Besties

I haven’t been very active on the internet lately. Not here, not on Fet. Seems like once I’ve been away from Fet for a little while, I have trouble getting back into the swing of it. The place moves too fast. Threads are done, posts are old, conversations are finished often times within hours. If you miss it, you’re out of the loop!

Sometimes the (perceived) intimacy of internet forums makes me back away, too. People who have been reading here for awhile know me a whole lot better than I know them, and it can seem like they already think of me as their friend when I’ve only just “met” them- literally.

It’s not that I don’t want people to be my friend, or to be friendly, and it’s not that I have any problem with people reaching out… I mean, I’m not entirely a cold fish. But I am kind of… stand-off-ish, I guess.

The other day, Am was talking to me about her friend, Lee; she was complaining about this thing Lee does that drives her crazy, and my response was along the lines of why not just dump her then. To which Am replied that Lee was one of her besties and how I would understand that if I actually had a bestie.

I have friends; both online and face to face. But, leaving M out of the mix, I don’t have a bestie. I don’t have any one person (or people) who I’ll call when I have news to share, or to vent with, cry with, laugh with. I have people who have appeared to want that job, both online and face to face, but I keep them at arm’s length. And if things feel like they are getting too close, too intimate, I all but ignore them until some of that intimacy has dropped back a notch or seven.

I don’t always like this about myself. I think it probably comes across as bitchy. Or snobby. Or something even worse. Thing is, I wasn’t always like this. Once upon a time, I had a bestie.

Her name was Dawn, and we met when we were in the 4th or 5th grade. We both got glasses that year and endured the soul-searing insult of “Four eyes!” together. Our friendship was sealed.

We were pretty inseparable, through the rest of elementary school, through the 3-P’s of junior high (puberty, pimples, and periods). Together we suffered through the horror of being a high schooler who wasn’t a jock or cheerleader. We shared boyfriend woes, and went on double dates. We shared homework, clothes, houses. We smoked our first cigarette, and later, our first joint together.

I was there when she got married. She was there when I did. I was there when she had her son. She was there when I had my daughter, and then my other daughter. Our babies shared teething cookies and playpens.

I was there when she began to suspect her husband was having an affair. I went with her on ‘stake outs’ and evidence-finding missions, and she cried on my shoulder, sitting in my car in the dark, parked on the side of the street, when we eventually tailed him to the other woman’s house.

I supported her through the divorce and the beginning of a bitter custody battle. I couldn’t help stop her own descent into drinking… a descent that eventually cost her that custody battle. And then, for a time, I joined in with the drinking and we all sank.

It was during a period of enforced sobriety (aka: I was pregnant with B-man), and perhaps I was feeling left out and lonely as the rest of them continued to party without me, maybe it was bitterness that had me nagging at my by-then ex-husband one day, saying something to the effect of “My BFF is more of a second parent to our kids than you are!” Until I pissed him off enough that he dared me to challenge her on what kind of bestie fucks her BFF’s husband and then lies about it for years.

To her (small) credit, she didn’t deny it.

I remember that moment as clearly as if it were yesterday: Sitting at my mother’s kitchen table, feeling like I’d been sucker punched in the gut, as she admitted that, yes, she had fucked him while we were still married. Oh, you can probably guess the story: She was drunk, it meant nothing, yadda yadda yadda.

It wasn’t the sex that bothered me so much anyway. It was the countless hours I’d spent talking to her about my marriage, about my suspicions, about my concerns that I couldn’t trust him. The opportunities she had to tell me that he was a liar and a cheat and to stop wasting time on him because she KNEW. She knew that he was sleeping around, and not just with her, but with her *sister* (her SISTER! To add insult to injury, he slept with Sis while I was in the hospital birthing Am), among countless other bar sluts. She knew about all of them. She knew the whole time. And yet she let me-no, encouraged me to believe his denials and hang on to the sham of a marriage, the sham of our family and our life.

