lured me into his dark den I can see ever so clearly how much I've grown.

There is so much I could say here, but it's late and I'm sleepy and I have a long drive on Thursday. There is so much to say but it is very intense, and I think I've been holding back because I've already overdosed on intensity lately.

The man who owns me but isn't my master likes lists, so here is a short list of things I could tell you about:
  • a forced viewing of Phantom of the Opera (the musical) - I hated it when it first came out but sobbed through much of it this time. Think of the parallels with my current situation. Picture me bursting into tears when Raul first appears, his flowing reddish hair taking me by surprise.
  • my orgasms have changed. I still cry, but...
  • I disappeared for a few moments when the fiend was torturing my nipples - my first time.
I'm floating away now - not into subspace but into sleep... still I will take the time to mention this... the philosopher seems to be floating away as well. It's probably just because it's November. I was like that from a few days after Election Day until... well, until this weekend, actually. Until Sunday when I finally emerged from subspace (more or less) after my Saturday morning lesson. But he seems to have detached, which is hard after our having spent so many hours talking on Election Day. He reads this blog but he's quiet. He reads about S-- being here and my recent punishment, and the intense things I say about my torturing teacher, and I worry he thinks that I'm floating away and I panic and write him and probably make him want to hide somewhere I can't find him so he can get some peace from my emotional fits.

I write to reassure him but I'm also trying to reassure myself.

I don't know what's real any more. I don't know what I feel any more. Perhaps I'm moving towards truly letting go, which would be the wisest thing all around. I act as if I love him and say I have a broken heart but maybe it's just a habit. Maybe I miss being in love as much as I miss him.

I'm falling asleep.
I'm not sure what I've written.
I'll probably regret it in the morning.

But the holidays are always a time for looking back at holidays past. And last Thanksgiving I was giving joyous secret thanks for the sweet, smart, sadistic man who filled my thoughts and ate up the minutes on my cell phone.

I miss him, damn it.

I'm not very good at letting go.

Sunday, November 23, 2008


I hate the cane. Why do I yearn to submit to it? I truly hate it – your cane especially, Sir, it’s bigger than the jaunty, bouncy one with the curved handle that lives on a hook in the back of the closet. It’s heavier, and wider, and has that nasty ragged end with which you mark me. There are no pretenses about this one. It was made to do damage.

It’s that moment just before you strike. That moment when I demonstrate my submission, when my body says yes, do this to me, for your pleasure, for your satisfaction, because you need to be cruel, because you need to torture, because you need to send me a message that I will respect you, I will obey, I will treat my art as the treasure it is.

At that moment, when I get into position, when I offer you my defenseless flesh, when I scurry onto the bed, down on my knees and forearms, hands crossed, head raised, back arched, signaling my submission and acceptance and obedience and penitence… at that moment, amidst the haste and fear and panic… at that moment I am content.

And then you strike.
And there is nothing but the pain.
And I squirm and wriggle and try to escape –
not the cane itself, but the pain.

And there is no escaping the pain.

Considered dispassionately – though really, how can someone be dispassionate during such a beating – the pain wasn’t as bad as it could have been. Well, it never is as bad as it could be, he always holds back from what he could do. From what he has done to others. Not to me. He knows I couldn’t take it. And he knows he doesn’t need to. A fairly low level of abuse will get the desired response – which, I suppose, leaves the more extreme forms of evil for the time when my sins truly warrant them.

I sincerely hope my sins never warrant them.

He didn’t even beat me as hard as he has. But he beat me more than he has. He brought that strip of wood down on my bottom again and again and again. There was a long pause after the first strike, which allowed the pain to burrow down through the reddened flesh, through the fat, and into my muscles. Like a sponge soaking up a large spill, my buttock soaked up the pain and drew it down into itself.

What followed I don’t remember too clearly. At one point there were a few blows that came fast one after the other. These seemed somewhat less severe, but the accelerated pace made me feel more under attack. Others were more widely spaced but more brutal. As I said, I’m not sure. Because interspersed with it all were his words of anger and disappointment and correction. The scolding was at least as brutal as the caning.

The punishment was more than just the beating, and it went on for a long time. He reduced me to a quivering, bawling, pleading, snuffling mass, begging begging begging for forgiveness as I struggled to maintain whatever position he ordered me into, as I struggled to survive the pain, as I struggled to look in his eyes, as I struggled to convince him that my penitence was sincere.

