Rough

It’s been a rough couple of days, let me tell you.

Master is (was) in a bad mood. I’m in (was in) a bad mood.

The day I posted that last entry, Master had to go out of town for work. And at first it was okay because we got a chance to have a good long talk while he was driving.

Communication is a funny thing. It doesn’t seem to matter how good we are at it or how much we do it, a lack of communication seems to creep on us and bite us both in the ass now and then.

So we talked (are still talking). The bottom line is he was still waiting for me to “get better”. I was feeling a lot better and hadn’t communicated that to him.

Except sometimes I don’t feel all that better so probably, more than likely, subconsciously I was a little afraid to tell him anyway. That seems to be the norm with hysterectomy recovery. Good days, bad days, you get tired out quickly, yadda yadda yadda.

He’s an all or nothing kind of guy. And how exactly do I complain about too much leniency while at the same time know that occasionally I’m going to need some leniency still?

And yet… the all-the-time leniency is quietly making me fucking crazy. In that same writing I linked in the post there was this line “Sure she may feel relieved and glad for it in the short term, but over time it erodes her sense of place.” That’s how I feel. Eroded.

As Master and I were talking, just to illustrate how far I’d drifted, I had said that I’d been considering applying for a job and I hadn’t planned to discuss it with him first, but to tell him after. I also said that it didn’t worry me a bit to blow off an order he’d given me. For instance, if he tells me to go to the gym tomorrow and if tomorrow I don’t feel like it, then tomorrow I just don’t go.

Everything in my life was beginning to feel optional. That’s a crappy place for someone like me to be.

He was surprised. Shocked, really. He didn’t know I’d gone so far away in my head. He’s not a mind reader and while I may think my defiance is obvious and telling and noticeable, the fact is I’m a snarky bitch at heart, he knows this, I’m always responding with a snappy comeback and how is he to know that the meaning behind my snark has changed if I don’t tell him?

On the surface nothing felt too different to him. I was still obeying- mostly. Except when I was physically unable to (or so he thought). I was still asking permission for things (mostly, except when I didn’t and he didn’t know).

2 months ago when I was still seriously unable to do things if he came home from work and the house was not up to standards, and if he asked me why the house wasn’t spotless and if I said because I didn’t feel like it, that was a legitimate need for leniency. He knew it. I knew it.

2 weeks ago, same scenario, only my “I didn’t feel like it” has changed meaning *for me*. It hadn’t for him. For him it was still “she didn’t feel like it because she’s still physically struggling” but for me it had become “I didn’t feel like it and what are you going to do about it?”

What he did was nothing. Because.. d’uh… he’s on one planet, I’m on another.

And you know.. spare me the lectures on doing it just because I should. For one thing, I can do that. I have done that. But at some point doing it just for me ceases doing it for him. That’s just going to spiral me back into the question of what makes an M/s relationship different from a vanilla relationship. Of course I was cleaning the house because I’m just not a dirty person. I do the dishes and I clean up the pet hair and I cook meals and keep up with the laundry. Etc., etc.

I was cleaning it to MY standards, not to his. And that’s just… everything. Don’t you think? If you’re in this style of relationship it *matters* if he doesn’t notice. Or seem to care. Because if he doesn’t, I don’t.

Or ….something. Whatever. I’m not the slave whisperer. I don’t have this all figured out.

Anyway, as I was saying, he was still waiting for me to recover so he could crack the fucking whip. I was recovered (mostly) and waiting for him to notice. I thought it was obvious. He didn’t.

So. We have this nice long talk as he’s driving. A lot of things get aired out. There’s no fighting or finger pointing, we’re being lovely mature adults having a conversation.

The next day, he turns back into the meanie he used to be. The “stfu, no excuses or else” guy that I used to know.

Naturally, I dig in my heels. LOL. Because he’s being mean!

I am nothing if not consistent, right? Or is that inconsistent. Ha.

Here’s how I see it (as if it matters how I see it but it’s my blog so there):

It’s just like with the njoy- which, coincidentally, was the very first thing he told me to do but was absolutely NOT at the top of my list. Or on the list at all. But whatever. He heard “healed”, he went straight to the ass. Typical. Hmmph.

Where was I?

So he tells me I have to put it in. Okay fine. It’s been 8 months since my ass has been touched. 8 MONTHS. 8 months since a surgeon was back in there with a scalpel and some stitches. Point is, there is no way-NO WAY- I’m going to go from 8 months of butt-surgery-recovery to 24/7 trailer hitch lodged in there *just because he said so*.

Ain’t gonna happen.

It took me FOREVER to get it in. And it wasn’t pleasant. It hurt a fair amount. I kept telling him the surgeon sewed me up too tight but he wasn’t buying that. Meh. And then, once it was in, I could only wear it for about 2 hours.

He was fine with that. He knows I’m going to have to adjust to long term wear. I had the same adjustment when I first got it.

I kind of feel the same about the rest of it, too.

It’s been 8 months for a lot of things. There’s going to be an adjustment period.

Plus, it just kind of irks me that anytime I complain about a lack of control, the first place he goes is pain.

Pain =/= control. Not to me.

So yes, I’ll shove the fucking thing up my ass and I’ll put on the fucking tack bra… and I’m STILL not going to feel controlled.

So I’m irritated at the predictable path he’s taking. I’m digging in my heels. I’m balking because I don’t feel like he’s getting me.

He says it’s gotta start somewhere and he gets to pick where so shut the fuck up and do what you’re told.

So we’re already irritated with each other a little bit.

And then.. THEN.. for a little whipped topping on the sundae of suck, this bit of joy happens. He’s particularly obsessed with my cell phone and with answering it promptly when he calls or texts. Yesterday, for reasons I cannot guess at, I missed several texts in a row.

I don’t have a god damn explanation. My phone was right next to me where it always is. The only time I was away from it was a quick trip to the potty. I didn’t hear it. It wasn’t turned off or on vibrate or on silent. I had done nothing wrong. At least not on purpose.

He finally calls.. I answer.. and he’s LIVID.

L I V I D.

I get defensive.

Because… here’s the thing that gets me every single time this happens… what he’s accusing me of is purposely ignoring him. Like, I see my phone, I see it’s from him, I shrug, put it down and go on about my day. That’s the scenario in his head.

Which means that I would be purposely setting myself up for the Wrath of the Wronged Dominant because that’s what I get every single time. Because that’s a pleasant experience, right?

And THAT, my friends, pisses me off to no fucking end. Nobody, not even glutton-for-drama me, likes the Wrath of the Wronged Dom. It sucks.

So yes, somehow I missed some texts. I can’t say how because it was literally 3 inches from my hand and I did hear it when he called because I fucking answered it, didn’t I?

Blame the phone, blame the cell towers, blame the universe if it makes you happy… but don’t blame me when I haven’t deliberately done something wrong. Don’t yell at me, accuse me, lecture me, and for fucks sake don’t punish me when I haven’t done anything to deserve it. Do NOT suspect my motives. Give me the benefit of the doubt because I’ve fucking earned that much.

Seriously pisses me the fuck OFF.

You see what I mean? The ‘stfu, no-excuses, mean guy’.

I’m not sure I missed THAT guy actually.

….

