Memories of your cock

What is it about a computer in my lap that makes me start to twitch? And not just in my lap. When I turn on my computer at work, I feel the pressure build, running back and forth from my still virgin butt hole through the sodden valley of my cunt and up to my clit, where it twirls around a few times and heads back the way it came.

My face grimaces, and the contractions begin. They seem to begin in my anus, then travel over the land bridge to my labia and the drooling pussy within. Finally, I feel them in my womb, and then, with a moan of inevitability, I start to write.

I used to write for the philosopher. I couldn’t stop writing for the philosopher, even at work, despite his scoldings and interdictions. I wanted to be connected to him every minute of the day. We inspired interactive creativity and urgent desire, before our ever having met. We spent hours writing, and then hours talking, and had a hell of a time getting anything else done.

We don’t write like that any more. He needs to be able to get everything else done. He no longer denies that there is “something between us” but except for some occasional mild teasing and flirting, our correspondence stays away from the passion. We stay away from BDSM. We stay away from sex.

I’ve stuffed it into a strong box, bound it with chains, and secured it with a padlock. A trunk with a chastity belt. Sometimes fumes sneak out through wee holes in the wood, but I hold my nose or leave the house.

Sometimes they catch me unawares and I have memories… I push them away. They come less often now. The memories of being draped over the ottoman… they come less often now… the memories of those four final cane strokes… of huddling over on the floor, draped in an afghan, shuddering in collapse as he ran upstairs for a bag of frozen peas for my battered butt… of his calling me his good kitten… they come less often now.

Sometimes I think they are gone for good. Sometimes I think they are purely a matter of habit or buried genes, a kitten who occasionally remembers her leonine ancestry.

Thoughts of the philosopher inspire feelings of love, which in fact are probably more dangerous and unwise than urges towards submission. And now my demon muse is back, who acts as a safety valve for the rest of it. He siphons off my urge towards submission, keeps me from sucking random cocks, and inspires an onslaught of poetry both erotic and deferential. And there are other feelings he raises. Different ones… my submission to him is different. There is a true sense of worship, of adoration, and now even deeper trust than there was before The Rupture. I know this probably doesn’t make sense to some of you but yes, I trust him more now. And I truly believe that his plans for me, however much they may be based in his own perverted and sadistic needs, are basically good for me. I suppose he’ll sneer at this, and make some snide comment, but I am his creation. I don’t know what his goal is but I think it is something he will take pride in as well as enjoy.

So except for passing teases, I try not to push the philosopher to react to me erotically. Oh we had such a dispassionate discussion of a kinky horror movie he suggested I’d like. It’s hard enough dealing with how I just want to curl up and cuddle with him, let alone want to be spanked by him. And even those warm creamy vanilla desires get buried, since I mostly try not to think about them. The desires of all kinds come back when we talk, and even when we e-mail back and forth, but the interchanges happens so rarely now (by mutual agreement to shield him from implied demands) that desire is enjoying a long hibernation.

Except sometimes it will be surprised by an anarchic rooster. Like this:

I dreamt about your cock last night. We bathed together and you allowed me to trim your hair and then you threaded your hands through the hair on my head as I knelt before you on the bathroom floor, and by my hair you pulled my head to your stiffening cock, “suck me, Leigh,” you commanded.

I got this far on Elspeth’s blog and started to cry. Not even this far. I got to where she talks about trimming his hair and I started to cry. And oh, I wanted so much to send you the link – or better yet, to paste the piece right into a message so I could edit the bit where he refers to “daddy’s cock” because you would never refer to it as that… you’d say hoarsely “suck me, kitten” and then push my head down on your cock as the look came over your face that betrayed how the veneer of civilization had been driven away by need and dominance.

I wanted to send it to you.
I wanted to let you know that it made me cry.
I wanted to let you know that I hadn't forgotten.
I wanted to let you know that I still thought of you.
I wanted to let you know that everything is still there.
It's just asleep.

And when the time comes
if it ever comes
we'll claw our way through the thick, prickly vines
we'll cut away the brush and the briars
and we'll kiss it awake.

And then we'll see what happens.

But meanwhile,
for now
there are the memories.

Submission Submersion

breathe it.
not like air.
like water.
lower yourself
as into some hypnotic
mikveh.
cleanse yourself of
pretensions at autonomy.

lower yourself.
abase yourself.
sink to the bottom.
feel the chains of
green seaweed
seek your ankles and
drag you down.
give yourself to it.

lower yourself.
open yourself.
fill your lungs.
sink to the bottom
as you float away.
drown in it.
embrace it.
welcome it.

embrace it.
now you are nothing.
now you are everything.
now you're a captive.
now you are his.

now you know.

What does it feel like...

A male friend, a fine writer, was speaking of his curiosity. I am poorly paraphrasing, I am protecting his privacy, I am protecting my privilege of access.

What? he wonders.
What appeals?
What doesn't?
What does it feel like?

What does it feel like, he wonders, these sensations that you experience that physically I can never know?

I know these questions.
I've had them myself.
Especially when in bed with the woman I thought I was in love with.

My clitoris wanted to be a cock.
My clitoris thought it was a cock.
My clitoris wanted to fuck her.

It was very very frustrating.

As some of you may remember, we were both involved with the same man. We were both involved with S--. And it was all at a distance. I was with her, and she would be with him the following weekend, and I couldn't help thinking that he would be able to do with her, to her, what I couldn't.

He could fuck her.
He could take his thoroughly lovely cock and move it inside her.

I knew what it would feel like for her.
I knew exactly what it would feel like for her.
What would it feel like for him?

Like my friend, I'm always wanting to know what it's like for the other side. It obsesses me. I was always asking the philosopher, I was always asking blogging doms, what does it feel like?

I posted this to craigslist as well as here, both as a lure and as an honest attempt at exploration - and received a very special response.

But I want more.

What does it feel like to have a cock?
What does it feel like to be a cock?
What does it feel like to swell at the thought of me?
What does it feel like to swell when you read my words?
What does it feel like to swell at the sound of my moans in your phone?
What does it feel like to slide inside me?
What does it feel like to push inside me?
What does it feel like to cum inside me?

What does it feel like to want me?

I know what it feels like to want you.

Cast of characters

My life is complicated, my feelings intense. My story's confusing, to me as much as to anyone else. But I, at least, have the advantage of minute-by-minute updates. So for the benefit of those of you who have wandered over here for the first time, here is a short cheat sheet.