Of course he enjoyed it. He’s a sadist after all. But it was real as well. For both of us.

I, however, did not enjoy it. Not at all. Not while it was happening. Afterwards, however… it’s not that I remember it fondly. But the intensity… the intimacy… the depth of submission… feeling that owned, being that owned that he knows he can use me as he wishes, punish me as he wishes…

I take that back. I retract the above. In some way, I DID enjoy it as it was happening. I hated it, that part is true. But there was such a high…. endorphins and adrenalin and even more… the assaults with wood and hand and words… the pulled hair, the twisted nipple, the chain tight around my neck… it was horrible and beautiful and everything I took, everything I was subjected to, everything I accepted as my due said Yes! I am your pet, I am your poet, I have offered you my service – no, I BEGGED to be allowed to serve you – and by submitting to this punishment I say Yes! you have the right to expect certain behavior from me and Yes! I will give you what you require and Yes! I am committed to being what you want me to be so you will want me and keep me and use me and enjoy me and be proud of your property, be proud of your pet, and please please so you won’t send me away.

I can’t bear being sent away.

Saturday, November 22, 2008

Marko gives a lesson in submission

I was in the bathroom last night, preparing for bed. Preparing for my last and very special task for the pleasure of the man who guides my submission and owns my thoughts. I was on the toilet when I heard Marko start to cry. It was a painful, lonely, cry of despair and desertion. Totally uncalled for as I was not that many steps away. But he wanted me, and I wasn't there.

Alas, I understand the feeling all too well.

Finally, he joined me in the bathroom. He came into the bathroom and settled by my feet. He needed to be near me. He needed to show his devotion. He needed to demonstrate, by his nearness, his posture, the tension in his body, that I was the center of his life, and that he was ready to pop up at the first word and do whatever it would take to please me, to make me love him.

I looked down at his soft, gray body, poised next to my feet.. He was clearly so incredibly grateful that I was there, holding still, allowing him to be near. And then it washed over me, a feeling so strong I could reach out and touch it. This was the feeling, this was what I meant, what I felt, what I wanted to convey when I said I wanted to be on the floor at my torturing teacher's feet.

Pure devotion.

After a while, Marko left the little room and came back with a pipe cleaner. He laid it at my feet. It was more than an invitation to play. It was an offering at the fliving altar of his god. Being his mother doesn't stop me from being an object of worship.

Friday, November 21, 2008

Joy in a word

I’m sitting at home on a Friday night, feeling the ringing sting of his hand on my ass.

Except he hasn’t been here. He hasn’t been here for weeks and weeks. I don’t even want to look at the calendar to figure out how long it’s been. But we were e-mailing each other tonight and all of a sudden, I felt it.

The memory of the impact of his palm lives on in my buttocks.

He isn’t punishing me by not paying me a visit. At least I don’t think he is. He does owe me a punishment, and I suspect it will be quite a severe one, as the longer we go, the more infractions I manage to accumulate. I don’t mean to be bad. I think that when I displease him it’s more that I’ve gotten carried away. I’m so intense or excited that I miss the typos, or say something inappropriate, or I slip into an odd mood and write things that in my right mind I would never dare say.

He very quickly brings me to my senses. Even in an e-mail, his tone of voice comes through, like a quick, cold slap to the face. All it takes is a very few words and I am very very penitent and very very submissive.

I am devoted to him, and to serving him. But at times I do need to be reminded of my place. I don’t mean to, but I drift. I lose my way. I do better when I hear from him more often, but I mustn’t be demanding. I must focus and remember and produce.

Still, he gave me a great gift. Two gifts, actually. And sometimes a gift can steer me back in the right direction as well as a punishment can.

He has a new name for me. One of many, it is true, and I love them all because he has chosen them. But this one has special charms. Sweet and sexy, demeaning and delicious, it both teases me and puts me in my place. It inspires me and, I think, amuses him. I love it.

But better than that, better than almost everything, he gave me a new name to call him. An appellation I have begged to use. The first time I used it, he sharply wrote back that it was forbidden. I was crushed. Then he allowed me to use it only in the context of fulfilling an assignment. Then in phrases that echoed the key phrase of the assignment. And then finally… such joy.

And no, it is not “Master.”

It is much much better.

And no, I’m not going to tell you. Some things are too precious to share.

