That cryptic post

About that ‘cryptic’ post I made Friday night that was totally not meant to be cryptic. Earlier that day, I’d made the post to Truffle about the “why” question. Nobody had asked me anything or insulted me in any way (at that point) and the post to Truffle was just my general opinion. Later that day, while singing along with the radio they played that Billy Joel song. As I sang the chorus I thought, “hey that kinda ties in with my post, I should look up the lyrics.” Then promptly forgot about it.

Anyway, I picked up Master and we had some quick but incredibly amazing sex. The new tack bra is fucking phenomenal. All He had to do was enter me, fill me up, hold still and squeeze the holy hell out my tits under those tacks and I was squirting. It was… there are no words. Maybe more on that later. :-)

Then the kids were home and it was on with the business of being a family. The kids miss Him when He’s gone and they like to see Him. I have a hard time sharing Him. I’ve said before that part of me thinks I am much too selfish and greedy to be a slave. But share Him I did, even if I did think mean thoughts about my very own children.

My son, especially, misses Master. For the first time in my son’s life he has a male role model. He has someone who actually *wants* to do boy things and talk about boy stuff and play boy games. Let’s face it, I am a female through and through and I’m just not able to relate to my son on that level. It was definitely a Master-son weekend.

I’m not so selfish to not realize that they both needed it. And as I sat on the couch and watched them play as they sat at the kitchen table, I’d be a liar if I said that didn’t make me happy. It may not sate my masochism, but it sure makes my heart feel good.

They play this game with Star Wars Miniature figures. Now, I haven’t a clue what it’s all about because I loathe star wars. I always have. My son starts talking about the Death Star and my mind goes fuzzy. The more he talks, the fuzzier I get until I eventually blink off completely. I’d sooner commit suicide then sit down and have to talk star wars for three hours. So I don’t know what this game is about. All I know is my son has spent every single penny of his allowance for the last 6 months, plus b-day money, on Star Wars minis. He’s super-excited, racing on his bike down to the little local hobby shop every Friday, only to race home and show off what he got. Which means next to nothing to me.

He pulls out this teeny tiny plastic figure that comes with a baseball card and he’s talking so fast he’s spitting and stuttering, “Look what I got! It’s a Bossk, Bounty Hunter, Mom!”

And I just blink at him, uncomprehending. Like he’s suddenly speaking chinese. “A what? A Ministroni who?”

“Nooooo mmoooooooom!” In that long, drawn out way that only kids with incredibly stupid parents can do. “It’s a Bossk, Bounty Hunter, from Mistryl Shadow Guard. It’s got 60 hit points! And +8…”

Yeah.. I’ve fuzzed out by then.

But Master on the other hand, has His own little army of teeny tiny plastic men with baseball cards, all neatly placed in their own tiny plastic compartment (as opposed to my son’s, all thrown in a shoe box) and they babble in Chinese together, heads touching, reading over those cards like it contains the fate of the world on it, written in Hit Points and Damage.

For three HOURS Friday night they sat at the table and mutilated each other with the mystic writings of the baseball cards. Now, for my son to spend three consecutive hours doing anything is a miracle by itself. I was impressed, while simultaneously being jealous, mad, lonely and bored.

And that is how I ended up back here at the computer, looking up the lyrics to Billy Joel’s song.

But I’m leaving out one part.

While looking up the lyrics, I was also reading blogs because that’s just what I do. I got very irritated with the comment thread of one post. Now before I say too much, I want to point out that the two girls in question certainly did not mean anything rude to me. I know this. I’m fairly darn good friends with both of them so I know there were no ill-intentions.

It was about the tack bra and a rather tongue-in-cheek ribbing about being up to date on my tetanus shot. That part was fine, mostly, until I read another comment questioning the intelligence of “nails” in a bra, with a snide remark about not questioning it just because he’s vanilla either. The entire thing rankled me.

I mean, I don’t care if someone isn’t in to bdsm. I’m not on a mission to convert anyone. But if you aren’t and you admittedly have never worn a tack bra, nor have any clue what it does to *my* body, what is the reason you have to sit up and say “I don’t think that’s such a good idea there, little lady.”