First, there's me.

OK, I take that back. When you're a submissive, you don't come first. You come last, you live at the bottom, you live at his pleasure. You live where he lets you. You cum last - or whenever he lets you. If at all. Right now, I'm waiting for permission.

Still, it's my blog.

So first, there's me.

On paper, I'm old. I'm a baby boomer. I went to college in the 60's, during those liberating days of the Sexual Revolution. I protested the Vietnam War. I went door-to-door raising money for the Mississippi Freedom Summer. It was a heady time, and a scary one.

So yeah, I'm old. I have this really big birthday coming up. There's no point in my being coy about the number, as I've already mentioned it on this blog, but give me a break, I don't feel like saying it again right now, and the big day will be here in just 2 weeks.

I'm old, but I look really young. 15-20 years younger than I should. I have red hair, and it's still red, and it's still all mine. Red pubic hair, too. Trimmed, not shaved. And red. We won't talk about the white highlights, ok?

Thanks. You can stay.

I'm Jewish. A 3rd generation Jewish atheist, Communist on one side and Socialist on the other. A mixed marriage. Don't laugh, that's not a joke. "Jewish atheist" isn't a joke, either. And now? I'm not sure. My rabbi says I'm a pantheist, with not a trace of disapproval. I suspect he's a bit of one as well.

I love ritual. So does the philosopher.

The philosopher. He's the second character. He's my . . . I'm not quite sure what he is. I told you my life is complicated. He . . . he's the man I can't give up on. He found me through a craigslist ad very nearly 2 years ago. He keeps trying to break up with me. It doesn't work. He was my first dom. He's a philosophy grad student. He's only 38. His hair is red like mine. I haven't seen him since last May. He . . . I love him. He wants me to see other people. He cares for me. It's complicated. The future is misty. And he is always there for me when I need him.

I love him.

And then there's number three. I call him my demon muse. Sometimes I call him the fiend but these days I don't feel like calling him that any more. He is my muse and my teacher and my mentor. He's my dom and my collector and my tormentor and none of these words or even all of them together quite describe what he is to me. Ours is not an ordinary BDSM relationship.

I have never called him by his real name.

He found me on FetLife. He found me and set his trap and I was his within a week. He wanted me for my writing, and he pushes me to make my writing better. And now it is better.

He is a sadist, is my demon muse, and he pushes me. He teaches me and pushes me and shows me who I am. He teaches me about pain, and he teaches me how to please him. He teaches me about my submission and about how much I want to give. He opens me up and leaves my soul bleeding on the ground and I moan and sigh and thank him and when it all flows back together I am stronger than I was before.

He is a sadist, my demon muse. He torments minds as well as bodies. And a month and a half ago, something went badly wrong. And that was it. It was over. I fumed for a week and then enjoyed the sense of freedom and tried to move on.

Except I could barely write poetry any more. The inspiration was gone. The fire from how he caned my brain was gone. I started to panic.

I couldn't write. And that wasn't all. I missed him.

And then suddenly he returned. You don't need the details, just that he returned. He contacted me, you don't have to know why, but he contacted me and the poems started bursting out as if they had been piling up behind a steel blockade.

So there we are.

I serve the philosopher by largely leaving him alone, except for occasional e-mails to which I don't expect a response. I leave him alone and he knows I love him and will do anything he tells me to. Except give up. I won't give up. Maybe eventually, but not now. Not yet. Not until the damn dissertation is done and we can think about what comes next.

I serve my demon muse by doing whatever he tells me to.

There are two more characters, who dominate me more than anyone else in this story. They dominate me with love and need and needle-sharp nails in my thigh. When the others let me down, these two are always there.

I love them.

Their names are Marko and Ketzel.

And now you know it all.

Everything else is commentary.

Training Exercise

And now, he said.
Sit, he said.
Like this.
Wearing that, he said.
Doing this, he said.
Wear that, do this,
Obey.

Touch, he said.
With this, he said.
Gently.
And then, he said.
Press this, he said.
Say this, he said.
Press this, say this,
Don’t cum.

Tell me, he said.
Your thoughts, he said.
They’re mine.
I cried, I said.
I touched, I said.
I cried, I touched,
I pressed, I spoke,
I felt, I thought,
I smiled, I moaned,
It pleased, it hurt,
I learned, I gave.

I submitted.

I did not cum.

Good girl, he said.
Good girl.

Forgive me for bragging

I'm a little embarrassed to be doing this, but I've already told the philosopher and my demon muse and I obviously can't tell my parents although oh my, my mother would be so proud of me! And since there's no one left, I'll just have to tell you guys.

Today I received the following review from JanesGuide.

submission & metaphor

This blog managed to move me today, and not just intellectually. It was so full of passion, pain, longing, love, and loss that I cried. It is written by Oatmeal Girl who describes herself as a submissive Jewish bisexual feminist baby boomer. A lot of the writing is in the form of poetry, and perhaps that is how it slipped into my heart and ravaged my emotions. She has a very well developed and intensely emotional style. It never seems overly fancy, and instead feels very raw and honest (like the talk of a good friend). She often speaks of love, but it isn't an easy love. It is the sort that rips through you, but that you couldn't and wouldn't want to live without. Here is an example of her writing, "I'm high on a cocktail of drugs, and they're each addictive on their own. Just imagine the potency of the alternate reality of subspace combined with the exhilaration of creative inspiration on top of that dependable stimulant, praise." On the flip-side of this ecstasy you'll find solemn and heartfelt poems that include moments like this, "I'm doing well now, master./ My moods don't bounce around/ the room. I held up my end, John./ Perhaps you'd love me now." I think that was the line that tore it for me. I fell in love with her myself. Great stuff! - Vamp

A Song of Service

The chain is pulling
tight around my neck and yet
inspiration blooms.

Poems spring up like flowers
in a sacred rain.
Metaphors mass in my mind,
AWOL no longer.
Words break from their prison and
dance upon the page.

I moan, and cum creation.
My demon muse has returned.

And on that day...

The crowd was gentle.

Except I wouldn't call it a crowd. A gathering would be a better characterization. A peaceful gathering of people both serious and joyous, counting the minutes till the future.