NOTE: just as I finished writing the above, he phoned. Another beautiful gift and completely unexpected. He phoned and gave me a very precious assignment and then invited me to address him by the new title. I think it pleased him to hear me say it, and to hear how moved I was at being able to say it aloud. And now I am flooded with such warmth and am floating in a calm sea of grateful submission. True, he has an evil streak, but he is a very wise and experienced sadist, effortlessly exuding dominance from his very pores. I am his harp. He runs his hands over my strings and with the slightest touch elicits exactly the melody he wants to hear.

He may not be my Master, but he is a master at what he does. And I am a very lucky pet.

LATER STILL: as if it were a fine cut jewel, I can't help fondling this beautiful gift that my sadistic stage manager gave me, holding it up to the light, looking for rainbows and meaning. I wonder if I was given permission to use the term as a reward for progress in my training. But more than that, I wonder if the delay, the gradual steps, the enticement that led to my artistic pleading, my downright begging, wasn't exactly what earned me the right to use it - just as at the very beginning I had to beg to be allowed to serve him. Whatever the truth of it, he was right to handle it as he did. He is always right. By the time permission was granted, it was indeed a precious jewel, and I will always flood with joy and a sense of triumphant, blessed submission every time I use it.

Tuesday, November 18, 2008

Over my head

Kitten had to play therapist today. Two different callers. Clinical depression. I've been through it enough myself to know it when I hear it.

Two separate desperate people. One, a 74-year old woman, so angry and discouraged she rejects all options as not worth trying. The other, a 60-year old man (not that old any more), crying over the phone, but ready to do what I say.

Promise me. For me. What are you going to do for me? You're going to call the hospital. You'll ask about support groups. Ask about a mental health clinic. Tell them you are very, very depressed. Tell them you need help. Promise me.

They need antidepressants. Both of them. Not that I can say that. I'm not a doctor. I'm not a therapist. But I know. I've been there. The man might get some. But the woman? No. She's too far gone. Too hopeless. Wants to be dead. Won't kill herself but wants to be dead.

I know that one, too. Used to happen to me late ever fall back in Michigan. November on top of clinical depression is a nearly lethal combination, except when you are so paralyzed by autumn and/or life that you have no energy to hurt yourself. So you just wish yourself dead.

She won't kill herself. And she won't get real help. But she called me right back after I hung up the first time. I'm not a therapist. I'm not a counselor. I'm not trained. This isn't my job. But by the end of the second, long call she sounded a little calmer, she was saying nice things about me, she was grateful... it was a start.

This isn't my job. I'm not supposed to do this. But they were desperate. I can't turn my back on the clinically depressed.

A lot of people thanked me today, blessed me today, were grateful for me today. That helped.

But when I hung up from the crying man, I put my head in my hands and sobbed.

Monday, November 17, 2008

Not so SAD

Light therapy works.

Well, I know it works, but I never expected that even a massive dose could turn things around this fast. I bathed in umpteen lumens of full-spectrum fluorescent light on Saturday and Sunday and today I finally set up my little light box on my desk at work. I kept it on for about 4 or 5 hours and was able to go to the supermarket after work and even pay some bills after dinner. This may not sound like much to you all but after the last few weeks it was a big deal.

I'm very relieved. My only problem is that I think I overdid it a bit and hope I sleep OK tonight. But the important thing is that I broke the cycle, and I'm no longer in a panic about making it to January.

Next step - get myself back into the health club so I can work off those 5 pounds I put on in the last couple of weeks.

Thanks to all of you for being so supportive.

Sunday, November 16, 2008


I'm sitting in front of my big light box. It's been on all day... well, ever since I finally managed to haul myself out of bed. The little one on the kitchen counter has been on, too. For all the good they're doing me. All I want to do is sleep, in between stuffing my mouth with bread and cheese and chocolate.

I'm forcing myself to use capital letters. I don't really have the energy but my demon muse wants me to be correct.

I don't have the energy to think up alternative clever names for him, either. I'm having enough trouble remembering the usual words for ordinary items. Ah wait there it is - alliterative! That's the word I was searching for. Alternative alliterative names... sigh... it's hard enough being creative, but extra hard when you have to wander through the fog to get to your internal word warehouse. (There, I pulled that one off, but it was a struggle.)

This is embarrassing. I thought I was doing so well this year. But no, it always gets me sooner or later. And this year there is no trip south - neither to friends in the Southwest for a week of natural light therapy nor a Thanksgiving pilgrimage to my parents in Florida now that they have moved back north. (They are good liberal Jews who happily rejected the lies about Barack Obama being a Muslim, so even if they had still been in Florida I would have been spared participation in the Great Schlep.)

