Closing Argument (see what I did there?)

From the comments: “I fail to see how a garden variety marital fight turned into an overblown divorce?”

I’d been thinking about that anyway. Though I’m not alone in the “blame” category, the only person I can change is myself. So trying to flush out the reason for my part in it is important.

Master, however, will have to do his own flushing.

We’ve had other disagreements about the kids, their behavior, etc., that haven’t ended up in Divorce Court, so it’s clearly not a case of me only being willing to hear glowing things about my precious offspring.

And I’ve been told more than once that I’m not the World’s Greatest Mom, which (usually) rolls off my back like water off a duck because the only people who really get to judge me as a parent are my kids. So it isn’t that. It might sting a bit when it’s a case of Master telling me I’m not good enough, but that’s true of him telling me I’m not good enough in any area of our lives, and not something that tends to end with me thinking of giving up.

AND, it’s not a matter of me thinking I need to get my kids away from his influence or protect them from anything. In fact, I’m 100% confident in saying that I wouldn’t be doing it for the kids at all. I can *almost* leave them out of it. Because it’s not them, in the here and now that is the problem.

See, the longer Master and I do this thing that we’re doing, the deeper and stronger my dependence on him gets. A very large part of that is financial. But more on that in a bit.

Because the kids are at the ages they are and still need my active involvement like they do, I retain, at Master’s discretion, a certain level of autonomy. I have access to the car, I have access to the checking account, I can leave the house at any time without asking, as long as it’s related to something to do with a kid (someone needs picked up early from school, someone missed the bus, etc.) I can freely use the phone to call one of the kids, or, like yesterday, just get up and say “I gotta go pick up Am from a friend’s house. Brb!”.

The kids living here and still needing raising guarantees me the gift of freedom. But over, around, under, and, sometimes, on top of that, is his control. I’m aware that the freedoms I have are directly due to the kids still living here.

I’m also acutely aware of what his plans are for after they move out. I know those few freedoms will be gone. I know that every move I make will be at his permission. Though, we’ve deviated some from those early fantasies of cunt-in-a-cage, he hasn’t deviated far. This business of child-rearing is a waiting game, and then shit is gonna get real.

Or so I hear. Certainly time will tell, and his interests are subject to change, yada yada yada. But as it stands, what I understand my future to hold is intensity, isolation, dependence, servitude, confinement, and extreme control. (and pain. Lots-o-pain)

Everytime we have a fight, it’s about the kids. Every single time. And when a disagreement ends with me standing with one foot on the threshold, it’s because he’s made some indication of “being done”. He’s decided he’s not going to do… something,, whatever… about/to/for/with one of the kids.

Because they aren’t HIS kids, because he doesn’t have the kind of bond with them that I do, it’s not a far stretch for me to believe that he really could just turn his back on one or all of them, and never see them again. I mean, shoot, if their own bio-dad can do it, a non-bio-dad certainly can.

It doesn’t matter that I know that’s not his character or that I want to believe his integrity and honor run deeper than a hastily uttered threat in the heat of the moment because I also know that he doesn’t usually say things lightly.

So when I hear the words “not doing this anymore”, I don’t know what to make of that in regards to ME. If everything I do, and everything I WILL do, relies entirely on him, how does “not doing this anymore” affect ME, when I will never, ever, ever, turn my back on my kids. Short of finding one of them standing over my bed with a butcher knife, that is.

Does that make sense? When what I know of my future means that every move I make will need his permission AND his direct involvement and he’s decided to disown/ignore one of the kids for whatever reason, then I, by fiat, would have to disown them too.

And if I don’t make it perfectly, crystal, abundantly clear RIGHT NOW, while I still have SOME freedoms, while my dependence, though high and strong, is not COMPLETE, that I will not give up control of motherhood, that I will lay everything near and dear to me on the line for it, that I will walk the fuck out, then I’m leaving myself open to having that taken away from me in the future.

The financial dependence, and how that’s affected my head, is pretty significant already. Well, the financial coupled with everything else that he’s instilling in me. Because, like I said in that other post, just *getting* an application is the most terrifying thing I can think of to do. That is not an exaggeration in the slightest.

Every year that passes closes the door to financial independence a little bit more, and a little bit more, and a little bit more. I haven’t had a real job in 6 years.

At best, I’d get a part time minimum wage gig. That would barely support me, let alone me and a couple of kids. Then I’d have to think of education or training or.. something..

I just think about it all and I physically feel ill. It T E R R I F I E S me. It’s a crippling. There have been times I’ve thought, seriously thought, that I’d rather die than have to find my way back to independence. I’d just rather die.

Which, really makes no sense at all when what I’m fighting for is to retain the right to do whatever I want to do for my kids, you know? I’ll just die, because, THEN I can see my kids whenever I want! Yeah. I never claimed to be rational. Anyway…

Do any of you ever watch that Intervention show on A&E? You have this whole family who is divided over one addicted person. A lot of times, especially when it’s a child (adult child) who is the addict, the division is between mom and dad. One of them (dad usually) is done. The other (mom) is sneaking money to fund the habit and driving around in the middle of the night trying to save the kid.

I don’t think I could live with knowing that I don’t even have the option of driving around to try to save my kid.

I am so afraid that in another couple of years I’ll be so far entrenched in his enslavement that I won’t even be able to fight him on it. So when he utters such nonsense like ‘done’, ‘no more’, ‘not doing that’, even if I agree with him, I panic because he’s ripping that option out of my hands. I need to have that option. I may not take it, I’m not a stupid woman, but I need to have it. I need to be able to CHOOSE to, or choose not to, rescue my kid. I can’t have it decided for me.

If that means I can’t be the kind of slave he wants, then so be it. Because I can’t be any other way.

When we had that big row over Jes when she first got pregnant, it was exactly this same thing. I very likely would not have given her any of what she was asking for. I very likely would have sided with Master from the very beginning. But the minute he took the decision out of my hands, I snapped. I snapped and I almost walked.

This is why it all seems to turn on a dime. Why one entry is all rainbows and love and the very next I’m packing my bags. Because it doesn’t matter if everything else in our lives is perfect and smooth and wonderful. Everything else can STILL be perfect and smooth and wonderful, but there is one place I won’t go, there is one place that will end everything on a dime. And he has a tendency to step there.

I will not “be done” with my kids, likely ever, and certainly not before I’ve decided I’m done.

So how is that fair to him, if he’s really just had all he can take? Well, it’s not. But the popular thing to say around here is “Do you see a ferris wheel in the living room? No? Then there is no fair, sweetheart.”

He can be done all he wants. He can refuse to see them, refuse to talk to them, whatever, if that’s what it comes to. I don’t care. He, as much as I, needs to have the right to decide that for himself. But then I’d better still be allowed the means to do what I gotta do myself for my kid.

Not that any of my kids are in a place where being disowned or cut off is necessary. HOWEVER, given Master’s track record of reacting harshy to what I consider minor stuff, what will happen when it is something major? What if it is a drug addiction or a jail term or, or, fuck if I know… they crack up the car. Or get pregnant..lol

I have to be the ruler of my own parenting destiny. If I can’t have that here with him then I need to go where I can have it. If he can’t live with that, then he needs to let me go. And preferably before I’ve lost every single job skill I know and am too fucking old to learn new tricks.

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Court is now in session.