It was quite the blow. Anyone who has gone from ‘suspicion’ to ‘confirmation’ can tell you what a painful difference that is. And to make matters worse, the one and only person in the entire world that I would have gone to to share the pain of learning that truth? My bestie?

What kind of bestie does a person like that?

And so. We were never friends again. Just like that.

These days, people thinking I’m a bitch or a snob is less risky, less painful.

(*M falls into a whole different category. He definitely fills the slot of bestie, without actually being a BFF. It’s a much more…formal?…arrangement.)

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The Lowdown

It’s been something of a whirlwind of packing and unpacking around here. He had a weekend off between trips and because we thought I wasn’t going to get to go, we just kind of laid around and enjoyed each other (wink wink nudge nudge). So I didn’t do any of the 3 weeks worth of laundry he dragged home for me.

At the last minute, I did get to go, though. We left Monday and came back Friday night. I had a lot of fun. He had to work, so I just sat in the hotel by myself during the day. I wasn’t bored at all. I propped myself up on the bed with about 10 pillows, my laptop and my coffee and pretended I was one of those pampered pillow princesses. ;) And then when he got done working, we went out to eat or went shopping or just hung out.

We had a lot of sex, too. Our room had this great little settee at the end of the bed that was the perfect height for various positions of fucking. Good times.

On our last night there we got to meet this girl. It was very cool. She comes across in person exactly as she does online. And she really is in denial! There she was, dressed the way her M wants (namely, a tiny miniskirt and high heeled boots in the snow!), weighing what her M dictates and eating and drinking what he says she can/or can’t, texting him for permission to eat this/drink that/when to leave (he wasn’t able to be there, sadly) getting permission before she did practically anything– and still, with a straight face, denying being a slave. Ahahaha!

Grrrl! You are so enslaved it’s crazy. Denial ain’t just a river in Egypt. ;)

Meeting people from the web is pretty neat-o. It’s interesting to see how far off, or how close, they are to how you imagine them to be. I think Master hardly ever comes across the way I portray him (and true to form, she said he was “fun”)… (which he IS, but, you know, I’m TRYING to build him a rep here and he keeps ruining it by being normal in front of people, heh)

She’d asked us who else we’d met from the web and my mind musta went blank because on the way home I was like, oh yeah! and we met them and we met them and… D’uh! We met magdala and her Master years ago(but I don’t know what happened to her; she disappeared). We met Frank and Leesa from Lessons Learned. We know Carrie and Taylor from A View From the Floor (and tried to catch them again but we missed connections). We know Vixen and Red, Jenfrog and her guy, Jade and W, all from camp. Lots of people from camp, actually, but I’m trying to think of those who blog(ged). Of course, all of our local peeps, like niya and company. I’m probably still forgetting people– Like Theresa, from Sake of Sanity! We met her!

The list of who I *want* to meet is much, much longer, too. Someday! :D

Anywho, so we got home late Friday night (with the added bonus of having to stop at the other house and fix a water leak for the renters on the way home. That was about a 4 hour delay) and then M had to fly out at 6AM this morning. Needless to say, yesterday was spent trying to catch up on his laundry so he’d have some clean undies to take with him. Now he’s gone again until Friday but worse than that is the suspicion that he’s going to be asked to go to Canada for a MONTH soon. Ugh! He can kick up a fuss about it, and sort-of refuse to go (sort-of meaning that the boss can insist, but it’s really NOT his turn to go!) but it’s awfully hard to turn down the kind of money he can make on these installation jobs. :’(

Other than that, there isn’t much going on here. I’m going to spend this week redecorating the downstairs bathroom- which really never got decorated at all so I’m not redoing anything, I guess. I finally decided on the eye-dazzling, seizure-inducing theme of brilliant teal-colored walls and zebra-striped decor. It’s gonna be awesome. :D

The kids are doing good. Jess is having a difficult time with this pregnancy (and I’m struggling to pull up any sympathy, really). She has hyperemesis gravidarum, and was finally given a prescription for an antiemetic after losing almost 10 pounds in less than a month (5 of those in less than 2 weeks). She probably should have gone in for some IV re-hydration and/or nutrition, to be honest. The medicine is helping, though not spectacularly. I’ll be surprised if she’s gained any at her next check-up, but hopefully she’s at least not losing, and isn’t dehydrated.