I’ve shown pictures. I’ve made posts on it. I’ve repeatedly said “you will be very disappointed in the results of the tack bra on your skin. For all the discomfort you feel, you will have nothing more than a few red indents. It’s very visually anticlimactic.” Master has taken my tits in these tack bras and mashed and kneaded and squeezed until I’ve screamed and at most, I’ve had a few scratches. No impaling. No rivers of blood. No ground up breast meat hanging by a flap of skin.

But those who don’t do it know more and better than I do. Then Master does. That it’s cause for concern about my health. You know, I have answered a shitload of questions on this journal. Questions that are nobody else’s business but mine. I’ve answered them in a useless attempt to help people understand. Questions about our finances, about our life insurance, about my kids, questions about every damn thing under the sun… but I’ll be damned if I’m going to start posting my shot record.

So I read that stuff over there and in the meantime, my mean old ‘apparently ignorant enough to impale me with nails before caring for my health’ Master is sitting at the kitchen table engaged in a harmless bout of army men wars with an 11 yr old boy and I got aggravated all to hell and back.

I posted the lyrics. I posted the quote. It made me feel better.

Later, Master came over and wanted to know what it was that got me so aggravated. So I showed Him, told Him, and He didn’t see anything wrong with anything. I guess it was just me. *sigh*

Then I got this comment. In part: “I wonder if you realize how regularly you try to justify yourself and your lifestyle to anonymous observers. Honey, you just have to let it go. Unfortunately, many people are ignorant. They are judgmental idiots. That is why people burn synagogues, scream racial epithets out their truck windows and beat up homosexuals. You are never going to be able to change them. They are going to hide behind their prejudices and keep their minds as firmly closed as their legs (one imagines). No matter how many incredibly intelligent posts you write, no matter how many times you explain that you are healthy and sane, no matter how many times your more casual posts demonstrate that you are actually extremely happy, these people are not going to get it. And they will judge you.”

I wanted to reply to it then but I promptly got banned from the computer so I couldn’t. BUT.. that gave me time to think about it. And I realized this person (whoever you are) is exactly right. I spend way WAY too much time trying to justify myself.

I guess because I am so happy and our life is predominantly normal, that when someone shows up with the wrong idea, I only want to correct it. I figure they must simply be misunderstanding me to have come to that conclusion. In the same way I approach my kids, with stubborn persistence, I’ll just keep trying to explain it a different way until they “get it”.

It’s fucking tiring. Master has told me to stop. Numerous people here have repeatedly told me to stop. I’ve said I was going to stop. Am I retarded? Why do I continue to insist in thinking that I’m going to change someone who just isn’t going to see me for me?

I don’t mind answering curious questions or good-natured inquiries. I like to talk (no, really. I do. :P) but all too often I’m left on the defensive and I just have to stop doing that. I actually was going to come back and delete that post because I realized what I was doing but, like I said, I’d been banned by then so I couldn’t. Now it’s borderline rude to delete something that has so many comments on it. It’s like throwing away a birthday card or something..lol.

Now.. I do have another post to make still! I don’t know if I will do it today though. Three today already, although one was a repeat by request and one was my kid’s stuff.. so they don’t count, right? :D

~cunt

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Every now and then I take some time and go through my kid’s computer. Innocently, I’m running the scans that they won’t bother with. Virus, spyware, adware, etc. I check to see what things have installed themselves while they play their games and set up camp at myspace. And too, I glance through the history, peek at pictures and do my own little netnanny spying.

I’m not saying they never look at anything inappropriate but if they are, they hide it well because I’ve never seen a trace of it. I know.. knock on wood, keep my fingers crossed, all of that stuff.

Anyway, I also will take a look through my daughter’s wordpad files, just to see what she has going on because she doesn’t send me everything. Today I found this, written apparently the day after their computer crashed and she lost all of her work. (It was never recovered, sadly. Though she is still writing, the book that she had been writing, she says she probably won’t start over. At least not now.)