This is like when I used to watch Court TV and the prosecuter would be up, giving his speech and I’d be all “O.M.G! He is SO guilty! Fry him! Fry his ass!” and then the defense guy would get up and make his speech and then I’d be all “Aww. Poor guy. He’s innocent. Just let him go home already!”

Some of the responses to the first post were getting dangerously close to calling for Master to be tarred and feathered, and now I see that I’m in the hot seat! Sheesh.

Here’s the thing- unless I were to sit here, day in and day out, typing every word spoken, detailing every interaction, which I’m not going to do to, the most you’re going to get are highlights, snippets, and my best attempt at succinct explanations. The conclusions you then reach can be nothing more than projection and assumption.

I understand that, though, because I’m well used to (and often frustrated by) the limits of this form of communication. I’m also very aware that while I may think I have described something in enough detail, that I often have not. I’m (generally) willing to try and explain it further.

Though I might *prefer* if people would clarify by, oh, I don’t know, maybe asking something like “Now kaya, are you aware that you’ve indicated that you allow your kids to tell your husband to shut up and that you don’t care about it?” instead of getting 47 replies of “OMG I CANT BELIEVE YOU LET THAT HAPPEN!!!ELEVENTY!! WHY HASNT HE DUMPED YOU YET?!” because I can assure you, I’d hasten to correct that very incorrect miscommunication.

Which, not surprisingly, is what I’m going to do here.

So first, the disrespect issue:

1) I do not condone/ allow/ excuse/ ignore or otherwise encourage disrespect from my kids to anyone, especially to Master. It is not “okay”. It is not “no big deal”. It is not “Aww, my poor precious baby. Leave her alone, you big brute!”

Having said THAT, it is also not an unforgivable offense. It is not going to be reason to disown them and never talk to them again. It’s not cause enough TO ME to pack their bags and set them on the side of the road. They aren’t poking the eyes out of live puppies and eating them like grapes, they’re teenagers who got too mouthy. Not the end of the world. Not ignorable, but not disownable either.

I don’t like it. I don’t put up with it. They know it. This isn’t something that happens frequently by any means. On the occasion that it DOES happen, I expect to have equal say in the consequences. I don’t argue that there should be no consequences, I simply think that as their mother, my opinion of those consequences had better not be tossed aside *simply because he’s my dominant*.

Because… no. Ain’t gonna happen. And if demanding that I maintain equal control over my own kids means I can’t be a member of the True Slave club, that’s fine. I’m not a slave anyway so we’re all good. :)

2) We’re a loud, boisterous and snarky family (I’ve no idea where my kids learned snark. Baffles me.) We tell off-color jokes, we talk candidly about sex, we argue about religion, we call each other names and make fun, we get in heated debates about abortion and gay rights and politics and race and, whenever possible, someone gets “pwned!”

Just because someone decides to take something a little too seriously doesn’t mean the intent of disrespect was there. What was fine yesterday because someone was in a better mood but is not fine today because someone is cranky does not a good case for discipline make.

If there is no consistency with the rules, that makes it difficult for ALL of us to know where not to tread.

3) They do respect him. They follow his rules, they listen when he talks, they respond appropriately, they laugh with him, joke with him, converse with him, blah blah blah- and sometimes, sometimes, they respond inappropriately. Sometimes, so does he. Sometimes, so do I. In those cases, see #1.

Regarding counseling:

We started counseling awhile back actually. For this very issue. Unfortunately, when other things took precedence, counseling slipped to the bottom of the totem pole and we haven’t been in a few months. When you aren’t in crisis and things are running smooth, it’s easy to put things like that on the back burner. Also unfortunately, when the shit hit the fan, all of the tools we’d learned when we were there went right out the window. Because we’re lame like that.

Whether or not we’ll pick back up where we left off remains to be seen. Probably we will long before we ever call it quits. (however, while the cost of it doesn’t matter if it means saving us, to the person who said if we can afford a gym membership then we can afford a counselor? The gym membership is $30 a month. The counselor is $125 an HOUR. Not quite the same.)

The counselor is not kink-friendly and I find that to be a big barrier. It’s difficult to talk about things and present things in a purely vanilla fashion because that’s not how we live and because his power over me plays a big part in this issue. Being dismissed because “you’re the slave, you do what I say, now go and do THIS” when it comes to parenting infuriates me. I’m not even sure he’s aware he does it.

Rules:

The kids have rules. The kids follow rules. Didn’t I say in the last post that “I’ve already added rules I never wanted them to live under”? Not to mention the rules I came with. And I enforce those rules. Master has lots and lots and LOTS of say on the rules. His opinions, his wants, his needs, his voice is not ignored.

However. I dont have 3 little robots living in the basement. If only it were as simple as saying “Okay! Now we’re all going to follow this rule! Fun!” and they all applauded and I never had to mention it again. Doesn’t happen that way. Master thinks it should. But it doesn’t. It may never be that easy. It may someday, and it gets easier as time goes on- but it may not. And what I can’t do is make it happen any easier or faster than what it does. They are resistent to change, they are resistent to having a step-father arbitrarily making up rules all the time. I am behind him, but change does not happen overnight. Not with my kids.

So it’s not quite like he’s being ignored around here.

Discipline:

I actually do think that it is mainly my job to ENFORCE discipline, for all of those reasons listed in the last post along with other reasons.

That is not to say that he has no SAY in discipline. He just is not typically the one to ENFORCE it. We’ve tried having us both be “enforcers” and it just didn’t work. It works well with B-man. B-man responds rather positively to Master as a disciplinarian. Not so much with Jes and Am. Especially Am. Why stir up resentment that otherwise needn’t be there? It’s not only not that unusual for the bio parent to be the disciplinarian, it’s recommended by Dr. Phil. :D

That doesn’t mean he can’t tell them to do stuff- he does. That doesn’t mean he can’t talk to them about the consequences of their actions- he does. That doesn’t mean he doesn’t holler at them sometimes- he does. But if the result we’re after is obedience and they respond better to me, and if the other result we’re after is nurturing a postive relationship between him and them and they do NOT respond well to him enforcing discipline, then why continue down that path? For what gain?

The problem with all of that is that while Master is perfectly agreeable to me being the disciplinarian *on paper*, he’s, as I said before, much quicker to react and just doesn’t give me the time to respond. Once he’s pulled it out of my hands, and/or started demanding that I do XYZ right now, then we’ve lost all of the previously agreed upon approaches to discipline and the issue has shifted from whatever infraction the kid committed to an issue between us.

He wants to pull the dom trump card and I refuse to be dommed over parenting. Let me say that again because I understand it’s a difficult concept. I refuse to be dommed over parenting. Refuse. REFUSE. I demand equal say in their upbringing. Uterine rights and all.

My hoodlum kids:

Strangely enough, I’m just not ready to turn my back on them and write them off. If that works for you when they fuck up, then great! Doesn’t work for me. If that’s what Master needs to do, then do it. I’m not going to. I think that at 15, 17 and 18, there is a lot of room left for improvement.

Plus, leaving Jes aside because she’s got way more going on than simple teenage/baby problems that are entirely a separate thing, what exactly about Am and B-man makes them delinquents? B-man experimented with pot… last summer or something. He hasn’t since. (and, ironically, I was cautioned against reacting too harshly to a “harmless” thing when I talked about it then. Now it’s evidence of him being a thug?) He goes to school and he plays XBox. Am is a straight A student, doesn’t do anything but go to school. Srsly? Bad kids now? Whatever.