….

Maybe I did though, because after-the-fact, I got a little fuzzy over the unfairness of it all.

….

Yeah… yeah I missed “that” guy. Shit.

Anyway. We’re talking. I guess that’s all.

Haters gonna hate

I hate everybody today. Well, not YOU. I could never hate you.

But I hate everyone else.

I am just so crabby and cynical lately. I’m starting to hate myself even. Ugh.

I was surprised at the comments on the survey. Well, I take that back. I wasn’t really because they were exactly what I expected them to be. But somewhere in the back of my head I’m STILL defining M/s by kink. And I keep thinking everyone else is too even though it’s been said over and over that it’s not about the kink.

Maybe the breakdown in communication is how I’m defining kink. There has to be something *more* than semantics to make my relationship different than my neighbor’s egalitarian relationship. There has to be something more than “because this is what we call it”.

Which is why I continually decide we’re turning vanilla when the kink wans. It is not enough *for me* that we call it M/s or that this is how we personally define it, or any of the above answers. There’s gotta be more than that for me to still feel like I’m the slave in this relationship.

I honestly, for real, no foolin’ do NOT miss being hurt. No lying. I don’t miss it, I don’t want it.

Yet… I am all sorts of upset that he isn’t doing it anyway! Why? Because I need it. Fuckin’ A, dude.

It’s officially gone too far the other way. I am declaring it, right here and now for all the public to see, that I’ve started the climb out of the rabbit hole because there is nothing stopping me anymore. I have started the internal balking that has occasionally become external balking and will shortly become outright defiance.

He woke me up the other night for some middle-of-the-night sex, right? I briefly considered refusing because I knew I could.

~pause for dramatic effect~

Really let that sink in. Taste it. Roll it around. Swallow it.

I knew I could refuse.

But how did I know I could? How did I come to accept this particular untasty flavor?

Because I’ve done it before. More than once.

The only reason I rolled over and spread ‘em is because *I* was horny. How’s that for brutally honest, huh?

I don’t know about you but that’s saying something not-very-slave-like about me. Amirite or amirite? If it doesn’t walk like a duck or quack like a duck…. Then that bitch ain’t no slave.

I am tired of blaming it on his job. I’m tired of blaming it on surgery. I’m tired of blaming it on the kids.

Maybe I’m just tired, period.

Something changed for him in the last year. But since he won’t tell me what it is, there is nothing I can do about it. He’s gonna everything-is-fine us right into the ground.

I read a post on Fet yesterday that pushed all of this right up front where I can’t ignore it anymore. I would absolutely urge you to go read the entire post but this excerpt here–

Were I to let my girl off the hook, often, I truly would spoil the child by sparing the rod. If she was tired, or in a bad mood, or sore; if I felt guilty for being arbitrary or demanding, and I gave her a pass and allowed her to come curl up and be doted on one too many times, it would chip away at the certainty of control, the unfaltering trust of ownership. It is hard won knowledge that many have had to earn, just how awful that is for someone of the O/p persuasion. The reigns, over time, go slack if not drawn in without remorse. The exchange of power falters and fades, and then what are you left with? Bickering, fighting, discomfort on both sides and, if you’re lucky, a stark realization that your proclivity to be “loving” is leading you down a disastrous path towards pain, misery and inexorable failure.

Honestly, you have to read the whole thing because… just because.

What is happening here is either Master has forgotten how to love me, forgotten how I need to be loved– or he doesn’t love me that way anymore.

And if that’s the case, then say it. Say it so I can do my hamster wheeling, get it over with, and then move the fuck on. Not move OUT, not move AWAY, but move forward on the new path. I’m fucking spinning my wheels here.

I am no longer just struggling. I’m going under and drowning. Either pull me out or let me see what’s down there.

There was a question posed- an old, tiresome, oft-asked question- “What if your Master ordered you to go vanilla?” and the only thing I’m thinking is ‘at least that would be a direction’.

‘C’est la vie’ is not the way I wanted to go out, but…

Survey

Something I’ve been navel gazing about lately:

In your opinion, what is it that makes a relationship M/s or O/p? What makes it different from a relationship where one partner is just considered “doting”?

Explains everything

I’m eating Cpt Crunch and crying over old videos of my granddaughter. Why, hello PMS. Wish you would have exited stage left with my uterus.

Think I’ll go eat some Nutella. It’s *technically* not chocolate.

Brb!

Eff you, hormones.

I’m currently all het up to do a simple upgrade in the kitchen by replacing the counter tops and adding a backsplash. Master is not as het up as I am. He said we have to do some of the other projects on the list first.

I think this is mean. The project list never changes because we never get to the projects. Maybe I’ll see if I can do it myself. I know I can do the backsplash, not so sure I can change out a countertop alone, though.

Mother’s Day was kind of meh. Am’s taking me out for lunch today since she had to work yesterday. Master let me order pizza so I didn’t have to cook dinner last night. Both of the girls made nice statuses on FB. B-man said nothing. So.. meh.

I’m really not in a good place today so maybe I’ll try blogging later. I can tell I’m just gonna whine.

Here’s a small bright spot, though: Master said I could volunteer at the local animal shelter as a foster home for dogs. We now have a whippet-mix, cute little guy. We’ve only had him since Friday but he’s fitting in nicely. I hope he finds his forever home soon.

Apparently I needed to rant. Meh.

* The trip to see the babygirls is off. Not entirely because of all the reasons I was whining about earlier, but more because the astronomical cost of the gas for the round trip in an SUV isn’t something I can justify. Master works too hard for his money for me to spend it like that. If I did (and he would have let me) I’d have been unable to have any spending money, been unable to help them out with things they need (like groceries, etc.), and been unable to help them when they (if they) make it back this way in July for Babygirl’s birthday, which is the plan. It would have cleaned out my entire vacation budget and as much as I want to see them, this decision feels like the right one. I am angst free (for now, haha), if disappointed.

Babygirl’s gonna be 4 years old in 2 months. Can you believe that shit? Doesn’t it seem like just yesterday she was born? And Babygirl 2.0 is crawling, jabbering, getting into stuff… It’s been particularly difficult for me with 2.0 because I’m missing so much. She’s still frozen in time at the “lump of flesh that poops a lot” stage. When Jes tells me she caught her trying to crawl up the stairs I was like “Wha..? Whose baby do you have?!” Heh.

Things are going pretty well with the step-daughter. She and Babygirl are real close in age, just 6 months separates them with the step-daughter being the older one. They get along really well-so far-and everything has to match, they have to be the same, they call themselves ‘twins’ when their clothes match. There have been some problems with sharing and stuff, but nothing unexpected really.

Jes is struggling a little bit with trying to figure out how to divide her time between the three girls. Babygirl likes her cuddles but step-daughter (gosh, I need a name for her too!) gets jealous and wants in- which is perfectly understandable as I’m sure she’s dealing with her own feelings of abandonment, being pushed into a new family away from everyone she knew and loved. Poor girl, I feel bad for her.