The reason I am posting it isn’t because I think it’s that good, though of course I think everything she does is good, but because it happened to be on par with things that are circling through my own mind lately. That she put into a few simple sentences something that probably a lot of us need to look at is pretty astounding.

Here it is.

I won’t be deleted.

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Pain

I originally posted this on Nov. 17, 2005. By request, per this gorgeous fucktoy, I’m re-posting it. Though it’s been too long ago to detail the particular mood I was in when I wrote it, I guess it’s pretty obvious. *grin*

Application of pain drives a person inwards. It drives us into the boundaries of our own bodies. Cognitive thoughts and reason are abandoned. Time in the normal sense of reality stops.. changes… seconds and minutes begin to tick by in rhythm with strokes, or swats or waves of discomfort. The world dwindles to a pinpoint.. with the Application of Pain being the new center. The black hole of a new universe.

There is no hour. No twenty minutes. No day. It’s all a swirl, measured anew…. measured from less to more. From beginning to end. From small pain to excruciating. From mumbled ows to screams to quiet but accepting moans.

Willing the end to come quickly, while struggling to sink into nothing. Seeking the distance, the drowning, the muted. The place where you feel it. But it doesn’t feel you.

Even as you beg and cry and whimper for more, for harder, searching His face for pleasure. Offering yourself, your body, your mind… your screams to soothe the beast. To calm.

Holding on inside, desperate and powerless, muscles tensed… will power and mind focused, intent, on being, on nothing, on everything, on Him. Crouched and waiting… watching… for the thirst to be quenched. For the flame to dwindle.

Is it luck that opens the door of the endorphin highway? A blessing… a curtain against the deep agonizing pain, where you can hunker down.. pull into yourself and watch, with an almost detached fascination as your body is used. Feeling pain under a blanket of hormones and sexual excitement and rising building climbing Tantric orgasm. Luck.. or skill.

His skill, His desire… His will. To keep you there, inside, focused and feeling each and every strike. Every blow, every wave as it starts and rises, explodes and then wans. Wanting and needing to hear every nuance… every lilt in your cries. Varying the speed and force when it leans too close to your pleasure and too far away from His.

Or your choice? Maybe the only gift you can give Him, to keep yourself in the here and now. To take and feel and live and breathe every offered second of His sadism. To watch as it fills and consumes Him, to see yourself as nothing more than a means to His end. To feel the transferred energy as a small piece of the monster that drives Him is left on each welt that covers your body. Until you have it all, and carry it with pride. To trace each mark and smile and remember and show Him and tell Him “I looked into Your eyes with this one. I watched Your lips with this one. I loved Your spirit with this one.”

Or is it His gift to let you go, to push you over the edge? To adjust the rhythm so that every wave of pain drifts you closer and closer to flying… soaring.. riding the pain. Subspace. Where you no longer feel individual pieces of Him. Everything melts and blends and mixes and you can’t pick where He ends and you begin… and tracing the welts afterward, you can look at Him and say “I felt all of You, right here.”

They are both beautiful. Each end of the spectrum.

~cunt

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Real quick.

First a bit of a song. Billy Joel.

I don’t need you to worry for me cause I’m alright
I don’t want you to tell me it’s time to come home
I don’t care what you say anymore, this is my life
Go ahead with your own life, and leave me alone

I never said you had to offer me a second chance
(I never said you had to)
I never said I was a victim of circumstance
(I never said)
I still belong, don’t get me wrong
And you can speak your mind
But not on my time

They will tell you, you can’t sleep alone in a strange place
Then they’ll tell you, you can’t sleep with somebody else
Ah, but sooner or later you sleep in your own space
Either way it’s okay, you wake up with yourself

And then a fast quote.

Never explain–your friends do not need it and your enemies will not believe you anyway.
Elbert Hubbard (1856 – 1915)

**Edit: See what I get for being cryptic? Confusion. No, Master is home. He’s playing Star Wars something-or-other with B-man (son). This post was more a message to… well hell, just people. Sorry for the drama queen emo-crap.

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