Transitions

It's a shock to the system.
A tearful withdrawal.
More than the fading away of endorphins.
He was gentler than he has been.
A hint of apology.
But he's right.
He's always right.
We can't stay there.
We can't stay in that state.
That dangerous place.
That den of seduction.

The cradle of friendship confuses our minds.
We both got drunk on hours and intimacy.
So the e-mail came like a slap in the face.
A reminder of my purpose,
my duty,
my mission.

It's just to make him cum.

As if that were all.
Just that and nothing more.

I reel,
I fume,
I cry and I hate him.

He's lying, of course.
To me and himself.
It's armour, you know,
and once I recover,
recover and apologize
for something not my fault,
I know that he's right.

Right to wear the armour
after standing there so naked,
his balls resting on the chopping block
with a knife beside my hand.

The risks that we took were more than the obvious.
The danger was great -
and we'll do it again.
Not very often
but sometime
again.

And I think of his words
and remember his eyes
and the hours we shared
and I know that he needs me

and my eyes are as soft and as moist as my pussy
as I turn away my head and cry.

If you beckon, I will come.

You can blog about this, he said.
I don't want to blog about this, I think.

What would it mean to list what we did?
Where we met.
What I ate.
What he drank.
What we watched.
How many times we each went to pee.

The hours we spent
talking and laughing
challenging Google
on Iris DeMent.

What would it mean
if you weren't there?

What would it mean
to describe his delight
as we sat there for hours
in a neighborhood bar,
feasting on chicken wings,
chatting with bar maids,
my bright blue eyes sparkling
from won games of chance?

What would it mean
if you heard what his eyes said,
or smelled the desire,
or touched the shared music,
as we made out like teenagers
wrestling the front seat,
parked by the dumpsters
yielding to need?

You can blog about this, he said.
But you must tell me every word.

So I'll show him every word.

But not every word was written.
Not everything gets spoken
when mere presence says it all.

We sang with eyes and kisses
which don't lie the way that words can.
We spoke with smiles and kisses
and then parted in the dusk.

Lifelong Learning - Still on the Introduction: Ultimate Guide to Kink (2)

This feels like Torah study. You start reading an already small section of text, and before long a paragraph, a phrase, a word, a concept, sinks its hook into your brain and that's as far as you get. You both tunnel in and travel outward. Exploring. Making connections. Letting your mind go and then bringing it back home.

I opened The Ultimate Guide to Kink, thinking I had a half hour to finish the Introduction and head into Chapter One. I was armed with a pad of little yellow sticky flags. Tonight's color is yellow. For no real reason. It's the one that came to hand.

I made it all the way to the second page of the Introduction.
Page xii.
The bottom.
Where author/editor Tristan Taormino brings in the phrase
lifelong learners.

She says that marketers apply it to NPR listeners. Well, that certainly includes me. She says:

Lifelong learners are people who are self-motivated to continually seek out new knowledge and skills, through informal and formal education, to constantly develop and improve themselves.

Tristan applies this to people into kink. She goes on to this wonderful bit:

What the anti-kink fanatics don't understand about us is that we're geeks. Sex nerds. SM intellectuals. We pay money to spend a weekend going to classes.

Now those who've read me for a while know that neither I nor my Master go to kink classes. When I first dove headfirst into BDSM, it was through words. E-mails. Phone calls, eventually, as things progressed in my relationship with the philosopher. And then books. Even with the Internet, people like me always end up with books. The philosopher and I were headed to our first meeting in the flesh. We were both novices and there was so much to learn. So yes. Books. Independent study with Jay Wiseman's SM 101 and Screw the Roses, Send Me the Thorns (Philip Miller and Molly Devon) as texts. We both had fantasies around bondage, so the philosopher sent away for hemp ropes and studied technique through on-line videos.

It's a very good idea to know what you're doing when you get into BDSM.

But "regular" sex?
We think - oh yeah.
I can do that!
One cock.
One cunt.
Or two cocks.

Or two pussies and fingers and mouths trying to figure out what the hell they're doing and basing it all on what they've each done in bed with the guy they're both involved with... I guess I've never told that whole story here, have I?

Nope.
Not now.
No digressions.
Back to the topic at hand.

I don't know how the sadist first learned. I do know that the need came to him young - and he's not a young man. So it's not like now. There was no Internet. But knowing him as I do, I'm sure he was very deliberative. Focused. Creative. Definitely independent study. I doubt he went to classes. But he did work on it. And continues to. Lifelong learning.