When talk of SAD (see also here) finally started surfacing in the late '80s/early '90s, I read about a woman whose energy was so low that she had to crawl to the bathroom. We're not talking about some obedient submissive being ordered into a humiliating posture any time she needed to pee. She really didn't have enough energy to stand up. Now I'm not quite that bad. Not now, anyway. But I can imagine it being that bad. I've been trying to write this post all day. Even more seriously, I've been trying to work on an assignment for my demon muse and can't quite completely understand what it is he wants. I think I know, I got it up to a point, but then I got stuck. And it is a very important assignment, aside from my always wanting ever so much to please him. I did please him yesterday, mightily, but today I am stymied.

I'm sure that if it were April and sunny I could get it in an instant.

So I bask in front of my light boxes, and try not to glance too often over to the couch where Marko warmly and softly sleeps and snores and sends subliminal messages to join him.

I need the philosopher. My demon muse owns and regulates my creative life, but the philosopher made some attempt at running my day-to-day life. When he'd be here, I'd know great joy from doing homey things (I'm stuck for the right word again - aha! on proofreading I found it - domestic!!) - dishes, laundry, preparing a perfect cup of Ceylon tea... we had a fantasy about his standing over his naked slave kitten as I scrubbed the floor on my hands and knees. He'd have the cane in one hand, and would tap it on the palm of the other while he oversaw my work. He would watch carefully until he noticed a spot that I had missed. Then - WHACK! I loved that fantasy. I loved being told I had to do something. It inspired me to wash my kitchen floor all on my own, which I only normally do in pieces when I spill something.

I need him here to order me to clean up the damn kitchen. I need him here sitting on the couch doing cryptic crosswords, one after the other, while ordering me to clean off the dining room table and then make supper. And just moving the piles to the living room floor isn't good enough - I need to really go through everything and clean it up. And meanwhile, wash the sheets - they're covered with bits of candle wax. And the litter box? A disgrace. And where's that cup of tea he ordered a half hour ago?

Joy. Utter joy. And my house would be clean. Who knew the oriental rug was really red and navy? It looks grey half the time... (this is no exaggeration; I suck as a housekeeper.)

Unfortunately, I doubt the philosopher would be much help at the moment, even if he were inclined to come visit. He, too, has SAD. He now also has a little light box. But you have to remember to use it, and a feature of SAD is that we don't remember things as well as we might. Because eventually I'll run out of left-over Hallowe'en candy and will need to buy some more chocolate... Too bad I'm so submissive. A slave would be very handy at a time like this.

Friday, November 14, 2008

On Your Desire

Your desire is a dark, rich beer,
hungry yeast feeding on sweets.
It bubbles in the belly of the beast
and gorges itself on horror and tears.
A burp could come at any time,
while on the road, or selling your wares.
GERD in its erotic form, a perverted
variant of a common complaint.
It's not the taste of bile that stains
your gorge. It's essence of cunt, and
your testicles jump as you roll the flavor
in your greedy mouth as if it were
that melting flesh itself. You want her.
You want to fall on her, tearing her
to bits, stripping away her flesh,
sucking the poetic marrow from her bones,
and leaving only tears and the echo of
her screams. And her lips. Her moist
yielding lips that you kiss for hours
bathing in the blood of her submission.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Posted by permission.

I did not write the last, dark part. Some poet dybbuk drove my fingers and I watched in horror as his words took shape in blood upon the screen. I had gotten as far as "You want her." It seemed to need two more lines. I was stealing time from my employer to serve my cruel confessor, but my mind had stalled. I stared at my words but inspiration was on a coffee break. And then, I swear on a pile of long heavy chain, my fingers began to move and the poem was done. And then I couldn't free myself of it for the rest of the day. As did my story "The Branding" for days after it was written, this poem continues to haunt me. But it pleased my punishing professor, and in our world that's all that matters.

Thursday, November 13, 2008

Droit du Seigneur

She knows his reputation.

He is cruel, they say. Cruel, and arrogant, and one of the last in the kingdom to exercise his droit du seigneur. The new brides are thrown back at their husbands with scars on their bruised skin and tears lingering in their eyes. He is not like other men, they say, and his appetites… they shudder and will say no more.