Throwing it all away:

I’m not throwing it away because he wants a say in things. He has one. A big one. A loud one.

I’m not throwing it away because I have to protect them. I don’t. There is nothing to protect them from.

I’m not throwing it away because I think he doesn’t have the right to parent with me. He’s more than earned that right.

I’m not throwing it away because the kids have some secret desire to split us up. They don’t. They love him and they don’t want to go anywhere.

I’m not throwing it away at all.

I’m standing up and demanding that I get the respect from him as their mother that I deserve. All this yammering on about respect. I had something to do with pulling those “battle scarred” children out of crap situations and turning them into decent, albiet flawed, humans who I can take out in public and everything. They don’t drool or shit on the sidewalk or anything! Where is my respect? When does he have to say, you know what? You’re a good mom. What do YOU think we should do about this, this, or this?

Not to mention that I wasn’t the one to bring up throwing it away to begin with! Cheese-n-rice! It wasn’t me who said “Gosh. I can’t do this anymore.”

Now I’m just getting irritable! Damn it all. It’s a good thing I’m a judgemental bitch myself or I might have to throw spitwads at you people! I might do it anyway!

~ohm~
~ohm~
~OHM~

Srsly now…

Master extended an olive branch last night.

And by olive branch I mean his cock.

I took it.

Because, ffs, I don’t WANT to lose any of this. All I’m askin’–

Is for a little respect

when you come home (just a little bit)
Baby (just a little bit) when you get home (just a little bit)
Yeah (just a little bit)

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Dirty Laundry. A long, long tale of dirty laundry.

This isn’t the first time I’ve asked myself why I air so much of our dirty laundry across the ‘tubes of the web. Not the first time someone else has asked me either.

I’ve always got pat answers ready: I like to write- which is true enough. It helps to get it out of my head- also true enough. I’m doing my part to highlight that M/s isn’t all rainbows and blowjobs- again, true.

Mostly though, I do it to curb the loneliness. I do ‘alone’ very well. It’s my preferred state actually. I like to be alone, I like my own company, I like to be in charge of the when and the who and the method of not being alone (selfish and self serving? Check.)

But alone and lonely are two different things. I can be alone and not be lonely because I have (had) Master. When there is a rift between M and I, I am alone and lonely.

So I tend to come here. And because I possess absolutely no ability to think of other things when I’m snagged in a net of discord, I talk about the discord. I don’t like that that translates into me airing our dirty laundry, but, meh, the truth hurts sometimes I guess.

To stay true to my propensity to air it all out, I’m going to continue to do so. Right now, and right here, and mostly because I need to go fill out job applications which is just about the most terrifying thing I can think of to do and I’m avoiding it like you wouldn’t believe. I’d rather go deep sea diving. I’d rather eat a live cockroach. I’d rather DIE! D-I-E dead.(Need to give those who label me a drama queen something to feed on, dontchaknow.)

I’m hoping to halt the speculating before it takes on a life of its own.

So!

This is not related in any way to another woman. None whatsoever. I stand by everything I’ve ever said about including others. In fact, I happen to like very much the girl he’s talking to.

I almost wish it were some clandestine love affair because that would be easier to deal with. There would be something, someONE to focus on and to hate. I could revel in feeling self-righteous and wronged and scorned– instead of this god-awful empty confusion and helplessness.

But, alas, no affairs. No lying or cheating or sneaking or anything like that.

It is not kink or control related. In that area, we sail along rather spendidly. The occasional choppy waters or drifting off course, but overall, a good ride.

It was not triggered by Jes or Babygirl. They aren’t even here.

It IS kid-related. Of course it is. The only thing that we ever battle over is the kids. That’s not an exaggeration either. We don’t squabble over anything else, ever. Just the kids.

I wish it could be summed up easily; but it can’t. I wish it could be fixed easily; but it can’t. We’ve been at this for 6 years. Years and years of compromise and bending and talking and arguing and trying to find a common ground. It’s been two steps forward, one step – and sometimes three steps- back the whole way.

It’s not my fault or his fault. It’s a culmulation of a lifetime of differences that clash, sometimes in spectacularly violent ways. Of literally having lived our entire lives in different worlds and trying, somehow, to find a happy meduim.

It’s more than the glib advice of “if you trust him to guide your life, then trust him to guide your kids”. Because it’s got nothing to do with trust. It’s not that I worry he’s going to steer them wrong. It’s not that I have doubt in his ability to parent. He’s rarely ever *wrong* in what his demands or requests are. If I were to die, given the option to choose who my kids would stay with to finish the transition into adulthood, I’d choose Master. Over their own father, over my parents, over anyone else I know, I’d choose him.

But…

Sometimes I’m right, too. Sometimes where I want to go as a parent needs to take precedent over where he wants to go, even if the only (ir)rational reason I have is because I have uterine rights.

I think every parent who ever planned on having kids came into it planning the kind of parent they wanted to be. Based largely on their own childhood and life experience. It could be something as simple as looking at an aspect of their own childhood and making the determination to never do that to their kids. Or to make sure and carry on something wonderful. Whatever it is, we all have them.

Obviously the reality of parenting negates some of those things. I know I made the vow to never respond with “because I’m the mom, thats why!” because it drove me INSANE as a child. But I couldn’t even tell you how many times I’ve used that line, even still to this day.

But a lot of those things that I came with are incredibly important to me. Important enough that I’m putting everything ELSE that I hold dear to me on the line to make SURE that I can retain the right to do these certain things.

Likewise, he has the same convictions on certain things.

I tend to think, in cases where we violently disagree on something, that my parental rights should take precedence over his. If for no other reason than I’ve put the time in, from birth on up, to have those rights. I also think that since he came in late in the game, he’s unaware of what ELSE has happened to us that may have dictated my current reaction to any situation. Or what may have happened to THEM that explains their current reaction to HIM.

However, he feels like he’s put enough time, money and effort in to have equal, if not higher, “rights” than I do. And maybe he has.

I also think he’s just simply a dominant. Period. That trait doesn’t restrain itself to his dealings with me. Not that he’s trying to “dom” the kids. He’s not. He tries to “dom” me into being the parent he wants me to be, though. If there is anything that will cause me to dig my heels like a stubborn mule it’s being told how to parent.

But that mule-stubborn reaction didn’t occur in a vacuum. I didn’t just decide one day out of selfish bitchiness to not let anyone else determine my parenting techniques, nor am I rigid and unbending on everything.

I just feel like I’ve already compromised as much of my parenting ideals as is possible to do without losing my ideals completely. I feel like I’ve already added rules I never wanted them to live under, sacrificed this, that or the other, and relinquished enough control to successfully blend a family. And I feel like he keeps pushing and pushing for more.

He feels the same way about his own compromising.

Someone down in the comments brought up the fact that while the kids need me now, and are here for me now, they won’t always be. I know that. I’m typically on the side of putting your spouse first for that very reason.

But I think there’s a limit to doing that before you might as well just dump your kids into foster care because you’ve ceased ever being there for them.

I want to be there for them in the ways that matter to me. In the ways that were determined to be important to me based on my own childhood, and based on the experiences I’ve already had as a parent.

I am not willing to compromise on certain matters. At all. I’m just not.