I heard it described as part Woodstock, part religious revival. But the comparison seems superficial. It was Woodstock only in that there were a lot of young people (though not only young people) in a good mood gathered in an open space listening to music (they replayed selections from the Inaugural concert). It was a religious revival in that we stood with overflowing hearts, secure in the belief that better days are ahead - IF we focus on the task and work together to make it happen. A very Jewish vision, really. God isn't going to cure the ills of this country and this world. Even Obama, much as we believe in him, isn't going to do it. It will be up to all of us, each of us, to right the wrongs and mend the cracks.

Serious and joyous. An integrated crowd. There was no escaping the special meaning of that morning. And the multi-hued nature of the gathering, along with the multi-hued nature of the direct participants and of the people who worked for 2 years to make this moment possible - this true rainbow nation was another step in the journey.

I've been feeling very peaceful since then. Sick, it's true, enough to summon up the energy to make a nice big batch of Jewish chicken soup. (It's the fresh dill that makes it taste Jewish, I think. And the parsnips.) My mind is rambling, it's hard to pin down all the aspects of something so amazing. I need to write a poem but it could take a while. But I needed to say something now, inadequate as it may be.

We were nearly 2 million, they say. And things are already getting better.

There is a story, which I am sure I am getting wrong, about a teacher who asks "How far is it from East to West?" And the students come up with an assortment of scientific and very specific answers, all characterized by very large numbers. Finally, she stops them and says no. It is but one step. All you need to do is turn around and take one step in the other direction.

And on that day, this nation turned around and took the first step in the right direction. And yesterday, and then again today, a few more, very important steps were taken that said yes. This really is the way we are going now. Just as was promised.

A Grateful Witness to History

I was there.

We all were there.

I Love My Country

I love my country.

I have never said that before.
Ever.

I'm going to be 60 years old and I have NEVER said that before.

But I've been sitting here in the warm comfort of my bedroom, watching the Inauguration Concert at the Lincoln Memorial, deeply moved by the choice of songs and even more by the words uttered between, with tears streaming down my face at the amazing thing that was achieved in the last 2 years, and the amazing things that I KNOW we will, together, achieve in the future. It is a work of art, this concert, emblematic in its themes and its huge cooperative effort of what we will, we can, we MUST achieve in this new era.

And then it hit me. One of those thunderbolt things.

I love my country.

She's not perfect, my country
Those we love are never perfect.
But suddenly I see a glimmer
a hope
a chance
of a relationship that will not be adversarial.
My anger
my frustration
my disappointment
have dissipated enough
that I can see
that I love her.

I am stunned.
I am filled with joy.
Love is an amazing thing.
And I will never forget this moment.

Together we can make a change.
All of us together.
We have a chance.
For the sake of this country
for the sake of the whole world
let's not blow it.

I love you, America.

Capitulation

i saw the Irishman this morning.

at the house.

i doubt any of you are surprised. it was inevitable. he had cast a spell on me. no. not even that. nothing that deliberate. it just was. it had to be.

i was thinking about it afterwards. how i have dinner with a perfectly nice guy, who could give me the companionship i'm looking for, who could have given me a very nice sex life, including spankings and nipple clamps albeit without the clear dominance i need and want, who would have come home with me that very night right after dinner and licked me to as many orgasms as i could possibly desire... i had dinner with this nice guy and said no. no sex on the first date.

and then this man, his words dripping with honey and desire, intensity and dominance sending flames shooting out of the edges of my laptop, this man e-mails me at 9 am on a Saturday morning to ask about my plans for the day and i'm up and scurrying and feeding cats and eating breakfast and washing the fleece blanket that was matted with cat hair and jumping in the shower and washing my curls and washing out the sink and cleaning out the toilet and going so far as to put the bedspread on the bed which i almost never do and he turns up right on time and spanks me and fucks my mouth and holds my head in his lap and departs after 35 minutes leaving me sighing and smiling with a slightly sore butt and totally at peace.

he is a lovely man. and if he were really available, i'll bet i'd run the other way. i can't seem to want the ones i can really have. but let them be married, let them live far away, let them be emotionally unavailable, and i'm pulled by some sadistic magnet to a state of satisfaction crossed with frustration.

i think i have a crush on him. so i suppose i'm better off than most people with crushes because i actually get to have a bit of him, even if it's just in half hour segments and mouthfuls of cum.

i do think i have a crush on him. he's charmingly good looking, in a relaxed delicious Irish sort of way. if i ever have to post another ad, i will specify Only Irish Need Apply. he's not that much taller than me, he's not a large guy, he's just the sort that i would normally want. and he has this lovely smile that lights up his face, lights up the room and the street and the entire neighborhood. it lights up his eyes, his sweet and tender eyes... eyes that in an instant can turn cold and hard or insistent and demanding... that can burn into me, that remind me that there can be no resistance.

i've missed this. oh God how i've missed this. and i love having his unhidden sweetness along with the dominance. as he got ready to go, he laughed tenderly, appreciatively, at my cute purple "sockies" with the cats on them.

his sweetness is a danger.

he arrived right on time. he brought in the paper from the walk. he held me to him, firmly and comfortably, and i melted into him. he knew i wanted him there. i sat on the couch and babbled, thinking - hoping - he would sit down and talk a bit. but this was not his intent. he looked out the dining room picture window at the backyard and commented on the invasion of bamboo from my neighbor's yard. then he pulled me to him again, and asked where i wanted to be.

my housemate was home.

i took him to the bedroom.

did he kiss me then? i can't remember. he turned me away from him so i was facing the bed. and he smacked my ass. his hand felt slightly cupped, and the impact was firm and controlled. it didn't hurt all that much as i felt it through one layer each of corduroy pants and pink panties. but it was a spanking and inside i sighed with relief.

in his messages he had characterized himself as a "kind Dom." after the first smack or two, he asked "is this ok?" i said "yes. it focuses me." he said "good. i want you to focus."

the spanking continued for a bit. i relished every firm landing of his hand. then he pulled me back against him, he pressed himself into my clothed ass as he pulled me back against him. he brought his arm around to my front and became acquainted with my nipples through the protection of bra and sweater, he brought his arm up to my neck, brought his hand to my chin, he pulled my head back and did things to my nipples... at some point i ended up face down on the bed... maybe that was right after he had me remove my pants. i was face down over the end of the bed, my ass hanging over the edge, and he spanked me through my pink panties, and then he pushed them into the crack of my ass, and he spanked me more.