She calls me Bebaw already. We talk on skype and we always end with I love you’s. She’s a delightful girl, gorgeous and smart. When I send packages I never exclude her- it’s 2 of everything or it’s something they can both use together. That’s a no-brainer, in my opinion. I wish I could say the same about her other grandma who seems to make it a point to exclude Babygirl if she’s sending a package to the step-daughter. She (grandma) is very bitter about this living situation, about her daughter “giving” the kid to her dad. Jes says when grandma calls to talk to SD (step-daughter), she makes comments about all the fun things she’s done at home and how SD just couldn’t come along because she doesn’t live there anymore and then SD starts to cry and wants to go home and it’s just fucking madness.

Who does that? God. There’s a reason why Grandma wasn’t an option for a temporary living situation. There’s a reason why this child and her mother were homeless. There’s a reason why going to live with her dad was in her best interest. And she’s doing well! She’s adjusting, she’s got consistency and a warm bed and good food and loving parents. A step up from sleeping in her mom’s truck in the winter in Wisconsin(!) and having strangers babysit on the fly because there was no one else.

But Grandma doesn’t see any of that. Of course, this is the Grandma who got busted on a drunk driving charge with the child in the backseat a few months ago. Her lines of acceptable treatment of a child are questionable. I get that she misses her granddaughter- believe me, I get that- but to deliberately make it harder on her than it needs to be? Come on. Grow up a little.

I sincerely despise people who use kids as weapons. It’s not about YOU. Just as it wasn’t about me when I could have taken Babygirl and kept her thereby securing *my* place in her life.

It’s about the kids, who, by the way, did not CHOOSE to be in this situation. So man up and shut up and stop making it so fucking hard for them. If you want to help your granddaughter talk to her about how much fun it is to be with her sisters and her dad. Talk to her about her new bed, or the kitty they have. Talk to her about what crafts she’s done or the cookies she decorated, or about going to the park, or how loud it is when 2.0 screams. Reassure her. Comfort her…. Jeez. These are the things in her world right now.

Or how about if you just don’t make it worse. How about if you send the fucking birth certificate and ss card so the family she’s living with can do what they gotta do to clothe and feed her (which they’ll get anyway, you’re just delaying it and, MAKING IT HARDER) instead of thinking you’re going to get custody by virtue of having those papers (ain’t gonna happen. Let’s see- Option 1 for custody: bio-dad who has a job, a home, and a stable environment, or, option 2 for custody: alcoholic grandparent with the aforementioned legal charges, a house in foreclosure, a marriage that just ended, and no income. Hmm. Well gosh, since you have the papers… Really? Derp.) But no. You’re busy making it difficult and in the meantime, they gotta eat and you don’t care. Do you really think you’re going to starve her into coming home? Someone explain the thought process because I am so fucking baffled it’s unbelievable. I’m helping them out with groceries because kids are hungry every day (surprise! every day!) and there’s a noticeable difference in mouths to feed. I’m paying for armbands at the carnival so your granddaughter can have a good time and because the cost just doubled for them. I bought her a new wardrobe because her mom sent her with nothing and she was wearing Babygirl’s clothes at a size too small. I bought her a bed, ffs, so your granddaughter who you love SO MUCH wasn’t on the floor. If you can’t afford to help out that way, that’s fine. But to refuse to send the papers so that the people who have her (and who love her and are treating her well and where she’s happy) can file the paperwork so that THEY can afford to do it? Then you’re an asshole and your priorities are seriously skewed.

I hate assholes. Seriously.

It’s up in the air yet on how temporary this situation will be. SD’s mom was supposed to be using the time to get herself together, get a stable job and a place to live, find a reliable sitter, etc., and so far that hasn’t happened. What she has done is moved in with her boss- whom she’s sleeping with- and his wife who doesn’t know her husband is having an affair with their new roommate.

I simply can’t imagine how that will backfire. ~eyeroll~

When she told my son-in-law what her plan was he remarked that that wasn’t quite what he had in mind for ‘getting her shit together’ and that’s not the situation he wants his daughter living in, so I suspect this temporary living situation with SD might be a little more permanent than initially planned for.

Oh well, more babygirls for me to spoil.

Gah.

This is not even what I came here to write about. But apparently it needed to be said so here it is. Their finances wouldn’t be so dismal if people like that weren’t trying to fuck them over at every turn and in the meantime, the ones who suffer the most are the little kids and nobody seems to fucking care.

*Unrelated proofreading observation: I use parenthesis too much, don’t I?

Sex after hysterectomy

You know what? I don’t have periods anymore. I know, I know, I should have realized that before the surgery. But seriously, it just hit me the other day after we’d gotten done fucking and I caught myself checking the sheets.

It’s only been 2 months so this is a slow internalizing process for me.

I still:

Check the sheets after we fuck and when I get up in the morning.
Check the toilet paper (and my panties) when I go to the bathroom.
Wear panties(!) because.. well.. because I still wear liners. (Hush. I said this was slow.)
Still check the level of my supply of pads and tampons when I’m heading to the store.
Still HAVE a supply of pads and tampons.

Our sex life has suffered. Not just because we couldn’t have sex for so many weeks but then because we each had (have?) some mental stumbling blocks to get over.

He was afraid of hurting me, at first. In spite of having caused me pain many many MANY times in the past, he’d never seen me THAT incapacitated. Those first few days in the hospital were terrible. The first few weeks at home were bad. Tomorrow makes 10 weeks from surgery and I’m really only just now feeling ‘normal’. Even at that, I have tenderness, swelling, pain with certain activities. I don’t think it’s a stretch to say he was turned off by me being an invalid. lol. I didn’t get dressed (nightgowns, baby. Get thee waistband off mah belly!), I didn’t care if my hair was pretty or my makeup was done or the house was spotless. I just didn’t care. I was protective of my self, stiffening up and/or protesting if he got near– not because I didn’t want him near but because he would forget or not realize how a hard hug would hurt or a jostle would pull or…

It just got easier to avoid me, I think. And I didn’t care. Because it DID hurt to be jostled or grabbed up in a hug or whatever. It just did.

Then he avoided sex because it did kind of hurt. And he keeps asking me if it hurts, keeps questioning the expressions on my face, saying “is that good pain or bad pain? Am I hurting you? TALK TO ME SHOULD I STOP?” and holding himself back from the way he likes to fuck- which is usually brutally. Heh.

Then, after the first time or two, he just said it “felt different”. My orgasms are different, in intensity and how I get there and how long it takes me to get there. There has been, apparently, a change in how my vagina feels to him. I’m less… twitchy, I guess, and he’s struggled with that a tad, losing that sensation. He had a little difficulty understanding the way I orgasm now and finding how to turn himself on without it. I used to be very responsive, now I’m less so (yet? forever? I don’t know.) A lot of his pleasure came from making me orgasm repeatedly and now I can’t seem to do that. I need more stimulation, more concentrated stimulation.

I made the mistake of adopting his worries as my fault. Of feeling unattractive, a failure, not able to please or excite.

I have had many many moments of regretting this surgery.

There’s been a lot of reassurance. A lot of talking about how to change the thought processes. Appealing to his reasons for liking (preferring, perhaps) the under-the-desk scenario has helped tremendously. Just put my pleasure out of his mind for now, let me take care of me, I got this… and the rest will fall into place.

It’s starting to. Slowly.

I cannot change the non-twitchy vagina, though. It’s a cold, dead fish.