That does not mean I won’t listen to him, or listen to his concerns or see if I can’t find a way that allows me to maintain those matters of importance while also appeasing him.

But I will not be told “this is how you’re going to do it- or else” because I’ll take the “or else” if that’s the only way I can hold on to my convictions.

If I could go back for a minute to the different worlds from which we came, and how that shaped us. I think it has so much more influence over the two of us than we’re, perhaps, willing to admit. And I suspect that if we could get to a place where our reactions make sense to each other, we’d lessen some of the clashing.

I’ve talked lots about my growing up years so I’ll skip the lengthy details Suffice it to say, I grew up in a world of chaos. There was violence and abuse and alcoholism and mental illness and dysfunction running rampant.

I grew up with physical fighting, flying dishes and furniture. I grew up in addiction, abandoned children, drunk driving, people disappearing for a weekend or a week, with speculation over them being alive or dead. I have a brother in prison, a sister who is drinking herself to death, two brothers who are disowned for various crimes against family- I could go on, but it gets repetitive. So those were the early years.

Of course it shaped me, molded me, affected me. That showed itself in my first choice of husband, a temperamental alcoholic with frequent episodes of “I don’t want you but I’ll kill you before I’ll let anyone else have you” type of loving.

(Incidentally, one of those “ideals” that I made about parenting was that my kids weren’t going to come from a broken home like I did. I spent far too many years with their father, desperately trying to make our marriage work, in an attempt to stick to that ideal. Even going as far as adopting the “if you cant beat ‘em, join ‘em” theory and damn near drinking myself to death to try and appease him. That’s just one of the many early ideals that had to change.)

It showed itself in my next husband, who, while seemingly nice and normal in the beginning (and a non-drinker, which may have just been different enough in my life to have disguised everything else about him) suffered a serious break from reality shortly after we got married.

Here’s what I learned while living with him:

1) crazy people are fucking scary.

2) For all of my mama-bear tendencies, when it came to sometimes sacrficing the kids to save myself, I did it. Terrible as he was to them, he didn’t hit them. Me stepping in to intercept his discipline though? He’d hit me. So indeed. I was weak. They suffered. And I’ll never, ever, ever do that again. I will never stand back and let someone else discipline my kid in a way that I don’t agree with , even if that discipline is nothing major. Won’t do it. Ever.

3) Had he been anywhere close to me instead of being 2 states away when he killed himself, he’d have taken me with him. There is not a doubt in my mind. That suicide pact that he made me agree to was REAL to him. And..

4) if he weren’t already buried with a bullet in his head, when my kids told me some of the things that I didn’t know about what he did to them, I’d have killed him myself. Were he not buried 2 states away, I might go shoot at his grave just for the satisfaction it would bring.

To make a long story short (which, quite frankly, I cannot do), I’ve got a lifetime of perspective behind me.

Master, on the other hand, in comparison to my life, has lived a charmed life. He might not agree with that, but he doesn’t have my perspective either.

His childhood was stable and normal and straight out of The Wonder Years. He had the whole Norman Rockwell experience, complete with spending summers at grandma’s house. His exposure to children have been children born and bred in that stability.

(And I don’t mean to imply that his life was perfect all the time or that mine was horrible all the time. Of course it wasn’t, for either of us. But the overall shaping was what it was.)

So here you have my perspective, which runs the way of “did anyone shoot a hole in the wall? Are the cops at the door? No. Then we’re good. No biggie. What’s for dinner?” to his perspective, which is more along the lines of “did that kid just tell me to shut up? She is so grounded for the rest of her life and I’m taking her phone, her computer, and her little dog, too! AND, I’m never talking to her again! She’s dead to me!”

Exaggeration? Mmmmaybe. Maybe not.

And we’re equally baffled by the other’s reactions. He’s all “how can you be so flippant and dismissive? She’s going to be a hoodlum!” and I’m all “Wtf are you even getting mad about?? Nobody is even bleeding, ffs!”

Just absolutely baffled by the other.

And that’s really when things start to get ugly. Because I will think he’s grossly overreacting to a minor blip on the rasing-kids-radar and he’ll think I’m completely dismissive of a problem-that-needs-addressed-right-fucking-now.

So I do nothing (or do nothing fast enough, because I’m slower to react than he is and because I’ve learned from watching tempers fly to take a step back and assess before I do anything) (and, to be fair and honest, I will also sometimes step back far enough that I let it slide completely) and then he’ll take matters into his own hands which triggers my “I will never stand back and let someone else discipline my kid in a way that I don’t agree with” response and before you know it? All hell is breaking loose and we’re packing bags and shit.

I can’t fault him for having things that are important to him and for wanting to live a certain way.

Just as he can’t fault me for it.

I think it was incredibly inaccurate for me to say, as I did somewhere down there, that HE doesn’t want ME. Because even in the midst of trying to scratch the other’s eyes out, we’ve both interrupted the eyeball-scratching with “but I love you, goddammit!”

Unfortunately, I am not singular. His not wanting THEM, or not wanting to deal with them, is equal to not wanting ME because we’re a package deal.

I still don’t know where we are. Other than him saying he can’t live like this and me repeating the same thing back to him.

Sometimes I think this has got to be the stupidest reason to split up ever and that we must be the lamest, most immature couple to ever try and make a blended family work, and then I’ve only to look at the statistics of blended families to realize they probably had the same stupid fights over who left the milk out and ended up in divorce court over it.

Though we aren’t fighting over milk. THIS time.

I don’t know. I think it’s too flippant to say “but Tess! Your kids will move out and leave you!” because they aren’t moved out yet and they still need me now.

Obviously I wish he would lighten up, he wishes I would step up. He feels if he gets any lighter, he’s gonna float away. I feel if I step up anymore, I’m gonna stomp on them.

I don’t know if there is a middle ground left.

And, for the first time (or second or third or…) I’m so angry that he’s worked so hard on the enslaved, can’t leave angle that I still can’t fathom not being with him. It’s a very trapped feeling. A very weak feeling.

One part of me stands up and sceams how I am not living like this anymore and I’m taking my kids and leaving and the other part snorts, pats me on the head and tells me to sit my slave-ass down and shut up.

Fact is, if he wants me out, he’s going to have to put me out. I know I’ll make it from there, I won’t shrivel in a corner and die- but to make that move? I can’t. The ball is in his court. It is always in his court.

Is it terribly sad that I find that comforting? That stupid slave voice? Can’t someone shut that bitch up?

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Alive. Ish.

Me, that is. I’m alive- even if I wish I weren’t. :/

That’s not a suicide threat, btw. Just a general observation on the current suckfulness of my existence.

I’ve done a lot of emotional eating over the last couple of days. I ate a cake. Not a piece of, but a cake. It was a small cake, and it had apples in it, but it was still a fucking cake. Certainly no worries over sending my body into starvation mode anymore.

No doubt I’ve undone all my hard work at the gym, but, meh, I’m not going anymore. A gym membership is something I’ll have neither the time or the money for, and who gives a shit what I look like anyway.

I wish I could report that we’re moving forward. But we aren’t. We’re stalled. Stuck. Spinning our wheels.

Probably the decision is made and I’m just not willing to say it. Saying it will make it real. I don’t want it to be real even if I think it has to be this way.