You have to keep studying.
Exploring.

Not just because there's always more to learn on an absolute scale. But because there is nothing absolute about anything involving human beings. There is nothing that can be completely defined about relationships. As soon as a different person is involved, there's a new variable in the equation.

You can NOT know for sure what the outcome will be.
And so,
it's back to the lab.

Lifelong learning.

With pleasure in the process as well as in the result.

Cultivating consciousness.

As I quoted Tristan in my first post on The Ultimate Guide to Kink, which she said is

For the people who . . . cultivate consciousness in sex and relationships.

You can not ever stop this.
You must not ever stop this.
In anything.
With anyone.

Cultivating consciousness. 

This is what BDSM has to offer.

This,
this lifelong learning,
however we achieve it,
this constant consciousness,
is the key to the door
to magic
and joy
and self-knowledge
and knowledge of each other.

Welcome.

"You're smiling," I said.

"You look happy."

"You make me happy," he said.

The Ultimate Guide to Kink (1)

What's even better than being offered a book to review?
Being offered a book you've already decided to buy.

I really wanted a copy of The Ultimate Guide to Kink: BDSM, Role Play and the Erotic Edge, edited by Tristan Taormino. My order was placed on Amazon, but hadn't shipped yet as there was a delay on some of the other items. (Yes. I feel guilty about ordering on Amazon. I'd really rather buy directly from the author or publisher, or from that rare creature, the local independent bookstore. But I'm so disgustingly broke from my happily-ended second extended bout of unemployment that any money savings counter that other guilt from buying anything at all. Ah, yes. Hypocrisy.)

I'd heard about the book from Laura Antoniou, whom I met with her wife in a non-BDSM setting. She is smart and funny and incisive, and has a chapter in the book, which seemed a good enough reason to add to my hopeless accumulation of debt.

That's one of the big attractions of The Ultimate Guide to Kink. No, not my debt. The chapters. Each chapter has a different author, and the sections are meditations on the topic at hand (or on the hand smacking your butt) as well as directions, hints, suggestions, and warnings. For a further peek inside the experience, personal observations from additional people are scattered throughout the pages.

Up to now, I've only skimmed, but already there are little colored flags marking notable quotes and sections I want to contemplate further. For example, consider this, from Madison Young's chapter "Submissive: A Personal Manifesto": an internal stillness that exists only in absolute surrender. I've known that stillness, the perfection of it, the purity that is almost holy in nature. This is far more than saying: "Hey folks, this is hot, you should try it to spice up your sex life!" Not to say the latter isn't a valid approach. But there's more than that. There can be more than that. So much of what BDSM has to offer is mental. Emotional. I would never claim it's for everyone. But Tristan and her team of authors are doing a service by letting readers know what they might find if they let themselves explore.

Now remember.
All I've done is skimmed.
This little essay, the first in a series, can't stand as a proper review.
But I'm looking forward to reading further.
With focus.
Particularly because of this little phrase in Tristan's introduction.
On the very first page.

She's talking about the people for whom the book is meant. And tucked in among talk of erotic horizons and power and pain and the like is this:

For the people who . . . cultivate consciousness in sex and relationships.

Exactly.
I think that is what gives BDSM its power to be extraordinary.
The consciousness.
Of each other.
Of yourself.
Of who you are and how you relate and what you can discover.

I think it's that need for a special consciousness that leads to the deep, exquisite, piercing intimacy that can come from the pure vulnerability of an honest BDSM relationship.

Whew.
See what just skimming inspired?

Two final notes for now.

The first is that I know that my own experiences have given me what some might see as a rarefied perspective on BDSM. I don't go out in the community. I don't play in public. In fact, I've been known to say more than once "I don't play." I can be horribly serious about who I am and what we do and all that stuff. I'm sure it can be pretty annoying at times. But at least I'm fierce about insisting there is no One Right Way. No One True Religion of BDSM. So I'm vowing to remember that as I read and discuss The Ultimate Guide to Kink. (Do you think I should refer to it as TUG Kink?) I promise I will try not to act superior to people who are into any of the variations on BDSM just for the hot sex. There is nothing wrong with hot sex. It was S-- who taught me about sex as a recreational activity. S--, who is a skilled, gentle, and considerate lover. He's not at all into inflicting pain. (Not of the physical kind, anyway, and he has apologized a number of times for how he hurt my emotions in the past. Bruised feelings don't heal as fast as the welts from a cane. Oops. Sorry for the detour.)