But. We had several really great fuck moments the last couple of days. I’m hopeful that my cold, dead vagina is waking up.

Plus, there’s no (unwanted) blood on the sheets. That’s cool, huh?

Blasphemer

Earlier today Master decided I needed to be washed of my sins.

I have no idea what sins I committed (other than threatening to run away because he got a boner from Hostel) but he was determined I was to be cleansed.

So he set about letting his bladder fill. Isn’t he a dedicated fucker pervert? He held it and held it and held it, sucking down mug after mug of coffee.

I tried to tell him piss was not a synonym for Holy Water but he was having none of it.

I considered telling him there was also nothing cleansing about urine in my face but I was already on thin ice by remarking that he was a fast learner since he was going to pee on me *before* the shower and not after. (haha. I thought it was HILARIOUS. He? Not so much.)

Anyway, I was cleansed.

And after, I cleansed and cleansed my way. With soap. And shampoo.

And then I got fucked and choked and suffocated and slapped and pinched and had many orgasms.

Now he’s thinking I should reacquaint myself with the njoy.

I think I better think of another surgery to have. O.O

Escape Plan

Master is watching Hostel– and getting a boner.

Looks like it’s time to book me that ticket to Peru!

O.O

Vacay

It got up to almost 70F the other day so I put away the snow shovel and the salt pail. Now this for tonight:

… WINTRY MIX OF PRECIPITATION EXPECTED TONIGHT…TEMPERATURES TONIGHT WILL FALL TO AROUND FREEZING. THERE COULD BE A COATING OF ICE UP TO A TENTH OF AN INCH THICK TONIGHT.

FML, people. Just FML.

I’m starting to freak the fuck out about this trip of mine to go see my Babygirls. I hate being pulled in two directions (not that either of them are pulling me, it’s all in my head, yo). I know that Master will survive without me, he’s capable of taking care of himself but it just fucks with my ickle slave heart (gag) to think about all the extra work I’ll be dumping on him. I’ll be gone for 2 weeks (at least!) and that’s a long time. That’s the longest I’ve been away from home in ever.

He might even have to do some laundry. O.O He hasn’t done laundry in 9 years.

He’s going to have to either A) do laundry, B) wear his work shirts more than once, C) not go to work, D) go shirtless, E) buy more shirts.

2 weeks of nobody cleaning the bathrooms. 2 weeks of nobody vacuuming pet hair.

They might probably do the dishes. Or not. If they don’t, they’ll be out of clean dishes in 2 days, though. So, yeah, probably they’ll run the dishwasher.

And then there are the animals to consider. Master will have to get up so much earlier to get them taken care of in the morning. And someone (Am, probably) is going to have to come out here midday and let the dogs out. And I can’t see any of them catering to them they way I do.

It doesn’t seem to occur to anyone that the dogs have to go out to potty very first thing in the morning and last thing before bed which just baffles me. What’s the first thing you do when you get up? Go take a piss! But no… if they get up before me they’ll all just ignore the dogs until I get up. Oblivious or spoiled? I’m not sure!

They also tend to forget about the cat food because it’s downstairs, far away from Gracie’s pigface.

Okay truthfully? I’m something of a control freak about my animal care. It’s this that’s bugging me more than M having to do his own laundry, fetch his own drinks and cook his own meals. Oh. And suck his own cock. (haha. Slave fail.)

Plus, it just feels wrong to be going anywhere without him. Especially for that long and that far away. I mean, he leaves me for work but he’s never just…taken a freakin’ vacation without me. And he wouldn’t. I don’t think. But here I am, just tra la la-ing away on my own. So so wrong on so many levels. The guilt is giving me an ulcer.

Oy. I can’t go.

But my babygirls.

Babygirl already knows I’m coming and she’s SO excited. So so very excited. I can’t disappoint her. I just can’t. And I miss her and she wants to show me her room and she wants me to bring all her toys and she wants to show me her cat and her new bunk bed and she wants me sleep on the bottom and she’s gonna sleep on the top and we’re gonna play Candy Land and…

Gah. I have to go. I have to. That’s all there is to it.

Then Jes told me that her husband (Husband(!). Do you know her 1 yr wedding anniversary is next month? Can you believe that shit? I gave them 6 months, haha. Shame on me.)Anyway, he is going to re-enlist and they’re looking at going to either Hawaii, Alaska, or Washington. Which I informed her was completely unacceptable all the way around, but most especially the first two which aren’t AT ALL within driving distance and we all know I can’t get on a fucking plane without Master holding my hand and he can’t ever get the fuck away from work and honestly, I think she’s just trying to kill me.

Anywhore… so yeah, I’m pretty conflicted about going away.

And quite a little terrified of driving through places I’ve never been. I mean, I have gps, I have a cell phone, I have AAA and I have a travel companion (my sister). So I’m probably about as safe as I’m going to get. But, dude, I get nervous going places. This whole damn thing is so far out of my comfort zone it’s not even funny, and the only reason I’m going to get through it is because I miss my granddaughters with a heartache like I’ve never felt before.

Okay. Enough about my angst.

In other news, I’m fat. So totally and completely fat. 8 weeks of inertia did not do me any favors and I was not one of the lucky ones who lost weight from surgery. Apparently, they did not remove enough parts to nudge the scale, the bastards.

I am at my highest weight ever right now. Today. None of my clothes fit (literally. None. My one pair of fat jeans are too tight.) and I refuse to buy the next size up. Refuse. In fact, Master refuses, too, and as much as he’s not obsessed with the number on the scale, he is invested in my health and is NOT necessarily turned on by my fat ass.

So. He’s going to be “assisting” me (gulp) now that I am officially past the 8 week recovery point. My biggest hurdle is not so much what I eat, because I kind of feel like I’ve got this clean, healthy eating bit down, but how much of it I’m eating. Even good-for-you food will make you fat if you eat too much of it. So portion control and getting back into an exercise routine. Now that the weather is starting to turn (minus the earlier-mentioned ice storm) he’s going to start either dropping me off a few miles from the house in the morning when he leaves for work and I have to walk home or dropping me at the gym with my bike to ride home after a workout.

I still have a lot of abdominal tenderness, and even still some twinges of pain and cramping and I don’t know how normal that is, but it makes me afraid to do much for exercise. Maybe I just need to work past that fear. I think when I get back from this trip (if I go!) I’ll talk with M about getting a few sessions with a trainer so I can up my confidence as well as be shown the direction I need to go in.

As for Master-approved eating, I can eat fruits, vegetables, lean meats, eggs and some nuts. I can have one cup of coffee in the morning and then no other liquids but water or unsweetened green tea. He’s not counting calories or carbs but he’ll be watching portions, servings, etc.

This business with my weight seems like the never ending story. Lose it, gain it back. Lose it, gain it back. Blergh.

I’ve got another post brewing and I was going to get into that today but the Masterly One is home from work, and in bed sleeping, and I want to join him. Yay for snuggles.

The right way vs Master’s way.

Watersports done the right way = Before the shower.

Watersports done Master’s way = After the shower.

FYI: “Dude! God dammit, I just washed that fucking leg!” is not the appropriate response.

This concludes today’s PSA.

No spring for you!