I have phone calls to return, emails, comments, messages…. I will return them, sometime. Not yet. I think if I let go of the hold I have on myself and actually talk to someone, I’ll fall apart. So not yet. I appreciate so many people reaching out, though. It does make me feel less alone, just to know you’re there, even if I’m preferring to be alone still. I’m not good company, trust me.

I’m either quietly sobbing, seething with anger or crippled by fear. That makes up my days. I don’t see that changing anytime soon.

But, at least I don’t have to remind myself to breathe anymore. It just hurts to do it.

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Owners, Conditions and Lines.

There was a thread many many moons ago on Fet regarding ‘conditional property’. I can’t remember if I talked about this before, it’s possible I did. But a portion of this was saved in my drafts and it ties in with something else.

The question was “If he became unable to continue to enslave you (illness, etc.) would you be free to leave?”

The premise being that enslavement is an ongoing and active process, and that should that vanish, the property (me) would revert back very quickly to being an autonomous entity.

I agreed that the reversal would probably be quick. That being thrust into what is normally his role (decision making, taking control, being HIS keeper) would ascerbate that reversal.

I agreed that enslavement is (mostly) an ongoing process and requires his committment to upholding that process.

I also agreed that, should the Owner/property dynamic crumble, I’d not be property anymore. I believe maintaining that dynamic requires certain.. things.. to make it what it is. I cannot define what those things are because it’s different for everyone. But there is something that sets us apart from every other couple out there who doesn’t identify as O/p. For us, it’s control and pain. For another, it could be something completely different. But should those things cease to exist, I’d cease being property and just be Wife.

But, I still would not be free to leave. Or, I might be FREE to go, but I wouldn’t. I wouldn’t abandon him just because things turned out differently than expected. I don’t only want him at his best.

Honor, commitment, loyalty, love are the foundations of my enslavement to him.

That response assumes that he wishes to maintain the dynamic, but is physically or mentally unable to do so. That he’s not willingly abandoned us.

What then, if I’m the one struggling? What if things are turning out differently than HE expected?

The same things don’t necessarily apply. Honor, commitment, loyalty and love are fleeting and one-sided, and dependent on a whole slew of mitigating circumstances.

If I can go off on a tangent for a moment–

I want to talk about types of dog owners, puppy owners specifically.

Type A Dog Owner starts with a puppy and willingly, and knowingly takes on all the headaches that come with puppy ownership. The chewing, the peeing, the biting, the whining, the yipping. They do the walks in the rain and wind and cold. They chase puppy down when he runs across the neigborhood. They teach, they train- and mostly, they wait. Wait for the puppy stage to be outgrown. They knew what ‘puppy stage’ meant, they knew it would be trying, exasperating, difficult. They also knew it would be temporary, and were able to keep their eye on the prize.

With their continued effort, and determination to just make it through, puppyhood left and they ended up with a beautiful dog.

Type B Dog Owner also gets a puppy with all the same intentions as Type A. They think they are prepared for puppyhood. They know they want a dog and they are determined to get through the puppy stage to have that dog. But the peeing on the carpet and the chewing of the shoes and the shredding of the garbage starts to wear them down. Having to leash him up in the middle of an interesting movie because puppy has to pee is irritating. Being awakened 2, 3, 4 times a night because puppy is whining and lonely–… and don’t even get me started on what happened when puppy nipped the neighbor’s toddler.

Type B Dog Owner quits- and is advertising to give away a free puppy. Unaware of what they were really getting into, they can only admit that they aren’t able or willing to fight their way through puppyhood.

Type C Dog Owner knows they want a dog. So that’s what they get. One that is already past that annoying and tiring puppy stage. One already trained to pee outside, sit on command, walk on a leash. One that doesn’t chew or bark or slip out of the yard when the gate is left open. One that fits seamlessly into Type C’s life, not causing rifts or chaos or stress. Easy, lackadaisical ownership.

Type C has the same beautiful dog as Type A- but can claim none of the credit. Which is no biggie, I suppose, if the owner isn’t interested in the credit. If the bottom line is ownership, if the bottom line is effortless, then pre-trained and already-grown is the way to go.

But what then, when that beautiful dog has a “moment”, develops an issue, an illness or a behavior? Does Type C adopt Type A’s attitude or Type B’s? It’d be a toss up, I would think. A risky game of chance.

Say you’re the puppy and you have the option of picking your owner, which would you pick? Type A, who is in it for the long haul no matter what? Type B, who starts out strong but is apt to give up when the going gets tough? Or Type C, who really only wants you at your best?

Is there really room to make those harsh judgement against any of them, though?

One could say that at least Type B recognized his limitations and arranged for a better home and better fit for that unruly puppy. That’s infinitely more honorable than hanging on out of some worry of being labelled a quitter and ending up taking frustrations out on the puppy for simply being a puppy.

One could also say that Type C knows what he wants and goes for it, without compromise. Sticking to your guns is a virtue, of sorts. Refusal to bargain, refusal to budge, is a testament to strong character and would, one would imagine, allow for surrounding Type C with that which he desires: perfection.

One could even say that Type A is the weak one for cleaning up puppy piss. That living, even temporarily, in a state of chaos when it doesn’t have to be, says nothing good for the character of Type A.

But. Weaker and lesser of character or not, if I had puppies, I know which owner I’d prefer they have. I also know which owner I’d feel obligated to remove the puppies from.

Strong, steadfast and rigid, while certainly desirable character traits for some things, are not necessarily the best for turning puppies into dogs.

Now, I want to go back to the first part of the entry. Conditions. The concept of no conditions. Unconditional love, unconditional commitment.

I have never in my life been blessed with unconditional love or unconditional commitment from another adult. Not from my parents, not from my first husband or my second, and not now.

My children, likewise, have never had that blessing either, from anyone other than me.

There is nothing they could do that would alter my love and commitment to them. No amount of disrespect, no matter the mistakes, the cost, the stress- nothing. They’ve certainly tested those waters, pushed the buttons and walked the line. But I don’t only love them at their best. I love them, period. I accept them, flaws and all.

Likewise, I’ve only received unconditional love and acceptance from them. As their mom, I’ve made mistakes. Giant, grievous, damaging mistakes. Mistakes that have shaped their lives, their personalities, sometimes in bad ways. Fortunately for me, my children posses an amazing ability to forgive. We share unconditional love and unconditional commitment.

There is a reason why we, my children and I, circle the wagons and become a singular unit. Why, when there is a break in the line, we band together to shore it up and reinforce the barrier. Because anytime any of us have cracked it open to let in CONDITIONAL love and commitment, it creates a weak spot.

Weak spots allow bad things in. Molesters, alcoholics, abusers. That’s our experience with creating weak spots. That’s what conditional commitment creates.

Before the rumor mill takes off, I’m not talking about M. He is not an alcoholic, an abuser nor a molester. Let me repeat, he is none of those things. I’m referring to our pre-M days. I’m referencing our past experiences of opening up, what shaped us into the unit we are and explaining why we don’t let that happen anymore.

I understand that not opening up limits things. Makes things impossible. Shuts people out. I know.

And that is why I struggle with belonging to a Type B or Type C owner.

I know that I, specifically me, am to blame when our tight little circle is cast aside. When it proves too difficult to be the one outside and the outsider gives up, gives in, and walks. I accept that blame.

But it’s proven too risky to do anything else. Being cast aside, hard as it is, I know we’ll bounce. Creating another weak spot? We may not bounce. We may splat. That’s not a chance I can take. Not anymore.