She has heard he doesn't wait until the wedding night. He likes to take his time. He tries to teach them to please him, these reluctant courtesans, but few, they say, succeed.

The banns have been posted. She awaits the knock on the door.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

He doesn't always exercise his traditional rights. Too often, he is disappointed. He has grown bored with the project. The girls bring him nothing but fear and trembling. They come to him because they have to. They don't offer their submission, they merely collapse and endure. They neither accept nor fight. He enjoys the challenge of training a new victim, but these girls aren't trainable. They just want to get through the night and then return to the village to show their scars and spread their lies.

Well, yes, he will admit that not all the stories are lies. And the scars are real enough.

So he no longer commands that every new bride present herself to serve him. He sends his spies throughout his fiefdom, reading the banns posted each week, and researching the character and spirit and talents of the brides-to-be.

This week, they return with a report that bears promise.

She isn't the most beautiful girl in the land, they say. And she isn't all that young. But her thick red hair should appeal to you, Sir.

He remembers fingers running through wavy locks, closing around them, and pulling, sharply. A small smile escapes him.

She is smart, they say. She writes poems, she writes stories, she sings ballads while she plays the lute. She dances, they say. She dances and tosses her red hair and her eyes send out sparks. And yet, there is something…

We know what you like, Sir. We think it is there.

Bring her, he says. Bring her to me now.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

She knew he would send for her. She has been pretending to be afraid. But she knows his reputation. And she thinks he is what she has been waiting for. She trembles when she hears the knock, which is less a knock than a heavy banging that would splinter the oaken door if she didn't open it soon.

There are three men. They say nothing. One of them gives a small sharp motion with his head. She nods back and walks out the door. They parade through the town, one man in front and the other two behind her.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

He awaits her impatiently. He suspects this one will be different. He hopes this one will be different. He will put her to the test.

She stands before him.

He looks her over.

She looks right back. And then she drops her eyes.

"Look at me," he says.

"Yes, Sir," she replies.

He looks inside her, he sends his gaze into her soul, and ferrets out her strengths, her weaknesses, her truths, and her submission. He has found what he wants.


She does, without artifice, unlacing her gown and letting it fall around her, revealing her pale skin and small breasts. She returns her eyes to his.

"Do I please you, my Lord? Do I please you, mon seigneur?"

"Very much, ma petite. And now you will please me more. Approach."

And when one more step would bring her body against his, he reaches out, grasps her nipple, and twists hard.

She screams.

He smiles.

Pain shoots though her breast. Tears pool but do not fall.

"Please, my Lord… if it would please you… please hurt me again."

And he does. For days. He hurts her in every way he can imagine. She screams and cries and offers herself for more. He starts alternating torture with kisses, and teaches her how to give him pleasure. She serves him with her mouth, giving him songs and poems and kisses and a chalice for his passion.

He keeps her naked. He locks her in a room although he knows she will not leave. He teaches her and uses her and trains her to please him. He sees her submission grow and flourish as he plays with her vulnerability. She is his creation, she is his toy, she is his pleasure and his plaything and his pet and his whore and as her wedding approaches he knows he doesn't want to send her back.

And yet, he has no choice. The rules that give him the right to enjoy her demand that he allow the marriage to go forward. After all, with no marriage there is no wedding night.

He sends her back to her mother the night before the wedding. She cries with a different kind of pain but he shows no mercy. He reminds her, however, that he will expect her back immediately after the wedding feast.

At the church, the groom eyes her with suspicion. There is something different about her and he can't quite pin it down. She doesn't seem relieved to be back at his side. And she barely waits for the end of the feast before she leaves with undue haste to head back to the Lord's manor.

As when she first came to him, he awaits her arrival impatiently, and greets her at the door himself. He leads her to the room he considers hers, pushes her in, and locks the door.


She lets the wedding gown pool at her feet.

"Do I please you, mon Seigneur? Do I still please you, my Lord?"

He doesn't answer, but pushes her down over his knee and spanks her long and hard for daring to belong to another.

The night is too short.

In the morning, he sends her back to her new husband. But while the rules didn't allow him to stop the wedding, they do allow him to take in service whomever he chooses. And he chooses her. Every other week she returns to the manor for three days. Every other week, she returns with her poems and her songs and her startling nipples and her screams of pain and her moans of pleasure as she takes him in her mouth and rejoices in serving him and grows in her submission and gives him what he needs.

And he never again exercises his droit du seigneur.

Posted with permission.