This morning. Moar snow! Argh!

~~*~~

Here’s a thought. Maybe, just maybe, if one is bothered by kinky things one should not be a member of a kinky site.

I know, I know, it’s a crazy thought but I’m thinking outside the box here.

It’d be like if I joined a website designed for the gathering of, supporting of, and mingling of married folks, right? And then got up on my soapbox to let everyone know how much I hated the word wife because my experience of being one hadn’t been all rainbows and butterflies.

“I was a wife once and it were turrible bad! You people just don’t unnerstand the PAIN! I had to do stuff and it were way worse stuff than any of you ever had to do! You guys don’t know there are real people being made into real wives and as long as you ignorant morons keep promoting wifery people will keep being wives! I HAZ A TRAGIC!”

Yeah. You know what you don’t have, lady? Logic.

~~*~~

Speaking of which, I talked to Am. Meh. The situation isn’t nearly as bad as I thought. (What? Overreact? Me. Pshaw.)

Anyway. The lease is about up where she’s at and the landlord is going to raise the rent a somewhat substantial amount at the end of the lease so her two roomies don’t want to live there anymore, which makes sense because they are both finished with college and there is no logical reason for them to stick around that area where all the landlords have made it their mission to put poor college students into a bigger and deeper financial bind by charging ridiculously high rent.

It is not her goal to have to live here (~silent cheer~) but she was just letting us know it might be unavoidable. She is trying to work out something else with other friends and blah blah blah…

To answer some of the questions below- Is she depressed? Yes, no, maybe. She’s frustrated that being an adult isn’t as much fun as she imagined it would be. How old is she? She’s 20. Are we helping her? Yes. We’ve paid her tuition up til now, we pay her car insurance and any repairs to it that have needed done to keep her on the road. And until she insisted on getting her iphone, we were paying for her cell phone. As for helping her with other expenses, it’s difficult to do that when she’s cutting back on hours and/or shopping instead of doing what she needs to do. I mean, if, for instance, she couldn’t pay her rent (which she hasn’t yet been unable to) but she shows up here with a new tattoo, new clothes, an $80 hair cut and a new Furby (srsly? I mean…. seriously.) then, yeah but no, we wouldn’t give her money for rent and food.

Are we/have we helped Jes more than Am? That’s a difficult call, really. I would say we’ve helped Babygirl more than both of them combined. I suppose in Am’s mind that is warped into us helping Jes but that’s not how it translates in my mind. To put it into perspective: Am’s tuition costs us as much (at least) than we’ve spent on Jes(Babygirl). It’s difficult to make that comparison given how differently their paths have gone.

Our motto (M’s motto, I should say) is that he’ll help any of them out as long as A) We can afford it, and B) They are trying to help themselves.

We still help Jes out, even though she’s married and ‘on her own’. When they recently took in my step-granddaughter, we bought them bunk beds because the poor kid was sleeping on a mattress on the floor. But my son in law gets up and goes to work every day, Jes gets up and takes care of 3 kids all day, she just signed up for an online school course, they do stuff with the kids all the time, go to the museum, to the pool, crafts, the zoo… They’ve got rent, car payment, insurance, cell phones, groceries for 5, child support… you know, they’re trying. So I buy clothes for the kids and toys and trinkets and sometimes send cash so they can go to the carnival or whatever, the kind of stuff Jes can’t afford to buy because they are paying their bills… I do it all the time, in fact. I don’t think I’ve sent anything for Jes, for herself, at all. Oh, I take that back. I sent her some nail polish a few weeks ago.

Like I said, it’s difficult to compare these two or to gauge how we should be helping each one. :/

~~*~~

“What’s happening with B-man?”

B-man just got his license. I don’t even remember how long ago it was that I made that post about what a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad driver he was. A year? 2 years?? It took this long before I was comfortable enough with him on the road to schedule his road test.

And it kind of, mostly only got scheduled now because 1) he’s 18 now and I can no longer stop him, and 2) he needed his license before he could go to basic training and he should have at least a little while of actually driving before he left.

But he passed! Not with flying colors but he passed, lol.

Naturally we swapped cars with Am. We took back the crappy car and gave her the better car so if B-man wrecks it, it’s the cheapest POS we have that will be wrecked. Lucky Amber, I guess.

Lessee what else is B-man up to. Graduating on time is still up in the air. He’s just got to commit himself to the homework. In a way, I think it’s bullshit, this new policy the school implemented this year. Grades, and passing, should be calculated by overall score. If he’s passed the class based entirely on his tests scores and whatever bit of homework he did do, then he’s passed the class, period, the end. Congratulations.

But their policy is that every. single. assignment has to be completed or, no matter what the final grade is, the class is marked as an incomplete. No exceptions. These papers won’t even be graded! The class is over in some cases. I just think it’s ridiculous.

In fact, I think our whole country’s education system is ridiculous. From kindergarten on through to college it’s completely fucked.

Here’s another example about B-man’s school that I think is whacked. It is a requirement now, in the state of Michigan, that a student has an art credit to graduate. While in some schools that art credit might encompass a variety of optional classes, in these smaller, we’re-firing-all-our-teachers schools, there aren’t so many options. B-man got stuck in an actual art class where he’s expected to draw and paint and such.

The ability to draw beautiful works of art is no more a learned skill than the ability to sing on key. Yes, okay, maybe he can learn a few tricks of the trade but it’s a talent that you’ve either got or not. So when he’s turned in his best rendition of a fucking pear and the teacher hands it back and says it’s not good enough, do it again- not once, not twice but over and over- yeah, even I want to smack her upside the head.

I couldn’t draw a god damn pear if you put a gun to my head. I think it’s wonderful that she can. I think it’s wonderful some of the students can. NOT ALL OF THEM CAN, YOU TWIT. The only thing B-man has learned in this art class is that he hates art. Thanks, Teach. ~thumbs up~

Otherwise, he’s doing good. We’re currently debating the whole J-O-B thing with him. Around here it’s pretty impossible to get a job before you’re 18, unless your parents work somewhere or own a business, the places here have so many applicants because of the college that they just don’t hire kids under 18. They don’t have to. So, now he’s 18. However… assuming all goes according to plan, he’s leaving in July so he’d be quite the temporary employee, which never sits well with employers, plus he hopes (wants) to be able to do some stuff before he goes, like visit people (friends and family out of state), have some fun with his friends here, and certainly work would cut into a lot of that.

So I don’t know. I can certainly see wanting to have fun and freedom before he goes. On the other hand, who is paying for this fun and freedom? Back to that helping those who help themselves. Of course one could argue that he IS helping himself, it’s just not starting until July.

We’ll see, I guess. I kind of think, you know, a one day a week super part time job wouldn’t cut into that much fun but would give him enough cash to put some gas in the car at least. Plus, a little experience with a boss who has expectations *before* basic training wouldn’t be a bad thing. And, if he worked, say, on Saturdays and he wanted to take off out of the area, its not that difficult to get a Saturday off and then he’d have like 2 weeks before he had to be back at work.

Amirite or amirite?

~~*~~

Here. Have a Master Meme.

I copied this from morningstar.