Of course, unconditional love and commitment would repair any potential weak spot but I’m convinced now that finding that in another is a pipe dream.

Because everyone, even the most noble and honorable and dedicated of people, have conditions.

Which brings me back to conditional property. Are there conditions under which I would refuse to live as property?

Absolutely.

Are there conditions under which he will not live as property owner?

Absolutely.

We’ve drawn our lines and they are miles and miles apart. Neither of us more wrong or right than the other, both stubbornly clinging to what’s shaped us in the past. Both of us believing that we’ve bent as much as we can without breaking, when, truth be told, we’re probably both standing ramrod straight.

I don’t know what happens next.

I just don’t.

I know that I love him. I know that I have never been as in love with anyone as I am with him.

I know that being his is everything I’ve ever wanted out of life.

I wish that being his was unconditional.

It’s not.

I’ve talked often, on Fet anyway, of the bizarre concept of the “no matter what” clause in M/s and O/p. Of not understanding the motivation for property to improve, to try, to work, for an Owner who binds themselves to ownership no matter what the property does or says.

In short, a Type A owner.

I’ve said that I was glad that the “no matter what” clause didn’t exist for us. That him owning me because he WANTED to, and not because he HAD to was important to me, and that my having to make the effort to remain worth owning meant something to me.

Should it be that this whole thing fails, that I’m put out or if he lets me voluntarily leave because I’m unable to live up to the conditions he has, at least I’m not left wondering if he only kept me because he had to. I’ll know that I failed to be worth owning.

Though, I sit here and am envious, right now, of the security those others enjoy. Envious of the freedom to be wrong, to stand their ground, to be stubborn and unruly and to piss on the carpet knowing they aren’t jeapordizing everything that matters to them by doing so.

I still might think the “no matter what” clause is bizarre, but nevertheless, as I sit here flapping in the breeze, frozen in terror and trying desperately to figure out my next move, I’d love to bask for just a second in that kind of security.

That’s not mine to have though. Type A, B or C… I don’t know that I’m suited for any of them.

Like I said, I don’t know what happens next. We’ve smacked up against walls before and walked away stronger for it.

I can’t say if we’ll get that lucky this time.

I’ll be deleting my fetlife profile. I have nothing to offer there.

I can’t bring myself to change the status on my profile. I’ve hovered over the buttons often enough in the last few days that I’ve simply just accepted defeat. It’s going to destroy me when I see him change his. The easier, cowardly thing to do is to just make it go away.

I feel like a fraud and a fake, ridiculous and shamed. Apparently, with failure currently tapping me on the shoulder, all of those “you’re doing it wrong!” predictions should have been listened to.

Nothing to contribute, just taking a second to wish my friends luck, and to say good bye.

What this place will become is up in the air. Obviously, should it be that we part ways, I’ll have no “under his hand” material to talk about because I won’t be under his hand anymore. Probably I’ll delete it, too, eventually. I can’t justify paying the domain and hosting charges on a site that is false. Whether or not the need to write stays with me remains to be seen. If it does, there are plenty of free sites to turn to. I’ll post a forwarding link, should there be one, though I expect any new words to be depressing, self pity blather that I can’t imagine even the most dedicated of masochists subjecting themselves to reading.

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Much Ado About Nothing

My week of exercise:

Saturday:
Body pump- 60 min.
Jog- 10 min. mile: Treadmill- 5.8 / 0 incline
Walk- 40 min. Treadmill- 3.5 /2 incline
Pilates- 60 min.

Sunday- No gym.

Monday:
Body pump- 60 min.
Jog- 10 min. mile: Treadmill- 5.8 / 0 incline
Walk- 30 min. Treadmill at 3.5 /2 incline
Aerobics- 60 min.

Tuesday- No gym.

Wednesday:
Body pump- 60 min.
Jog- 10 min. mile: Treadmill- 5.8 / 0 incline
Walk- 30 min. Treadmill at 3.5 /2 incline
Aerobics- 60 min.

Thursday:
Walk- 5 min. Treadmill- 3.5 / 0 incline
Jog – 15 min. (mile and a HALF! w00t!) Treadmill 5.8 / 0 incline
Walk- 60 min. Treadmill ‘Random Hill’ setting: Max speed 5.5 / Max incline 10.0
Walk- 60 min. Treadmill ‘Alpine Pass’ setting: Max speed 3.5 / Max incline 15.0
Walk- 10 min. Treadmill- 2.5 / 20 incline

It’s difficult for me to gauge total calories burned. I take what I can find on the net as fact, though I’ve no way to know if that’s correct. It tends to come out to around 900+ calories burned per day, and thats not counting what I burn normally just through housework, etc. My intake, according to Calorie Counter, averages between 1200-1500. I try and stay closer to 1200, though. Some days I have trouble making 1200, other days I have trouble staying under 1500 (like Easter for instance. Or the day Master grilled shrimp and steak for supper!) (And, my nutrition grade for the day is usually an A, thanks to Nutrition For Idiots. Hee.)

It seems like the weight should be coming off faster, especially around the gut. Fucking tummy fat. It’s still a tad discouraging, but I’m hanging in there. Sometimes I wonder if I’m not getting addicted to the gym. On a normal week, I’d have gotten another pilates class in on Tuesday, and Friday would be a repeat of Monday and Wednesday. I think if we lived closer, I’d be there even more than that.

I also think I have shin splints though. That really sucks ass. I don’t even know what to do about it. Blurgh.

But this week, not only am I not going today anyway, I won’t be going tomorrow and probably won’t be going Monday either. I can practically feel the fat settling in my gut, getting comfortable, knowing it ain’t going anywhere.

Because my parents are coming up here to visit. :/

I’m glad they are coming, I’m excited to see them. It means missing a kink party though, which is seriously disappointing, but I’m still happy they are coming.

They’re coming under the pretense of surprising B-man for his birthday on Saturday, but what they are really coming for is because they are concerned about Jes and want to see Babygirl (who doesn’t? She’s freakin’ adorable.)(Except last night and this morning she was most certainly NOT adorable, staying up until 12:30 and getting up at 5am, when M cuts me NO slack on still getting up with him and doing the morning duties. Grr.)

Anyway, so they’re coming allllllll the way up here just for the weekend, and the best part? They’re taking Jes AND Babygirl home with them for a week or two. I don’t even think I’ll miss them. I so need the break.

I suspect that my mother plans on turning Jes around in that short time, and who am I to stop her? Give it a shot, I say.

The problem with that is that Jes isn’t just a slacker or a lazy kid or whatever else people think. I have lots of suspicions on what her problems are, and I’m working on getting those confirmed so they can be treated. I don’t much care what other people think of her, or of how I’m handling it, or what the consensus is on my taking care of the baby- walk a mile and all that, you know? If Jes were physically incapable of taking care of Babygirl, I doubt I’d be hearing “well make her do it anyway!” Right now, she’s mentally unable. Leave it at that.

But I digress. That’s a whole nother ranting entry.

So my parents are coming, should be in tonight sometime. Nothing kinky will be happening with Mom and Dad sleeping right underneath our bedroom. Nor will I be online and risk opening the doorway for the Devil to enter my home and possess my mother as she sleeps! The interwebz is just the electronic version of a Ouija board, dontchaknow.