and then the catechism began. he must have gone to the same school for Irish Catholic doms that the philosopher attended. he asked who owned each part of me and i promised him everything.

and we both knew he owned them only while he was there.

eventually he brought me back up.
he had me kneel before him.
he wanted me to serve him with my mouth.
and with gratitude, i did.
he has a lovely cock, and i took it lovingly.
i gave him pleasure happily.
and then he took my head
and pushed me down on his beautiful cock
and fucked himself with my head
and it didn't take too long
he was greatly in need
and he came in my mouth
and he tasted gentle.
it was gentle-tasting cum.
and i swallowed it happily.

and then...
ah then...
he sat down on the edge of the bed, and i stayed on the floor by his side, and he took my head in his lap, and put his right arm over my back and i'm not sure what he did with his left arm, but i was his baby girl and i was happy and we were peaceful together for a long time.

there were no words.
just this sweet silent communion
and breaths that flowed in and out together.

and then he had to go.

and then he had to go, and he had to tell me that this wouldn't happen all that often, and i told him i knew and i reassured him that i had no desire and no intention of threatening or disrupting the security of his life. and he said he knew that, he wasn't worried.

so.

so what have i gained?
yet one more unavailable Irish guy.
occasional short visits
occasional poetic exchanges of e-mails
a welcome supply of masturbatory fantasies
and reassurance for the philosopher that
some of my needs are being met.
sometimes.

plus there's the other one.

how many married men does it take to make up one full-time dom?

the man with the disabled wife, whom i will now call the director. because that's the way he exercises his dominance. these little directions, very small impositions of his will, so easy to follow but so satisfying for me to obey and for him to command. i think my submission to him, my training, will be a more ongoing thing than my interludes with the Irishman, limited by his various responsibilities but still a steady project. and while he would need to be subtle in scheduling his time with me, out of consideration for his family, our relationship would not be illicit.

he finally sent me a picture. he is not at all as good looking as either the Irishman or my philosopher. but the fiend wasn't good looking either - or not that i could tell what with his being so fat. it didn't matter. and it won't matter here. he is already giving me a lot of what i need.

in a way, it would be nice to have a third guy. i still haven't satisfied the need to have someone to "date." to hang out with. to go to dinner with, to the movies, to the theatre... but in another way, that's ok. i won't be placing any more ads. not for now. i was exhausted by all the dating and phone calls. i'll appreciate being able to collapse at home after work, though an occasional night out would be lovely... i wonder if that is allowed under the director's don't-ask-don't-tell agreement?

at the very least, 2 doms should keep me out of the philosopher's beautiful long red hair, while frustrating his desire to find some truly available guy to palm me off on.

They still want me

The Irishman is still interested.

He wrote this morning.
Five little lines that
said what was needed.

"please don't take periods of silence as negative"

sighs of relief and
little floods of joy.
i should turn away
and i can't.
big surprise.

And there was another returnee. Remember the guy with the disabled wife? I had a good feeling about him but hadn't heard for a couple of days. Well, he wrote again this morning, too. He's into control more than pain, and this afternoon gave me a sample. Nothing big, and no pressure, but oh my goodness it felt good!

He's Irish, too, of course. But I think I'll call him the husband. Because he is that, a husband, who is wisely doing what he needs to do to keep his marriage going under difficult circumstances. He lives a little closer to me than the Irishman, and has the advantage of not being a cheater, although he still does need to be respectfully subtle about his activities.

But maybe I should call him Control Man.

He offers delicious control. Stabilizing, twitch-inducing, and very satisfying.

The Irishman offers passion and pain and joy.

I see no need to choose.

The big reveal

One by one, they are coming out of the closet.

One by one, they are making confession.

One by one, they unbutton their shirts and reveal the big scarlet A,
rampant across their chests in a radiant rash.

One by one, they admit they are married.

Not all of them. The ones who give their full names seem to be ok. They lack the sense of danger that keeps women from responding with their own names to an ad on craigslist that could be from who knows what pervert. (Well, ok... I suppose I shouldn't be casting aspersions on perverts when I'm in love with one myself.)

The men who just give their first names... the men who uses aliases... they live on the cheating side of town.

There have been a few open marriages other than the guy I went out with on Saturday. One guy's wife is in the Middle East for the State Department, and has permission to see other people while she's gone. Another man's wife is disabled, and has given him leave to get his needs met in a don't-ask-don't-tell arrangement. A third has leave to see girls to deal with his kinky urges.

And before you sound dubious, yes - I do believe them. There's something about the way they tell their stories... yes, sure, I could be wrong. But they make sense.

And then there's the editor.
Except I should really call him something else.
The Irishman.
Not directly from Ireland.
Irish like the philosopher.
Older, though, with a beautiful head of grey hair.
Uses words like the philosopher does.
Even his voice is like the philosopher's.
So of course, he's married.
And perhaps going through a midlife crisis.

We were going to have lunch today, after flirting wildly on e-mail all yesterday. He knows what to say. He knows how to say it. He uses the little trigger words... he called me baby girl. No one has ever called me baby girl. Who knew it would make me curl up inside... I was ready to agree to anything.

Almost.

He e-mailed last night, wild with desire, begging for my address. And then he phoned. The family was asleep and he could have been here in 20 minutes. I imagined old ballads, a ladder at my window: Let me come in, the soldier cried. Cold blow and the rainy night... I was exhausted and I was tempted and I was laughing and I was tempted...

And I said no way. I learned my lesson with the photographer. No way I'm having anyone over without first having met him in a public place. And really, he was so funny, he was so desperate, he's so attractive, he's the kind of man I can't resist...

We were still supposed to meet for lunch today, although there was always the chance he wouldn't have time. And he e-mailed this morning that in fact a lot of things had come up, and he hadn't gotten a whole lot done yesterday (gee, I wonder why...) and I haven't heard anything since then. I suspect he's maybe embarrassed at losing his head last night.

And I wonder if that means I won't hear from him again.

Which I would really regret.

Because the way he made me feel
the way he wrote
it's been a long time since I've felt that way,
since I've had e-mails like that.

And when he phoned
although I knew it had to be him
- I knew it had to be him -
the voice
the timbre
the gentleness
the...
it sounded like
the only voice
I really
wanted
to hear.

The kitten and the carpenter

I had another date. This is becoming great fun. I have this great feeling of power, which is an odd thing for a submissive to have. It's only temporary, but it is highly amusing - and an amusing high.