1. He’s sitting in front of the TV, what is on the screen?
Probably the Military channel.

2. You’re out to eat; what kind of dressing does he get on his salad?
French.

3. The most striking thing about his physical appearance?
His height, I think. At least that’s what most people seem to notice first. He’s 6’4″. Hard to miss.

4. You go out to eat and have a drink; what does he order to drink?
Something like a Sam Adams or a Guiness.

5. Where did he go to high school?
Middle America, USA.

6. What size shoe does he wear?
Size 13

7. If he was to collect anything, what would it be?
Weapons. Guns, bows, sharp things…

8. What is his favorite type of sandwich?
PB&J

9. What would he eat every day if he could?
Oreos and milk (haha, there goes your image, Sucka!)

10. What is his favorite cereal?
Frosted Mini Wheats (aaand there went the rest of the image).

11. What would he never wear?
Footie pajamas. Heh.

12. What is his favorite sports team?
I guess if he had to pick one, it’d be the Packers but he’s not all that into sports.

13.Who did he vote for?
N/A

14. Who is his best friend?
A guy he met in college (I think it was college anyway).

15. What is something you do that he wishes you wouldn’t do?
Scrape my teeth on his pecker, lol.

16. What is his heritage?
Irish, Scottish and Southern (do not tell a Southerner it’s not a heritage!)

17. You bake him a cake for his birthday; what kind?
I don’t. He doesn’t like home baked cakes. It’s bakery cake or it’s nothing. The end.

18. Did he play sports in high school?
Not in high school, I don’t think.

19. What could he spend hours doing?
Playing computer games. World of Tanks or Something-something Earth are the two he plays most frequently. Or looking at porn, that’s a close second.

20. What is one unique talent he has?
The ability to turn even the most innocuous comment into a sexual innuendo.

~~*~~

That’s all she wrote.

Shii

Anyone wanna place bets on how fast I’d have one if it came out?

Violence, children, and food, oh my.

Okay. Attitude adjusted. Isn’t it nice of me to do it all by myself with no threats of violence? Told ya I can learn stuff.

Sure wouldn’t mind a little more violence, though. Just sayin’.

Speaking of violence, we were going to go to a kink event this weekend but more than likely his work is going to prevent that. That makes me sad. It’s the first time in a long while that I (we!) have ‘felt the stirrings’ to get back out there and get involved again, and we can’t because of his job.

And I don’t mean to just bitch about his job, it’s just that what they’re asking of him goes above and beyond what the actual job requirements are and it sucks that he ends up feeling like he has to risk his employment just to have a life outside of work. It’s frustrating and it makes him pissy.

Instead we’ll stay home and do nothing *just in case* his phone rings. BS, dude.

Speaking of BS, Am’s giving me fits. I swear to God, it’s like she and Jes changed places. Jes is doing AMAZING and Am is… I dunno what she’s doing. Living in some fantasy world where everything is given to you and you don’t have to work for it or earn it, I guess.

I told you that she wanted to take some time off of school, right? Well she did, she’s not going right now. That’s all fine and whatever, it’s her life, her education, I don’t care. Well, now she’s finding work to be too difficult. She hates it there, she hates the customers, she hates her bosses, blah blah blah…

Well, who DOESN’T? I mean, if you want to get out of having to work at a menial job for a low wage then it doesn’t make logical sense to me to have quit pursuing the path that was going to get you there.

She keeps trying to rearrange her work schedule so she’s working the minimum amount of hours/days per week to get her just enough money to get by. But she charged an Iphone on her stupid credit card, with the stupid straight talk plan so she has to make her cc payment AND buy her own minutes, plus rent, groceries, gas… and I’m just like, whatever, it’s your money, lady. But then she gets frustrated because she doesn’t have any money to do what she wants.

Um.. D’uh?

She keeps saying she’s going to just look for a different job because she hates it there so much, which is all well and good, but what I can’t get her to realize is that there is going to be bullshit *no matter where she works*. Shit, look at Master’s job! There’s bullshit!

Now she’s making noise about moving back home.

Imagine, if you can, how well THAT is going over with M.

Oy vey. My life! I need a vacation!

Anyway, she’s supposed to come here today and I’ll talk with her and see if I can get anything through her stubborn little head.

It’s not that she isn’t welcome here. They will all be welcome here anytime they need to come home. It’s not that we’re upset about having a kid returning when we were so. fucking. close (well, okay maybe we’re a LITTLE upset, lol), but what it is entirely is this:

1. M’s done financially supporting other adults. She can come here, but she’s not getting a free ride out of it. She’s still gotta work and she’s still gotta pay rent, to us.

2. Given that she’s still got to work AND still has to pay rent, it doesn’t make financial sense *whatsoever* to move back here. She’s just multiplied her driving distance by– well I can’t math, but she’s currently driving about 2 miles to work and from here it’s 30. Even if she gets a different job, it’s an almost certainty that the new job will be in the same town, so still driving 60 miles, round trip.

3. She’s talking about going back to school. Which is GREAT! However. The school? Same town. 30 miles from here. So now we’re talking driving back and forth, probably every single day between work and school.

It’s going to cost her MORE to live here. How much is gas these days? And is there any hope of those prices dropping?

Newp.

And (!) 4. The liberties she had as a teenage high school student living with mom and dad no longer apply. I will not be hosting slumber parties. In fact, I will not be hosting sleepovers of any kind. I will not be hosting ‘movie night’ or Mario Kart marathons or ‘we’re hungry’ or any other such things. I did my time and I am so done it ain’t even funny. The freedom she has in her own place to have her friends over whenever she wants, to make a mess, to cook pizza at 3am, to play Mario Kart for 6 hours– that would all end here.

So, yeah, she and I need to talk.

And for the love of Pete, if she wants to get a “real job” (her words), then stop stop STOP getting tattoos that can’t be covered up. Stop shaving her head. Just.. stop.

Gah. Be a rebel when you can afford it, ffs. Don’t act all butthurt when the local bank in your very small and very traditional community doesn’t want to hire your decorated, mohawk-y self as a teller.

Now then. Enough about that.

Oh. Someone down there in the comments was talking about M’s libido, which I thought was just crazy. I’ve never said a word about his libido? I said we aren’t being particularly kinky, as in we aren’t having much violence (le sigh) but I didn’t say squat about his libido being gone.

He’s perfectly healthy, with a perfectly functioning penis.

You know what there is in the kink world? A stigma against people who say they are kinky but don’t actually practice kink. Ha. Sounds weird, huh?

It’s like.. it’s not kinky *enough* to JUST be in an M/s relationship that is only power based. If there isn’t torture and bondage, then… what? It’s not real? It’s not…. hm… it’s not considered hard enough to be something one should complain about, or maybe even talk about.

I was recently challenged because I said being a slave was hard. Like, what could possibly be hard if I’m not being hit every other day? Srsly? The pain bit has NEVER been the “hard part” about slavery. Never.

So, if you’re one of those who thinks s&m is a requirement of M/s- stop it. Just stop it. Kthnx.

Now I have a menu. Well, I have what our menu has been this past week or so. But wait! There’s more! I have pictures with it!

In no particular order:

1. Chef salad

2. Scrambled eggs made with broccoli, spinach, onions, mushrooms, ham, and swiss cheese. Served with orange slices and a biscuit with jelly.

