Gift exchange

It was a special occasion.
I wrote him a poem.
He allowed me to take photos.
Obviously, I can't share the photos.
But you can see the following,
which pleased my Master
and kept the beast at bay.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ 

And what if you had not been born?
Or I had never heard your name,
or seen your face's dear terrain,
or felt your body hard and warm,
so soft and fierce and tender cruel?
No swift slots win or flash of fame
could salve the mystery and pain
of losses reeled off fortune's spool.

But luck or fate gave me a shove
To put this prey in hunter's way
And what began as sassy play
Made me a slave to you and love.

Thus here, a gift unwrapped upon your knee
I'm wholly yours, as I was born to be.

Eyelashes

Of all things.
I never would have suspected.
My eyelashes.
He has a thing for my eyelashes.

You look at them.
Not the sort of eyelashes people normally admire.
They're short.
Sparse.
Hidden by the folds of my sagging, aging eyes.
Light, yes, but not a magical pale.

And yet.

As I looked up into his face
in the middle of one of my prize-winning blowjobs.
As he looked down
into the face of his mistress,
he saw my eyelashes
the way no one else ever has.
The way he has seen
everything about me
the way no one else ever has.

And one by one,
part by part,
he teaches me to see,
he teaches me to know,
he teaches me to
accept
that I am beautful.

The eyelashes are a bit of a stretch.

I'm working on it, though.

Inner child, inner slave

He calls them out.
He lures.
He beckons.
He demands their presence.

Not parts I play.
But parts of me.
Parts he has nourished.
Soothed.
Made welcome.
Until they felt safe.
Felt wanted.
Approved of.

And then he knows the magic words, the special touch, that will make this one or that one rise to the surface, open her eyes, and speak.

He hears.

He knows.

He lays his body
down on mine,
sees what is his,
and takes
what he needs.

Another gift

Sometimes he does it with words.
Words that are measured,
rationed,
saying as much with those that are deleted
as with those he so deliberately delivers.

Sometimes he gives me a song.
A song often wrapped in warnings.
Don't read too much into this, my pet.

Aw c'mon, man.
Gimme a break.

Anyway.

Today.

He gave me another today.
On his way out.

For you do something to me
That nobody else can do.

We were slaves...

It's here again.
Passover.

A celebration of liberation.
A holiday that tells a story.
We were slaves and now we are free.

We sit around a table with family and friends and symbolic foods, reading new versions of the traditional text, performing small rituals in ways that have become rituals of our own.

Sometimes we charge right through it.
Sometimes we stop.
And think.
And discuss.

Sometimes the words swirl around us as we search for ways to make them meaningful in our own lives.

What if being a slave is something we embrace?
What if it is something we struggle to embrace?
What if we struggle to free ourselves from the fear of freedom?

"Freedom is a chain", my high school teacher said to illustrate the concept of the oxymoron. Yes, we said, nodding sagely, understanding only some of the implications of the responsibilities that come with freedom. Because of course there is the flip side.

If
freedom = a chain
then
a chain = freedom.

At least in our world.
Our alternative, chosen world.
A world where the chain is worn willingly,
is accepted with pride,
is borne with humility
and with the understanding that it, too,
brings with it responsibility.

A world in which I feel an unexpected safety in belonging to a sadist. A world in which his torturous desire to hurt me speaks of his feelings for me, feelings that doom him to wrestling with himself to protect that which he treasures.

I was lucky enough to get to know Laura Antoniou and her wife during the short period of time they were in this area and belonged to my synagogue. A while back they wrote a haggaddah for a leather seder, which includes some commentary connecting power relationships as lived and explored in the BDSM community with the themes and stories we address at this time. You can find a pdf of the book here.

As for me, tomorrow night, as I sit at the table of dear friends who are both leather men and long time AIDS survivors, every time I read the word "slave" my mind will ricochet back and forth between the story of the Exodus from Egypt and my own story of finding freedom in submission to the will of another.

And then I'll remember this.
In the story of the Exodus,
the Jews flee their slavery in Egypt,
and then,
of their own free will,
enter in a new covenant of obedience,
accepting the Ten Commandments at the foot of Mount Sinai.


Yes, they say to God.
Yes.
We accept.
We are your people,
and we will obey.

Yes, I say to he who is the anchor of my life.
Yes.
I accept.
I belong to you.
The struggle will never end.
But I belong to you.
And I will try,
again and again,
to obey.

Living with the beast

I'm thinking... maybe I should approach his sadism as if he had a chronic illness. After all, for better or worse, I have experience with such things. Ex-hubby #2 had Crohn's disease. It was always there. Always a concern. I was always noting how long he was spending in the bathroom. Wondering how long until he was doubled over in pain. How long till I'd have to insist on a trip to the emergency room.

But only sometimes did it get completely out of control.
At which point things became miserable.
For us both.
Although in that case, it was his body that suffered.
Whereas now...

No, no, no!
He has never sent me to the hospital.
Or anywhere near it.
Wipe that thought right out of your heads.
He works very hard to protect me.
He works a lot harder at controlling his sadism
(at least where I'm concerned)
than ex-hubby #2 ever did with respect to his Crohn's.

But sometimes, with both of them, there are flare-ups.
They're inevitable.
Who knows all the reasons?
Although I have my own suspicions.

And then there's this.

It turned out that all of ex-hubby's professions of love were lies. Or maybe more accurately misunderstandings on his part. He didn't really know what love is.

Whereas my Master
my Owner
my Daddy
so carefully controls his avowals of affection
that I know -
I know -
that whatever he does allow himself to say,
whatever emotions he does allow himself to admit to,
he most definitely means.

And then
my only response
my only possible response
is silence
as I take the words
and turn them over in my hands
wondering at their shy glow.

Mistress

Yes.
Mistress.
He said it.
He called me that.
His mistress.
He said he had only just realized it!
Me, I've known it for a while.

It felt good to hear him say it.
And he felt VERY good when I said it.
When  I called myself his mistress.

Damn, it turned him on.
Big time.
And made me very happy.

Something about the word. The concept. Maybe because it's recognized in the regular world. Even though nobody will hear it. But I'll hear it. Inside. And he'll say it to me.

It's not the same.
It's not the same as being his sub.
His pet.
His slave.
It's.. it's a more defined place in his life.
And it's definitely not being one of many.

Whatever he may say sometimes, I know I'm not just one of many.
I have known.
And now I know it more.

There were other things on this night we had.
A night and a hotel room.
Intimate things.
Things too intimate to share.
Private things.
Meaningful, sharing, intimate things.

And scary things.
It's spring.
The beast is on the prowl.
He scared us both.

But we'll be ok. Time and again we fight past the effects of these moments. Because what we have - who we are together - it's worth the effort. We are worth the effort.

And I'm his mistress.