So I had dinner with a carpenter. Last night we talked on the phone for a delightful hour and a half. I was happy and comfortable and relaxed and we talked about other things before we approached the topic of D/s and sex. He is sweet and funny and does work for theatres, and vaguely knows some people I know from my end of the music world and I just felt that here was someone I could spend time with. I also had fits of shyness when we got onto more intimate topics, which he seemed to find very endearing.

And then it was more of the same at dinner, except there was more talk of sex and spanking than last night, and I talked too much except it seemed to amuse him, as if he were taking mental notes. He's very tall, 6'4". not a typically handsome guy, but not bad looking. Just a man. Only a little younger than I am. And he lingered in the car before coming in, listening to the same story on NPR that had me all excited, about a new theatre project beginning in Brooklyn, Shakespeare and Chekhov, British and American actors, The Old Vic and Sam Mendes. Talk about things that can make me cum...

It was a lovely, comfortable, happy dinner... except for when he made me shy. And I told him I wouldn't have sex with him tonight. I'm trying to be more self-disciplined about handing over my body. But he stroked my hand for a while at the table, and kissed me at the car, and both boded well for a very satisfying time when/if things go further.

But you never get everything. And he's not really into the whole D/s dynamic as I enjoy it. Those darker, more controlling aspects... But it would still be better than a totally vanilla relationship. So we'll see.

And who says I can't date a couple of guys? I'm going to be 60 in a few weeks. It's time to explore. That's what they invented condoms for. I suspect this will be my last wild spell. But my rule will be no sex on the first date. Especially on a school night.... But I suspect when it does happen, the carpenter will be a most satisfactory - and satisfying - lover. And he has big solid carpenter's hands for spanking. And a collection of assorted nipple clamps. Ouch!

But when I said there were certain words that immediately pull me down into subspace, and he asked what, and I got very shy and then finally said, for example. "good girl"... he looked blank. He just doesn't know that part of it, doesn't deal with that part of it. And I crave it. So we'll see. He seems the best so far among the non-married ones. Oh yes. Slowly, one by one, they are coming out as married. Which aside from anything else nixes the idea of having someone to hang out with. Although there is this man who is a founding partner of a group of fine restaurants...

I'm turning 60.

Time to gather rosebuds.

No, I haven't been murdered in my sleep

Here you all are leaving such nice comments and I'm being so silent.

Actually, it's only here that I am silent. There are all these craigslist doms paying me a lot of attention and I'm reveling in it. It's great to feel wanted.

I'm working at getting them to want more than just to spank me. I think I intrigue them. Isn't that cute? And they see my picture and think I'm 40...

I suppose I could try out a different one every night, but maybe I should let the bruises heal a little between them. Perhaps the philosopher would like to be hidden in the next room, looking through a 2-way mirror, judging their technique, judging my response, listening to my screams, seeing the little puddle of arousal grow to a lake beneath me.

Would he become aroused himself?
Would he be jealous?
Would he touch himself?
Would he seethe at seeing those men touch me?
Would he burst into the room?
Would he grab the cane?
Would he drive them all from the house?
Would he yell into the street?
Would he declare "She's MINE!"?

Maybe not...

He'll content himself with written reports
and I'll never know how they make him feel.

Kitten has a Date - postscript

Yes, sir. I did have a good time. It felt good to get out.

I promise, sir. I promised I wouldn’t cut myself off and I won’t.

See? I’ve placed a new ad. For a companion cum dom. I even mention you in the ad. I’d rather be honest.

I’ll take resumes. I’ll make them audition. Dinner talk, choice of movies, can they make a good cup of tea, can they get me to bed on time, can they spank me hard enough but not too hard when I deserve it and sometimes just because they want to?

I’ll take notes.
I’ll write a report.
With photos.
You choose.
I’ll be good.
I’ll go out.
I’ll have fun.

You won’t have to worry about me pining.
You won’t have to worry about me being lonely.
But it won’t erase what is between us.

And you did promise to stop trying to chase me away.

Kitten has a Date - Part 2

Summary: had a good time, liked the movie, didn't have sex with him, hope we go out again.

It felt SO good to go out for dinner and a movie! I don't often do this. I don't go out. I miss the company. It's true. Thank you to my very sweet philosopher for taking such good care of me and pushing me to see other people.

I felt no urge to have sex with this guy. There's something too... I don't know... too nervous about him. Too tense somehow, for all he describes himself as this free-living radical. And physically he doesn't attract me. Too old, maybe. I had told the philosopher he was in his mid-40s, but.. well, you know, I've been hearing from so many guys, I can't keep them straight. An ad HE posted said he was 53. but in fact he's 57. Definitely too old...

I had never admitted to my own age. At dinner (after the movie) he asked me to own up. Now that he had seen me I could tell him that I'm a month shy of (damn, I hate writing this) 60. He was very impressed, as everyone is, and shook my hand in admiration.

By the way, the big day is February 9th. I'll need a lot of reassurance. I know it won't make me more than one more day older. I'll still be me. But the number confuses me. So yes, mark the date. I'm not too proud to beg. Especially with the white [ahem...] highlights that are showing up above my ears.

Back to the date. So I'm not attracted to him, and he's too radical for me. And, of course, he's a little weird, but then everyone I have anything to do with is weird. On the other hand, he's smart and interesting and married - so I can be open about the philosopher and, since it's an open marriage and his wife is currently in Spain, there's no sneaking around.

We saw Slumdog Millionaire, which we both thought was very good, but it does have a lot of violence. It felt great to see a movie on a big screen in an actual theatre! And it felt great to get out of the house.

I don't know what else to say. I felt very happy. I've been feeling happy since last weekend. I tried to explain to this guy about the eternal light inside me that is my connection to the philosopher. Everything about our relationship sounds rather odd, it's hard to explain it, hard to create a sensible summary. And of course I didn't mention D/s. But I was out having a good time and being happy, feeling taken care of, and knowing that I could come home and honestly report all that.

That's it.
Nothing more to tell.
Sorry it's not more dramatic.
Even my life can lack drama at times.

What a relief!

Kitten has a Date - Part 1

Please forgive the silence. I just haven't felt driven to write.

I've been feeling very peaceful.
Centered.
Happy.
Ever since the philosopher called last Friday.
Peaceful and centered and happy and not driven to write.