3. Teriyaki salmon with pineapple, roasted asparagus, and Asian rice.

4. Roasted chicken, black bean and corn quinoa, strawberry salad with almonds, dried cranberries, sunflower kernels and dried blueberries.

5. Haddock fillets and rice pilaf

[insert picture here because I forgot to take one]

6. Zucchini and yellow squash lasagna

[insert picture here because I forgot to take one AGAIN]

7. Delivery pizza, baby!

Give it up.

I gave up the right to have ANYTHING my way when I gave myself to him.
I gave up the right to have ANYTHING my way when I gave myself to him.
I gave up the right to have ANYTHING my way when I gave myself to him.
I gave up the right to have ANYTHING my way when I gave myself to him.
I gave up the right to have ANYTHING my way when I gave myself to him.
I gave up the right to have ANYTHING my way when I gave myself to him.
I gave up the right to have ANYTHING my way when I gave myself to him.
I gave up the right to have ANYTHING my way when I gave myself to him.
I gave up the right to have ANYTHING my way when I gave myself to him.
I gave up the right to have ANYTHING my way when I gave myself to him.

Oh hai!

Um… Don’t mind me. Just trying to screw my head right round again.

I am his slave and I will like it!
I am his slave and I will like it!
I am his slave and I will like it!
I am his slave and I will like it!
I am his slave and I will like it!
I am his slave and I DON’T ALWAYS like it!

~kicks stuff~

Oh.. you’re still here?

Hmmmph. Fine. Make yourself useful and keep my seat warm. I’ll come back when I have a better attitude.

A Book Review: Laura Meets Jeffrey, An Erotic Memoir

The time between the Pill and the discovery of AIDS was a time known as the sexual revolution. A time when young people challenged society’s traditional views about sex, about women and the confines of marriage. A time before the war on drugs, a time of hippies and the flower child, a time that can accurately be summed up as Sex Drugs and Rock-n-Roll.

That was Laura and Jeffrey’s world.

The author, Jeffrey Michelson, is a wonderful writer who has lived a life some can only imagine. He has a talent with words and a delivery that is both humorous and uplifting, introspective and brutally honest. I thoroughly enjoyed the book, found myself thinking of it throughout the day and couldn’t wait read more to see what Laura and Jeffrey would get up to next.

Centered mostly in the early 80′s in New York City, this is a tale of debauchery and hedonism that at times made me horny and other times made me gag, but always always made me wish I had lived then. Jeffrey and Laura take full advantage of the sexual freedom offered to them in that era and Jeffrey’s descriptive and graphic retelling of it was delightful and refreshing.

From gang bangs to swinging, prostitution, porn, bondage and s&m, we are carried along as a perverted voyeur. Laura adds her voice in the form of sprinkled in excerpts that reassure gentle readers that she was, not just a participant, but the creator of her own self-indulgence.

While the premise of the book is supposed to be about Jeffrey and Laura’s foray into BDSM, to me it reads more like Jeffrey’s life memoir during the years that he dabbled in kink. We hear about his job, his friends, his hobbies, and, more interestingly, we get to read about his interactions with some of the important icons from the era: John and Yoko, Norman Mailer, Ryan O’Neal, Bruce Springsteen-just to name the few I can remember.

While not entirely my ‘cup of kink’, so to speak (their version of M/s reads more like S/m), it is a fun and interesting read. One I would highly recommend.

(I was not paid for this review. I received a free book for an honest review.)

Why, hello Stranger!

I guess being pinned to the couch by my throat is a start.

I missed him.

Dude.

You guys have been flattering. Very bolstering. Thank you for that.

My trip has been postponed because the Army sucks ass and my SIL’s trip dates have been moved. The Army arbitrarily reschedules and/or cancel things like they are the boss! If he goes next month, I’ll go then, but if it’s any later than that I won’t be going because they are coming here in July (or so that’s the plan but plans are subject to, and likely to change because the Army sucks.)

So here I am.

I’ve given my blogging woes some thought and due in part to your wonderful comments (and also because M said no), I won’t be shutting the doors here just yet. But. I am going to free myself from feeling like I *must* post something or else some unknown blogging catastrophe will occur. While that means I may post infrequently, it also means I won’t be trying to find something to post about. I’m freeing myself to post what I want, when I want.

You’d think I had done that already, right? But no! I am nothing if not the source of my own difficulties! Sometimes I won’t post something because I’m afraid it’s too offensive (haha, inorite? me, censor the offensive?), sometimes I post something just as ‘filler’ and I don’t even care about it, sometimes I won’t post something because I’ll think you all will find it boring… and yadda yadda yadda about other topics.

For as much as I claim to not be directed by the people who comment, I really really am! What can I say, I’m a fragile, delicate flower of submission easily swayed by the winds of judgement.

So. Here is my final answer, Regis.

I’ma post what I want. So there. The end.

But wait! There’s more!

I’m going to start another blog. I have this whole separate part of my life that does not fit here, does not belong here. I want a place where it’s appropriate to post pictures of my granddaughters and pictures of my garden fails and my recipe disasters and my decorating attempts, where I am not worried about giving out that link. Because while I can post all of that (except the kids’ pics) here, this is not a place I can share with, say, my sister. Or my mother. Or my daughter.

I’m tired of feeling like a secret. So even though I’ll still be a secret, lol, when someone outside of kink asks me what I’m doing I can say “Dude! I’m blogging!”

I like blogging. It brings me pleasure. I want to expand on that. I think doing that will help to alleviate some of why I feel so stifled here. There will likely be a fair amount of cross posting if only because so much of my life fits into both categories so don’t think you’ll be missing much.

Later on today or tomorrow or sometime soon, I have a book review to do. I’m excited about it. I haven’t done a book review before!

In closing, thank you for the perspective. Thank you for the validation. Thank you for reading and taking time out of your day to write to me. You helped me more than you know. Much love to you from me.

On Slavery

I wonder, at the scene of a traffic accident, after the battered cars have been towed away and the ambulance is gone and all that’s left is the cop, the occupants of the cars, and the dazed drivers, how often does the cop turn to the passenger and say “Here’s your ticket. It’s your fault this happened.”? Hardly ever? Never?

I gave up the steering wheel a long, long time ago. I am just the passenger, along for the ride.

That’s, perhaps, the backbone of slavery. Don’t you agree? Giving up control and settling in for the ride. He gets to do what he wants, use me as he wants.

Even if what he wants is… nothing.

It’s interesting to me that in years past when the activities were too ‘out there’ or too distasteful, he got as much, if not more flack as I did from the peanut gallery. And rightfully so, says I! It was his doing, after all, right? I’m just along for the ride.

But now… now that he wants nothing distasteful, is doing nothing that is ‘out there’, now that he is content with a slave to provide a clean house and clean clothes and hot meals and a slave to do his banking and scheduling and to trim his nails and massage his muscles…

Now I get the flack?

Like I made those choices? Like I drove us here?

When did I get in the drivers seat? At what point did HE just come along for the ride?

Baffling, truly.

I have a couple of theories, actually.