The second is that there was a little slip-up. About a week after my copy of TUG Kink arrived, just in time for me to take it with on my trip north to see my parents, a second copy arrived. Now I could have offered to my faithful readers in some sort of contest, in thanks to those of you who have stuck around during these relatively silent months. But instead, I decided to maximize the benefit.

I offered the extra copy to my Master.

So, as time permits, he will be reading it as well and offering comments, which I hope he'll allow me to share. He'll take a special look at passages I direct him to. (Me! Directing my Daddy! What a concept!) I'm particularly looking forward to what he has to say about the chapter on sadism.

And you?
Consider buying the book.

The Ultimate Guide to Kink: BDSM, Role Play and the Erotic Edge

Yeah.
That book.
And join the discussion here.
Even if you haven't read the book.
You can still weigh in on the issues.

Remember that my comments so far are based only on samples. But if I had seen those samples as I browsed in a book store (remember book stores?), I would have snatched up a copy and slapped my worn-out Visa card on the counter. Especially after stumbling on a passage such as this one, which brings us back to Laura Antoniou and my belief that there is no One True Religion of BDSM. It comes from her chapter on "How to Train Your Sex Slave":

Training, like the rest of our kinky relationship styles, is above all personal. Never try to use someone else's training program! What do they know about your preferences, your style, your relationship, your lovers? Nada, zilch, zip. using their training would be like using their underwear; it might look like it fits, but wouldn't you rather have your own?

So consider getting your own.
Copy of the book, I meant.
Not underwear.
Though underwear's ok, too.
If you're allowed to wear it.
And then - let's talk.

Tended, tenderly, with caresses and pain

I am writing from somewhere very high up.
Open.
Expanded.
Floating.

I must be coming down a little, because as I sit here naked in bed, awake from a very long post-orgasmic nap, I can feel the pain building in my spanked and belt-beaten butt.

He knew what I needed.
What I needed for myself.
And what I needed for him,
to put me in that place he wanted me.
That place in which he can enjoy me.

And beyond.
He coaxed out his little girl.
Which he needed and I needed.
And then he sent me further.
Deeper and higher.
Deeper and higher into that awe-inspiring slave place.

I'm supposed to report to him after.
After he is gone.
Report to him on the experience from my perspective.
What I experienced and how I felt.

But I was horribly frustrated. I couldn't find the words. That place, the journey, what I felt, what I knew, what I touched on, the understanding that was so profound yet wouldn't solidify into description as if it were some perfect psychedelic trip while held safe in the arms of the man who was both guide and the drug itself. Except I wasn't in his arms.

Well, sometimes I was in his arms.
As he kissed me.
He has a graduate degree in kissing after years of independent study and lab experiments.

But the rest of the time I was sucking his cock.
Or sitting in his lap.
Or lying on my belly as my bottom reddened beneath his belt.
Or pinned to the futon by his body as his cock sought my tight little butt hole.

Later, he whipped me with his belt as I was sucking his cock. By then I was already pretty high. I could tell he was beating me harder than before, but as always happens when I'm that high, it didn't hurt as much. I could feel the impact, and it hurt a little, but I wasn't suffering from it.

I wished he had beaten me longer then.
But it's not for me to ask.
Everything is for him.
Even when it's what he thinks I need, it's to make me into what will please him.

Except you know what?
I'm sorry to contradict my Master, but that's not wholly true.
He cares for me.
A lot.
What was that term he allowed himself to use during our last night together?
He's "extremely fond" of me.
And from the way he said it, you could tell how much those words meant.

Plus when I was away.
He gave me a gift.
Special dispensation.
The prime directive was set aside.
The one about giving him what he wants, and not what he doesn't want.

You can write anything, he said.
Anything I wanted.
Anything I needed to say.
He took down the wall.
He was my lover.
He was my friend.
He was my strength.

Which, in fact, he always is.
But it's not safe to be that way without the structure.
The carapace.
For so many reasons.

But those parts of us are as much of what we are to and with each other as the rest of them. It's just that they need to be kept constrained. Like the beast in a way. Ironic, no? But I completely agree. For so many reasons, it would never work.