However, I did write a new ad for craigslist.
It's as if I can handle seeing other people better now that I feel more secure.

So I wrote a clever little ad which I won't reprint here, but which anyone who knows me as oatmeal girl would recognize in an instant. I advertised for a smart guy with extra points for being a dom.

Another reason for not posting more this week is that I've been fielding responses. And tonight I have a date. Movie followed by dinner.

He seems like a nice guy. Fairly close to my age, college teacher, world traveler, leftist - lefter than me.

Half Jewish, half Irish Catholic.

And married. In an open marriage. A committed marriage to a woman who is often out of the country.

Perfect.

Well almost. No sign of any interest in BDSM. But even if we just occasionally hang out and go to a movie or whatever, it will be very nice.

We'll see. I promise to report. And meanwhile, I have the satisfaction of being a very good girl and obeying the philosopher's instructions not to cut myself off. Because now I don't feel like he's trying to send me away. I feel as if he's looking after me.

Happy kitten.

Now I am a Poet

I came out tonight.

Not to my friends. They still don't know about all this writing. It's a little problematic when most of it is kinky and my fan base comes via my secret blog.

But I took the next step. I went to a meeting of a poet's group.

I was nervous as hell. I contacted the organizer first and asked if I could come without presenting anything, just to see what it was like, the level of the poems, the flavor of them. She said sure, yes of course, she wouldn't in fact be there but another guy would be running it.

So I went, bringing a page of poems just in case. You're supposed to bring 20 copies. Which I did. Safe poems. I didn't have a lot of choices.

I need to write more vanilla stuff.

So I went and at first the substitute leader was the only one there. An older Scottish guy. Finally someone else turned up. Another new person - an intense young black woman.

He read. OK. She read. Really intense. The fiend would have loved the driving rhythm. She had never been to a group either. Then I agreed to read. I actually offered three: 2 small ones and a longer one. I haven't posted them here. I'm holding back the ones that are fit for public consumption, to protect my anonymity if I share them outside of kinky blogland. I got a couple of good suggestions. I think I may bring my unfinished cat sonnet to see if I can get some help.

There's another group in town that sounds more demanding than this one. I'd love to go there sometime. I think they would push me more, spank me more. But this is good for a start.

I wrote the philosopher ahead of time to tell him I was going. So I wouldn't chicken out.

I am a poet now. I took the plunge.

I'm proud of myself.

And I'm twitching.
My cunt tingles.
Creativity turns me on.

The Feminism in Female Sexual Submission

Thank you to Deity for calling attention to the following essay by re-posting this abridged version on his FetLife wall. Discussion of the many interesting points raised is invited and very welcome.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Originally posted at the The JadeGate:

The Feminism in Female Sexual Submission

Please go here to read all of this excellent article by Stacey May Fowles on the tricky subjects of Feminism, BDSM and Rape. Below are some excerpts of the piece which was in turn excerpted from the book, Yes Means Yes: Visions of Female Sexual Power and a World Without Rape, edited by Jaclyn Friedman and Jessica Valenti. Copyright (c) January 2009.

"Because I'm a feminist who enjoys domination, bondage and pain in the bedroom, it should be pretty obvious why I often remain mute and, well, pretty closeted about my sexuality. While it's easy for me to write an impassioned diatribe on the vital importance of "conventional" women's pleasure, or to talk publicly and explicitly about sexual desire in general, I often shy away from conversations about my personal sexual choices. Despite the fact that I've been on a long, intentional path to finally feel empowered by, and open about, my decision to be a sexual submissive, the reception I receive regarding this decision is not always all that warm."

"BDSM (for my purposes, bondage, discipline, dominance and submission, sadism and masochism) makes a lot of people uncomfortable, and the concept of female submission makes feminists really uncomfortable. I can certainly understand why, but I also believe that safe, sane and consensual BDSM exists as a polar opposite of a reality in which women constantly face the threat of sexual violence."

[snip]

"Sexually submissive feminists already have a hard enough time finding a voice in the discourse, and their desire to be demeaned is often left out of the conversation. Because of this, the opportunity to articulate the political ramifications of rape fantasy happens rarely, if at all.

"You can blame this silence on the fact that BDSM is generally poorly -- often cartoonishly -- represented. Cinematic depictions are generally hastily drawn caricatures, pushing participants onto the fringes and increasing the stigma that surrounds their personal and professional choices. While mainstream film and television occasionally offer up an empowered, vaguely fleshed-out and somewhat sympathetic professional female dom (think Lady Heather from "CSI"), those women who are sexually submissive by choice seem to be invisible. It wouldn't be a stretch to say that they are left out of the picture because, quite simply, they scare us. Feminist pornographic depictions of women being dominated for pleasure are often those involving other women -- that's a safe explicit image, because the idea of a male inflicting pain on a consenting woman is just too hard for many people to stomach. For many viewers it hits too close to home -- the idea of a female submissive's consensual exchange of her authority to make decisions (temporarily or long-term) for a dominant's agreement to make decisions for her just doesn't sit well with the feminist community."

[snip]

"It's taken me many years of unlearning mainstream power dynamics to understand and accept my own desire for fictional, fetishized ones. Despite this deliberate journey of self-discovery and the accompanying (and perhaps contradictory) feelings of being in total control, it's pretty evident that the feminist movement at large is not really ready to admit that women who like to be hit, choked, tied up and humiliated are empowered. Personally, the more I submitted sexually, the more I was able to be autonomous in my external life, the more I was able to achieve equality in my sexual and romantic partnerships, and the more genuine I felt as a human being. Regardless, I always felt that by claiming submissive status I was being highlighted as part of a social dynamic that sought to violate all women. Sadly, claims of sexual emancipation do not translate into acceptance for submissives -- the best a submissive can hope for is to be labeled and condescended to as a damaged victim choosing submission as a way of healing from or processing past trauma and abuse.

"Whether or not it's difficult to accept that the desire to be demeaned is not a product of a society that seeks to objectify women, I would argue that, regardless of appearance, by its very nature BDSM is constantly about consent. Of course, its language and rules differ significantly from vanilla sexual scenes, but the very existence of a safe word is the ultimate in preventing violation -- it suggests that at any moment, regardless of expectations or interpretations on the part of either party, the act can and will end. Ignoring the safe word is a clear act of violation that is not up for any debate. Because of this, BDSM sex, even with all its violent connotations, can be much "safer" than non-safe-word sex. While not very romantic in the traditional sense, the rules are clear -- at any moment a woman (or man) can say no, regardless of the script she (or he) is using."