No, there will be lots of talk about gardening, lots of critic of my house decorating. Lots of cooking. Lots of.. I dunno what. Hopefully the weather will clear up and we can go do something.

Y’all have some kinky fun and think of me when you do. I’ll be jealous. :)

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Teh Warm Fuzzies- I haz them.

Serenesub has given me a blogging award. Isn’t she sweet? I like her. *nods* (What? Flattery will get you ev-er-y-where!) Thank you, oh-serene-one!

As an aside- I’ve always wondered who starts these things. Where do they come from? Who starts them? Imma start one!

Anyway- If I’m understanding the rules correctly, and if I follow them, I’m supposed to award this to three bloggers and then list seven things about me that you don’t know.

Welllll… we all know how well I follow rules, don’t we? *beams* I’m going to link to 7 8 9 16 bloggers and list 3 things about me.

I gather that several of the people I read have already gotten this so I’m going to try and avoid those folk. Not that I don’t think you are awesome enough to get it twice, but lets not be greedy here, mmmkay?

Let’s go then, shall we?

And the Beautiful Blogger Award goes to…. *cue drumroll*…

At A Kinky House

xantu magic

His and her Quiet Control.

sable

Roles Defining Rules

Radha Sutra

Once More Please, Master

niyamaiu’s hopes and tears

luna

Letters from a Seraglio

Learning complaisance

Kink and Collars

The whole blogging crew at Insatiable Desire

Domestic Servitude

Diary of a Kinky Librarian

Kinky Little Girl

3 things you don’t know about me:

Um…

Well…

Christ. Is there ANYTHING you don’t know about me? 2 days ago, I had my 5th year blog-o-versary. What could I possibly have NOT shared with you all in 5 years?

Nothing, that’s what.

Lemme try some new stuff-

1.Master is somewhat actively persuing poly/other women/other partners. I’ve yet to experience any worry/fear/jealousy.

2. I can jog a mile. In ten minutes. I realize we’re not breaking any records here but considering I got winded on a flight of stairs just a scant few months ago, I’m pretty chuffed with myself. I almost die by the end of it, but so what! The last time I ran a mile was in Junior High track. I think I was 13, ffs.

3. Yesterday, when we were fucking, I was right on the verge of coming when he reached up and smacked me across the face and I lost the orgasm. I wasn’t expecting the slap cuz my eyes were shut, it was a hard smack and it hurt, the angle was off so his aim was off so it was more of an eye-socket/temple slap than a cheek slap, and so, yeah, I lost the orgasm and I had this sudden urge of anger where I pictured smacking him back– and not a single bit of that was evident to him. I said nothing, I covered up nothing, I moved nothing. He kept fucking, he kept hurting, I stayed in position and shortly regained that orgasm. Because, like he said later in the day, he CAN do whatever he wants and I WILL take it. And take it mostly without complaint. (Mostly, I said.) Though this is a pretty mild example, sometimes it just… I dunno… it gets to me how far he’s brought me. How easy I am. How fucking lucky he is…lol.

I don’t suppose that’s anything new but I don’t follow the rules anyway. :D

Speaking of warm and fuzzy, THIS right here?

NOT warm and fuzzy. Not even close. Stoopid weather.

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I Do What I Want!

We were driving along in the truck, chit chatting about everyday stuff, when all of a sudden he gets this big shit eating grin on his face.

Instinctively, I scooted myself toward the door- and away from that grin.

(Wouldn’t you?!)

“You know,” he said, “I just love being able to do whatever I want to you.” And he went back to grinning.

I couldn’t help but grin back at him because, you know, I kinda like that bit, too.

“Such as?” I asked, squirming in my seat at the thought.

“Like when I wanna fuck then we fuck. If I wanna throw you under the desk, then under you go. Like when I grab your tit and smash it in my fist and smack you in the face and-”

“Stop! You’re making me horny! God.”

We’d just finished fucking not more than an hour prior, but no matter. I’d have happily pulled over, dragged him into the woods and done it again.

I love that he loves what he does, who he is. That just thinking about what he has done, and what he can do, is enough to make him grin from ear to ear.

Remember when I used to have all of that omg-Masters-gone-vanilla angst? That is so gone. He’ll never be vanilla. Lucky me. :D :D :D :D

I spent the rest of the day twitching at how awesome it is that he can do whatever he wants to me.

Right up until it was time to watch American Idol and he wasn’t gonna let me. Then I was twitchy for a different reason- and a whole lot less enamored with this idea of him doing whatever he wants.

Hmmph.

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Happy Easter! Belatedly!

(I wrote this on Easter Sunday so that counts as being on time, right? Good. Then let’s all travel back in time so the present tense of the following paragraph makes sense so’s I don’t have to edit it. I love you guys. So cooperative!)

Having a good one? We are. I was getting all bummed again at the thought of having “just another” holiday with the 6 of us, with nothing making it any more special than any other day around here. I’m missing the big gatherings that my mom has every holiday something awful lately. Maybe it’s just knowing that with her health, these family holiday gatherings are numbered. I think we (we as in my siblings and our children) just seem to know that when Mom is gone, so will the big to-dos. They’ve always been her thing. I’m sad to miss the ones that are left.

But. It is what it is. We’re too far away to make that trek more than once or twice a year. So we talked on the phone and I set about planning my own family celebration.

We’re not religious so I don’t even know why we celebrate Easter. Or Christmas for that matter. But oh well; any reason to vary from the humdrum of every day works for me!

My kids are obviously too old for Easter bunnies and baskets, and Babygirl is too young. But I wanted (needed?) to do something to make it fun for ME. So I bought some plastic eggs and Master and I dipped into our piggy bank and filled them, not with candy, but with monies. Then we hid them around the house and made the kids find them all. It was nostalgic enough to make me happy and the money made it “cool” enough so that the kids enjoyed it too.

Now, I have Easter dinner in the oven and I made a pink Easter cake that I might even have a piece of. Maybe. It’s hard to convince myself to eat stuff like that when I know exactly what I’ll have to do at the gym to work that shit off. Ugh.

Anyway, I hope your holiday was great.

~~*~~

Okay. Now I’m all caught up and current.

So, the diet is going well. Other than that fucking piece of pink Easter cake that i ate on Sunday. Bah. That’s having to jog an entire mile for that one piece. So not worth it.

It was good though. So sweet. So delectable. So yummy. Nom nom nom.

Here’s what I ate last night though. Almost as nom as the cake. Almost.

That salad, while not the healthiest, most low-fat, low-sugar salad out there, is so good. Y’all should try one. Here’s how you make it:

I’ve used all kinds of combinations of salad and it all tastes good. This picture is iceberg and baby spinach, but romaine and those leafy spring mix ones are yummy, too.

2 cups salad greens
1 tbsp of sunflower nuts
1 tbsp of feta cheese, crumbled
1 tbsp craisins
1 tbsp walnuts
2 tbsp raspberry vinaigrette

Other ingredients I’ve thrown in that aren’t in the picture: diced apples or pears, mandarin oranges, chopped cooked chicken, grape tomatoes, whatever else you can think of to throw on.

Srsly good. I promise.

I took today off from the gym. I usually go on Tuesday but I was so tired this morning and I have so much to do today that since there aren’t any classes to go to, I’d rather just take a walk tonight or something. The other day Master and I took a 4 mile trek. That was fun. He’s so much fun to be with. :)

I indulged myself in a little bit of Fetlife this morning. Free time! It’s hard to get back into it when you’ve been away though. I feel all left out and shit. Plus, I just never fit in anywhere really. The more I read and talk to people the more the differences start to glare until I’m blinded by the light. That makes me wanna close up. *shrug*

Soooo… yeah.