But sometimes he takes down the wall.
He takes care of me.
So he allowed me to say whatever I needed.
And granted me an unheard of 4 orgasms to be spread over the 5 days.
Because he knew what I needed.
Because he wanted to take care of me.
Because he wanted to ease my pain.

While today, he knew I needed the pain.

And then.
After he came.
After I gave him the release he needed,
as I sat on the floor before him,
my head in his lap,
he stroked my head,
he stroked my hair,
gently and tenderly
for the longest time.

And I felt very dear.
And very treasured.
And very safe.

Girls talk - about sex! (What else?)

Lunch with the girls today.
Meaning my friends from work.
Friends!
I've almost never had friends at work.
Real friends.
Friends I can go out to lunch with.
Open up to.
Be myself with.

Well, almost myself...
I've told them in normal terms about my relationship.
But not about the BDSM part of it.

But I did mention today that I review vibrators.

(And I really do have to get back to reviewing. If for no other reason than I owe a review for the last toy I got. A toy I liked. But between work and family stuff and my writer's block... well, it just hasn't happened. Which is stupid. Because all I have to do is transcribe my comments to my Master as I tested it. Soon...)

Anyway.
I have these friends.
Young women.
One is 22, one is 30, and the third... maybe mid-twenties?

Three of us started at the same time, and then we welcomed in the fourth when she arrived a few months later. We had wondered if she'd fit in, because the three of us tended to let it hang out. Who knows why?

The newest one has a boyfriend. I've got my Master. The 30-year old is married but getting almost no sex since her pregnancy maybe 4 years ago. The 22-year old really wants to get laid. She's striking and sharp, very smart and very wry. Most people bore her, she says. A problem.

But not as bad as the married one's problem.
She's never had an orgasm.
Or doesn't think she has.
In chorus, the 22-year old and I sang out "You'd know it if you had one."

So we talked to her a little about vibrators.
I think we should have a little party and show her ours.
Tell her about the options.
Too bad there isn't a good store in the area where we could take her.
A real store, not on line.
One of those stores started by women.
Someplace like Good Vibrations or Babeland.

I did now find via Google something in DC, though I'm not sure of the atmosphere. If only we could get her to go exploring with us one day! Of course, she has a family to get home to. And I'm booked on Saturdays.

Anyway, it feels good having friends to talk with so openly. Relatively openly. At least to be open about being so sexual. It's a relief.

But tell them I'm a slave?
That my Daddy whips me with his belt?

Not a chance.

Speaking of the beast, I had to go back up north last weekend to see my mom again, who was back in the hospital with pneumonia. Which is not uncommon with a stroke. The same hospital in which Maurice Sendak died. (I was very sad about that - Maurice Sendak dying. I loved Where the Wild Things Are, which I didn't read until I was in college. To be able to be angry, to run away, to be among creatures who accept you and respect you. And then to be able to return home. To be welcomed home and loved. Not judged. It's hard, these days. With my mother so ill. Knowing that I disappointed her, and that she could not accept me for who and what I was. I struggle with a lot of feelings these days.)

Anyway, I hated being away from my Daddy, and hated not being there for him. But it meant he could visit his masochist slave, where the beast is let loose and, hopefully, some of the stress of wanting to torture me is relieved. It turns out that he took Saturday regular visits from his slave in order to give me that day, once I went back to work. I had just started wondering if that was the case when he told me. I felt bad. I knew how awful I'd feel if my visits were cut back so he could be with someone else instead. So I was glad that his slave would benefit from my absence, and hoped that my Daddy's hunger would be eased. Which it was. At least to some extent. We'll see. This Saturday we'll see.

Unless my mother dies.
I don't really think she's into going on.
I don't know.
Some of her being uncooperative is from the increasing dementia.
Dementia mainly from the stroke now.
But some... I'm not sure.
Sometimes I think she doesn't think it's worth it like this.

When your parents are in their 90s, you're always expecting The Call. But now, it's even more. Which will be hard. But a blessing, too, perhaps. Very hard on my dad, but also a relief. He's exhausted. And then... it will be a pity. Our relationship has been getting a lot better lately, from my having visits with him alone. Ah well.

I guess that, after all, there were other things to talk about.
Other than sex.
At least here.

Where I can ramble on.

Thanks for just sitting and listening.
Because that's another thing friends do.
Sit.
And listen.
Without judgment.

And now I think I'll go cuddle the cats.
Because they don't judge me either.