[snip]

"A dom/sub dynamic doesn't appear to promote equality, but for most serious practitioners, the trust and respect that exist in power exchange actually transcend a mainstream "woman as object" or rape mentality. For BDSM to exist safely, it has to be founded on a constant proclamation of enthusiastic consent, which mainstream sexuality has systematically dismantled."

[snip]

"Paradoxically, sexual submission and rape fantasy can only be acceptable in a culture that doesn't condone them. On a simplistic level, a fetish is only a fetish when it falls outside the realm of the real, and, as I mentioned, the reason why some feminists fear or loathe the BDSM scene is that it is all too familiar. When a woman is subjected to (or enjoying, depending on who is viewing and participating) torture, humiliation and pain, many feminists see the 6 o'clock news, not a pleasurable fantasy, regardless of context. Even someone who identifies as a sexual submissive, someone like me, can understand why it's difficult to view these scenes objectively. Many fantasies are taboo for precisely that reason -- it's close to impossible to step beyond the notion that a man interested in domination is akin to a rapist, or that if a woman submits she is a helpless victim of rape culture. But consenting BDSM practitioners would argue that their community at large responsibly enacts desires without harm, celebrating female desire and (as is so fundamental in dismantling rape culture) making (her) pleasure central."

[snip]

"...The average computer user can have instant access to a full catalog of BDSM practices, ranging from light, soft-core spanking to hard-core torture, in a matter of seconds. This kind of constant, unrestrained availability trains viewers who don't have a BDSM cultural awareness, investment or education to believe that what women want is to be coerced and, in some cases, forced into acts they don't consent to. Over the years, various interpretations of the genre have made it into straight porn, without any suggestion of artifice -- women on leashes, in handcuffs, gagged, tied up and told to "like it" are all commonplace imagery in contemporary pornography.

"While the serious BDSM practitioner thrives on that artifice, the average young, male, heterosexual porn audience member begins to believe that forcing women into sex acts is the norm -- the imagery's constant, instant availability makes rape and sex one and the same for the mainstream viewer. Couple that private home viewing to get off with the proliferation of graphic crime shows on prime-time television and torture porn masquerading as "psychological thrillers" in theaters, and our cultural imagery screams that "women as sexual victims" is an acceptable reality. For someone who is raised, and reaches sexual maturity, in this environment, the idea of forcing a woman into a sex act seems, although logically "wrong," completely commonplace and possibly quite sexy."

[snip]

The reality is that the activities and pornographic imagery of BDSM culture are problematic only because we have reached a point where a woman's desire is completely demeaned and dismissed. If women's pleasure were paramount, this argument (and the feminist fear of sexual submission) wouldn't exist. When women are consistently depicted as victims of both violence and culture, it's difficult to see any other possibilities. Feminists have a responsibility not only to fight and speak out against the mainstream appropriation of BDSM, but also to support BDSM practitioners who endorse safe, sane and consensual practice.

"When the mainstream appropriation of BDSM models is successfully critiqued, dismantled and corrected, a woman can then feel safe to desire to be demeaned, bound, gagged and "forced" into sex by her lover. In turn, feminists would feel safe accepting that desire, because it would be clear consensual submission. Because "she was asking for it" would finally be true."

A whisper into the night

kitten purrs
whispering good-night
passing fingertips over...
sending fingertips into...
smiling...
sighing...
tensing...
melting...
purring once more
and whispering

good night.

The selkie sits and edits

The selkie sits and stares
silently out to sea
content in her solitude.

No. Wrong. She doesn't stare. She isn't searching

The sea flows into her eyes
washing away the tears.

No. No tears now. Just a softness.
So OK, let's try this again.

The selkie sits and silently
swallows the sea into the
softness of her eyes,
content in her solitude.

No again. Sorry about that. Not silently.
There is an almost imperceptible hum,
a wordless song, but more shapeless
than a song. A little ribbon of sound.
Shall we take it from the top?

The selkie -

We are still talking about a selkie, right?

Yes, still the selkie. Try again.

The selkie, sitting, sends her strands of sounds out to the sky,
swallowing the sea into the softness of her eyes,
alone and yet content in -

I'm stuck. I was trying to put in something about "peaceful solitude" but it's not scanning.

That's ok. I was going to stop you anyway.
Not alone.
No solitude.
She doesn't feel alone.
Yes, I know, strictly speaking she's alone,
the red-haired Irish sea captain
gone on a voyage
lo these many years
no guarantee if and when he'll return
etc. etc.
Doesn't matter.
She doesn't feel alone.
There's this little warm glow...
Yes.
I know.
It doesn't make sense.
But there it is.
Try again.
One last time.

The selkie sits and smiles.

Yes.
Exactly.
Good girl.

Smut for a Saturday night

She stands before you, bold but shy. Almost defiantly naked, yet with downcast eyes. She feels your gaze, it almost burns her flesh as it passes over her, noting every freckle, pausing on her startling nipples, circling them, almost tasting them, before continuing down her belly to the little red curls and beyond.

Beyond. Your eyes become a tongue and lap at the hood of her clit, wanting to push it away from the trigger to her moans and pleas.

You insert your leg between hers and nudge them apart. You wish she were up on a platform, you don't want to kneel before her, you want her kneeling before you, but her cunt calls. You want to continue the inspection. You consider your options, and choose to wait. You will never kneel before her.

You circle her slowly, sensing her sink into subspace as she feels you turning her into an object for your consideration. She could be a statue at the museum, in a private gallery. Very private and very perverted. You note her ass, and wonder how many slaps of the belt, how many strokes of the cane, you could fit across each cheek, placed in obsessively parallel lines on each side of the door to her desecration. You've been hard since you spotted her, but the sight of her little puckered portal causes your cock to jerk up a size. You start contemplating how you will take her, how you will inaugurate her anus as a depository for your precious bodily fluids.

Your cock screams.

You move up behind her, feeling the power that comes of handling her naked when you are fully clothed. You pull her to you so that your erection forces itself into her consciousness, even through the condom of your jeans. You reach one hand up to her nipple and twist.

She screams.

Your cock grows another size.

You push her onto the edge of the bed, face down. You push her legs apart. You pull down your jeans.