I painted my nails last night. It’s a really pretty blue-green color called Marine Scene. I was feeling all sassy and cute and Master walks up to me, takes one look, crinkles his nose and asks me if I regressed in age or something.

Well phooey. Now I’m gonna have to take it off. :(

He keeps talking about moving. Not to a new town but a different house. I understand the reasons why and I’m all on board with whatever decision he makes- I’m just all ugh about moving. I hate moving.

Anyway, that means no garden this year again because I’m not going to go through the trouble of putting one in when we have to haul in the dirt and basically create a garden area on a scrubby beach-like area if we aren’t going to be here to enjoy it.

I dunno what else. Nothing I guess.

:)

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Moments In Time

Play Party-

We went to one! 8 freaking days ago. It’s taken me this long to get it here.

Now that I can’t remember it all because Master fails to make blogging a priority (the nerve, yanno? I swear I don’t know who he thinks he is!) I’m gonna have to just yak about the moments that are sticking with me.

~~*~~

There was some fireplay to watch. Watch and only watch because I don’t want to do it. At all. Ever.

Fire weirds me out. I don’t want to say it’s a fear because I’m not really afraid of open flames. It’s more of a distracting obsession. I can’t put the notion that something is going to start on fire to rest long enough that I can actually enjoy what’s going on.

Watching the fire flogging, all I can think of is a flame flying off and landing on a curtain and all of those things I’ve heard about a fire spreading in 2 minutes flat and Bam! End of party. What a bummer that would be.

I rarely ever light candles at home. If I do, it’s for just a few minutes and I have to blow it out because I can’t get it out of my head. In fact, the last play party we were at (same house, too) there were some candles burning on the table next to where he had me tied up on the cross and I was so focused on those two candles that I finally just asked him, mid-swing, if he’d blow them out.

So, that’s half the reason I have no interest in fire play. The other reason is simply that extremes in temperature don’t excite me. They piss me the fuck off. Cold or hot, doesn’t matter.

Call me Goldilocks but, dammit, I want it juuuuust right. 98.6 F, tyvm.

Why yes. Yes, I AM a princess. *beams*

Having said all THAT- it was neat to watch, when I wasn’t obsessing. Fire flogging is cool as hell, as is the fire glove thing. I’m in awe of the people who seem to LIKE having an open flame dance across their naked flesh. They are bigger masochists than I am!

One particular moment that stands out is an image that will forever remain seared (get it? seared? fire? ha!) into my brain. It was my BFF-Jill, naked and lying bravely atop the table while Jack tried to burn her alive ran flames all along her torso, and for one teeny second longer than was planned, a perfect candle-shaped flame snagged the very tip of her erect nipple and burned, bright and tall– before she squealed and they both swatted it out.

Flaming Nipple. It was actually quite beautiful.

~~*~~

Another thing we got to watch was some electrical play. I’ve done some electrical play before, though we didn’t do any that night. It’s neat and I like it well enough, but if I’m having to pick favorites, that’s not on the list. What I do enjoy watching is small s types squirming and squealing while the Big D type appears to be doing nothing much of anything. I’m all for the Big D’s not having to exert themselves. Pamper them and all, you know.

Plus, the sound of the electrical devices is pretty rocking sweet. Crackles and buzzes and zings. Yum.

So another moment that has fried (get it? Fried? Electrical? Ha!) itself into my brain is of a beautiful electric blue arc zig- zagging its way from violet wand straight into the open tip of a man’s penis. Gorgeous! Like it was seeking out an entrance and BAM! Found one!

The poor owner of said penis might not have been as impressed as we were, but those of us in the peanut gallery were pretty goddamn awed.

~~*~~

I got to assist Master with some play he was doing with another girl. He did all the hard stuff, I was just the toy hander and, more importantly, I was the hitachi propper-upper. I held it steady while he whomped on her and she did the bucking bronco on it. Good thing I’ve been lifting weights because, apparently, women on the edge of orgasm have some thigh strength. Boy howdy!

That kind of awakened some of my dormant bi-tendencies, too. I had a birds eye view of hitachi placement and resulting orgasmic activity and I liked it. So that’s another moment that has been jitterbugged (get it? jitter? Vibrator? Ha!) into my brain.

~~*~~

Of course Master kept asking my advice on what he should do to her next.

Or maybe he didn’t ask me and I oh-so-helpfully volunteered suggestions? I’m not real clear on the sequence of events anymore, it was so long ago (cough cough)…

All I know is as long as he was staying busy whapping on her, he wasn’t whapping on me.

Speaking of which!

SOMEHOW, and I’ve no idea how this came about, a vicious rumor was started about me within our group of fellow perverts. I’m hurt at the gossip. Hurt, I say.

It’s being said that I, me, sweet and caring little ol’ me, will push people under the bus!!!

I know! Can you believe it?

As if I would stoop to such underhanded and self-serving practices as saving my own ass at the expense of another!

I’m just shocked. Shocked and appalled.

Shocked that it took them this long to figure that about me, that is. Bwahahaha!

Damn right I’m all about me! Y’all worry about your own asses. I married Master Satan, I *have* to stoop this low or Imma die fo’sho!

But srsly now. The engine sounds? The pretend horn honking? The miming of being run over and god-awful body-thumping-against-pavement noises? All of that everytime I walk in the room?

Fucking hilarious. I love you guys.

*beams*

In all seriousness though, they get me back. Indeed. Whereas I might helpfully throw out the suggestion of “5 more cane strokes!”, some of them holler out “12 more! Give her 12!” (and btw, following that up with “I meant soft ones!” to MY man? Ha. Epic fail. He does not know what “soft ones” means.)

~~*~~

So, you know how when you’re introduced to a new couple in a kink setting and there is no clear outward sign, like a collar or someone on their knees or someone tied up and being beaten while you are introduced, of who is on the bottom and who is on the top and it seems kinda rude to ask so you spend the next hour or so surreptitiously stalking observing them, trying to figure it out by their words or actions?

Y’all do that right?

Sometimes it’s simply not obvious upon first meet who is in charge and who is not. And so I figured since I can’t always figure it out right away then probably other people meeting Master and I can’t always figure it out either.

And if they *can’t* figure it out, then, hypothetically, I *could* be the Big D.

So all of that ran through my head in the split second it took Jack to say, “And these are our friends, Scott and Tess” and I smiled to the new folks and said, “Yep. He’s my bitch.”

And then I ran.

Because my brain kicked in right then. It said “Don’t you dare say tha- oh shit. you said it. Run, you stupid, stupid bitch.”

All I can say is thank FUCK that Master has a sense of humor. Thank you, Jaysus.

Oh he got me. Later, up on the cross, but do you know how bad it COULD have been?

Yeah. Me, too.

~~*~~

And finally, the last moment that stands out in my memory is this: In the house where Miss D. hosts her play parties, there are a couple places set up for play. Different rooms, and different floors. Though that makes it hard to watch everything when you’re an observer, it makes playing incredibly awesome.

Because there is nothing like being beaten to the music of another’s screams. Nothing.

Solidarity. We haz it.

~cunt

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