1. Very few people have been reading here for the 8 years I’ve been writing. For some it’s been the whole time, for others it’s been a good long while, and for still others it’s been a few weeks/months/maybe a year or two. So maybe they go back and read a bit of the old stuff, maybe they don’t, but either way, they’re speed reading through (or skipping entirely) 8 years of my life.

Maybe it seems like just last week that I had my boobs nailed down/[fill in the kink here] because it was just last week that they read it/saw the picture. When in reality it was a year ago, or 4 years ago, or EIGHT years ago.

A lot, for me, for US, would have changed in the interim. The interim that was skipped by the new-to-me viewer.

The other theory… well okay I only had one theory. Sue me.

At any rate, Master and I have been together for 9 years. Almost a decade. I’ve seen couples come and go a hundred times over in those 9 years. The blogs especially come and go.

That’s because a lot of stuff happens over the years. Not just to us specifically, though certainly a whole helluva lot HAS happened to us, but to people in general. They grow and they change and they learn. They evolve. Interests change. Hobbies change. Personalities change. Compatibility changes.

I met Master when I was 33 years old. I’m now 42.

I want to talk a little bit about the changes that can occur in a decade.

In the 10 years prior to meeting Master, when I was between the ages of 23 and 33, I:

Bought a house. Got pregnant and had a baby (my third). Had my tubes tied. Got divorced. Lost the house. Dabbled in cocaine. Had no idea what BDSM was, had never heard of it, and didn’t know I was missing anything. Moved–not once, not twice–but NINE times in ten years. Changed jobs 3 times. Lost friends and gained friends. Went through a heavy drinking phase that included black outs, one night stands, and violence. Smoked 2 packs a day. Bought a car. Got remarried and then was widowed. Quit drinking. Discovered BDSM… And so much more I’m leaving out. So many changes in me and around me. So many things that changed me.

The thing is, the 33 year old who had just discovered BDSM was not the same as the 23 year old who had just gotten pregnant. And my 42 year old self isn’t the same as the 33 year old who started blogging. The 46 year old Master I have is not the same 37 year old man I met.

We’re older- not old, not ancient, not half-dead, but older nonetheless. We’ve changed, whether by circumstance or choice it doesn’t matter. This isn’t a case of one of us wishing the other were different or wishing things hadn’t changed. We’ve no regrets.

That’s important. It bears repeating. We have no regrets.

I like to think what Master and I have done over the years was a reduction, as in the cooking term. We came in hot and heavy, boiled away the impurities, and have been reduced to the good stuff. The strong stuff. We’ve thickened and intensified-to us, to how we feel about each other, about our lives together, our future together- and while that makes for very bland blogging material (and I agree, it totally does which is why I haven’t been blogging much), that doesn’t mean that WE think what we’ve ended up with is bland.

We like it here. We’re content and happy and comfortable in this place.

There are a lot of places these days where one can get their fill of kink and fetishes and blood and welts and bruises and suffering slavery. A lot of places host that sort of chest-beating uber dom stuff. The ads on the side bar will take you to some of those places if you’re so inclined to pass me a dollar on the way there (grins). But. That place isn’t here.

That’s just not where we are. Not right now. Maybe we will be next month, or next year, or maybe not ever again. That part will be up to him- where it goes next? His call. His direction. Because I’m just along for the ride. It’s been an enjoyable ride, from day one to day three thousand, it’s been enjoyable.

(Njoy-able? haha. Not today, Sucka!)

That’s not the essence of slavery to me- the scene reports and the tack bras and the pictures? Those were the lowest points of evaporation during the reduction.

I’m less inclined to blog here these days for a couple of reasons. In part because I continue to be the passenger that gets the ticket thrown at her and I find that frustrating. I spent a long while in a state of inner turmoil aligning my wants and needs to match where his are now. Putting away bits and pieces of myself for him. For me, it’s a success story, an accomplishment. Something difficult that I did, for him, something that has driven other people apart. I aligned. I internalized. I did it. I resent being insulted for that. I resent the implication that we’ve (that I have) somehow lost something for it.

It has always been perplexing to me how its glorified for a slave to be aligned to her Master’s evilness but vilified to be aligned with him when he’s not.

I also blog less because even I realize how boring it is to hear “Well, today I got up and made breakfast…”

But that’s what I do. That’s where we are. I serve as I’m told.

He has only to say he’s hungry and I’m in the kitchen making food. He hands me a bill and knows it’s paid. He needs an appointment, I schedule it. He desires an item, I’m at the store. In 9 years, he hasn’t washed a dish, touched dirty laundry, picked his beard hairs out of the sink, scrubbed a toilet, made a sandwich…

He’s catered to, like royalty. I’d wipe his ass if he wanted me to. (He doesn’t…. yet. haha.)

He knows where I am every second of the day. I do nothing, go nowhere, make no decisions without his explicit input, permission or direction.

And that’s just not exciting to anyone but me. I’m okay with that. Maybe bloggable M/s really is about the kink, after all. The leather and the whips, the bruises and the welts. I’m okay with that, too.

But it’s all left me in a quandary as to the future of this blog. Wait and see? Sing my swan song? Keep on with the updates aimed at those of you who are interested in what is, in all honesty, not “a kink blog” but a “my life blog”? (Which would make me very happy, btw.)

Ahh! I don’t know, either. 8 years and maybe I’m finally out of words.

Maybe I need a blog more tailored to where my life is at the moment.

Maybe blogging in general has had its day in the sun.

Maybe I have, lol.

Maybe I need to take a vacation.

See you when I get back from Texas, y’all!

ps. Upon proof-reading I suspect this reads like a plea to have people beg me to keep blogging. It is not that. I just feel like I’m at a crossroads with it, it doesn’t quite feel like “home” as it used to, and I miss that. In time, I’ll figure where to go with it, if anywhere. This was just talking-out-loud, as I tend to do.

Reaching the finish line.

My 8 year blog anniversary came and went the other day. 8 years. You guys have grown up with me, haha. With my kids! B-man is going to be 18 tomorrow. When I first ‘met’ you all, he was 9 10 (I can’t math today, I haz the dumb). He was still playing with matchbox cars and riding his bike around the neighborhood. Now he’s going to be a legal adult. Doesn’t that make you feel old?! It does me, lol.

18. Whew. The last one. We made it. We did it! We’ve reached the parenting finish line! Oh, it’s not over, I get that, but, man… 18 is the magic number. Our legal responsibility ends in precisely 1 hour and 40 minutes. w00t!

(And can I just say that until you’ve parented a teenager, you will not understand the elation of said teenager passing a surprise drug test. Heh. Not that I had any reason to think he was out there doing that except as parents of teenagers it’s always in the back of your mind, isn’t it? But he passed! And it was sprung on him out of nowhere! No warning! I LOVE THE ARMY, hahaha!)

Speaking of which, I just don’t know what he’s doing about that. He kind of acts like he’s having second thoughts and with that convenient ‘out’ right there in front of him by way of just not graduating on time… I just don’t know. It’s going to be a nail-biter til the end, I swear. He won’t SAY that’s what he’s doing but that’s what he seems to be doing.

Plus, I think he has pms. Jesus. What a freakin’ crabapple these days.

18. Wow. Hellooo finish line!

8 years of blogging! Wow. You’ve guys have been a great ride. Thanks.