Your cock rejoices at being free and, taking a deep breath, grows yet one more size.

Her training is about to begin.

[Now that I am happy and centered again, I can return to writing smut. Enjoy.]

Revised rules of engagement

There is something between us.
Obviously, he said.
Don't cut yourself off, he said.
You need someone, he said.
You need to be with someone, he said.
I'm in the same place as 3 months ago
and will probably still be there
3 months from now.
I can't promise you anything, he said.
Yes, I know, I said.
Don't cut yourself off, he said.
Promise me, he said.
Yes, sir, I said.
But if I'm waiting outside your door
like a stubborn kitten
fed the odd bowl of milk
which she laps up gratefully
though it gives her diarrhea,
if I'm still there on your door mat
because there is nowhere better to be,
is that ok?
You won't try to chase me away?
No, he said. I won't chase you away.

Thank you, I said.
I feel better now.

And we hung up.

And I whispered three words into the silence.

Report: the photographer

Writing is good for me. It helps me digest my life and see what turns up in the toilet bowl at the end.

Yuck. That was a nasty metaphor.

To be a submissive placing a want ad is almost a contradiction in terms. The choice of who shall live and who shall die. Playing the role of human resources director for the department of amorous activities. Delivering pink slips while still suffering from fits of grief and self-doubt over one's own rejection.

As a submissive, it is very hard to say "No."

So.
The photographer.
It started out amusingly enough.
Erotic rhymed couplets that recalled old bawdy ballads.
The second one hinted of a dom,
a perception later confirmed when he answered this ad:

Another sort of relationship

Could a Dom be a boyfriend?
Could we join my friends for dinner
without their fretting for my safety?
Could I introduce him to my neighbors
without their listening for my screams?
Could he come to spend the night
without scaring my poor cats?
Could he pass for rich vanilla
an intensely rich vanilla
but later
but always
at home
he would give me needed structure
he would teach me how to please him
he would smile and call me "good girl"
he would value my submission
he would discipline with spanking
he would strike a healthy balance
between dominance and loving
he would make me his forever.

This is probably a pipe dream
I don't know if *I* could do it.

But could you?

Rather mushy and very self-indulgent. He replied briefly and sternly, with some suspicion that it was from me.

He sent a photo. Not all that good-looking a man, but it added to my suspicions that I had a dom on my hands - or should I say that I potentially had a dom's hand on my ass. So we kept writing, while all along I wrote to a few others as well. The connection felt good, and we were both feeling rather impatient.

So we decided the hell with it, we didn't want to wait for Saturday night.

He was here as promised at 8 PM. But he didn't look quite the same.

I had already figured out, even just from the head shot, that he was short. Except that after all these years of wanting guys only a few inches taller than me, now that I'm in touch with my submissiveness I crave taller and larger men. Men who by their mere presence will have me feeling small, overpowered, both cared for and vulnerable. So although I had somehow figured out that he was short, I was disappointed nevertheless.

Plus, there was an atmosphere to the photo that was missing in real life. That sense of no nonsense allowed, that hint of something just beneath a threat.

Still, there was something.
Something that pulled out my submission.
I wasn't faking that.
I can't.
So I submitted.
It wasn't deep, heavy submission like with the fiend.
but it was submission nevertheless.
And that felt good.

He drank me in.
The sight of me.
The scent of me.
Not a single touch
taken for granted.
These men
they look at me
they tell me I'm beautiful.
I don't protest as much any more.
Maybe I really am like a wine
that is boring when young
but matures into richness.
I can't deny enjoying the admiration.

So I submitted.
"Sir" slid from my tongue.
My ass, my throat, my wrists
the smacks, the hands,
the police-issue handcuffs.
Nothing extreme, not a
moment of fear, but a bit
more than play. Not just play.

Still, it definitely meant more to him than to me. We were both needy, I don't deny that. It felt good to be with a man, it felt good to be touched, he did that well... but the personality connection didn't feel quite right after all. He doesn't feel like someone I would introduce to my friends. And his loss far outweighs mine.

His beloved wife of 27 years died in his arms 6 weeks ago. Cancer. And I'm the gift she sent him to fill his needs.

That's too heavy a burden for me to bear. Especially when to me he is an applicant on an audition. Not even temp-to-hire because there is no chance he'll get the permanent job.

I suspect, which should surprise no one, that I am not really ready to hire anyone at all.

On top of it all, I still didn't get fucked.

OK, it wasn't that big a surprise.
It's only been 6 weeks.
His mind was ready
but his cock was not.
Still, this is getting boring.

[bursts into tears]

No, I'm not crying over not getting fucked. I was getting ready to write "I would trade getting fucked for..." and was searching for the right words when there they were again. Those damn tears.

I'm just making it hard on him. Not the photographer. You know who I mean. He reads here and I'm crying, I write him and say I'm crying, I try not to write him, I vow not to write him, and then I can't help myself. There's this vacuum.

I'm asking too much of him. Just like the photographer is asking too much of me. He would be with me every night if he could. He would have spent the night. He would have come back tonight. I said OK to tomorrow night because we already had the date set, and he's out buying a paddle. He wonders if the local mall stocks cat-o-nine tails. I doubt it. It's Virginia, after all.... he is so empty, he would imprint on anyone who would have him. Last night, he asked in a small catechism "and who owns you?" And I pushed away my submission and my fear of hurting someone's feelings, and I looked him straight in his eyes and said "you know I can't say that."

He wants something I can't give. And I want something that the philosopher can't give. For whatever reason, for whatever amalgam of reasons, he can't. And you can't force someone to feel something, to want something, to offer something, that just isn't there.

I haven't heard from him since Christmas Eve. It surprised me, when I looked back at the record of our correspondence. Somehow it felt longer than that. I know he reads here. But he hasn't written. He could be sick. He could be depressed. He could be busy. He could be sick of dealing with me. I can't blame him. If I tell a guy it can't be what he wants, I expect him to go away quietly and leave me alone.

I'm trying. I'm hoping magic will happen again. I'm hoping someone will turn up who can excite me, who can love me, who can spank me, who can be here in 20 minutes, and who can help me to let go.

Who can help me to forget.

I need to learn to give up on lost causes.

I need an agent.
An agent to set up my dates.
An agent to send out the rejection letters.

Any volunteers?

New year, new beginning

We couldn't wait.

He's coming to claim me tonight.