On top of that, she has a subchorionic hemorrhage, which is a pooling of blood between the embryo and uterus. It can cause pain and cramping (which she has and is how it was found), bleeding (she does not have), and increases the risk of miscarriage, etc. Most of the time, the body resolves it on its own, other times it grows large enough that bedrest is ordered. Right now, Jes’s is small and the doctor is just going to monitor it.

She’s just about 12 weeks along already. There’s no sense in denying that it’s coming. It’s coming whether we like it or not. :/

She did get a job (though I’m not sure how these two conditions of hers are going to affect the ability to work) and hopes to be moved into her own place by the end of March (I think that’s pushing it). I’ve stuck to my plan to divorce myself from her problems, and have taken a huge step back in Babygirl’s care.

I think some people got the impression that by divorce I meant abandon, which isn’t what I meant at all. I’m simply limiting how much of myself (and of M’s resources) I’m willing to expend on her. I’m never going to let her, or her children, go hungry or homeless, but there’s a difference between helping and doing. Before, I was doing. Now, I’m helping- and even that will be limited.

And so far, she’s doing fine. So there you go.

Am also got a job. She starts either late this week or early next week. She’s pretty freakin’ stoked, let me tell ya. I expect she’ll be moved into town sooner rather than later. With the talk of gas prices on the rise, and the distance she has to drive to school and now to work, it’ll be cheaper for her to pay rent than to pay for gas. There is no shortage of people looking for roommates in a University town so if the job goes okay, I bet she’s out of here before the end of the semester.

She’s thinking of changing her major-well, and her minor, for that matter. Currently, she’s majoring in English and minoring in Religious Studies. She’s thinking now of majoring in Sociology and minoring in Writing. Meh. It’s her life, her student loans, her decision. Seems to me her career options for any of those choices are about the same, yeah?

With B-man set on enlisting right after high school, we could be empty-nesters by next summer. Dude. Party at my place! You’re all invited. Srsly. I’ll make cookies!

Actually I make terrible cookies. I’ll make… something else. BYOB!

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Newsflash!

A last minute change of plans means I get to go with him after all. So, pardon me while I go get fucked for a couple of days.

Tra la la

Actually, yesterday he announced his dick was sore. Now imagine, if you will, how sore I am if he’s whining complaining about his own soreness. And then imagine the level of my sympathy.

If this is what you imagined-

-you’d be right. :D

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Yooper Meme

(snigger)

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A little wine with that?

Slaves are like a fine wine. They begin as grapes, and it’s up to the Owner to stomp the shit out of them until they turn into something acceptable to have dinner with.

I lol’ed.

Then I got a little squishy.

-blush-

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Breaking News: Updated

The good news: Master will be home later today. He’s been gone for 3 weeks. It’s been a seriously long 3 weeks this time around. I was squirrely-er than normal. ;)

Moar good news: He’s taking me out tonight because while he was gone, we missed his birthday, Valentine’s Day and the munch. I enjoy having a romantic date with mah man. We stayed in. He got home later than he’d planned and wanted home cooking.

The bad news: He leaves again on Monday for another (shorter) business trip.

The good news: I might be able to go along on this trip, depending on a thing or two getting sorted here.

Moar good news: If I get to go, it’s going to be 3-4 days of dipping into heavy kink, having hot sex and high protocol. Stoked! I haz it. I can’t go. (massive sad face)

The bad news: When he (we) gets back from that trip, he leaves AGAIN a few days later.

Moar bad news: I cannot go along on that trip. :-(

Good news: That trip is only for a couple of days, too.

The bad news: I’m so fucking horny I can’t see straight.

The good news: I’m gonna get laid so hard I won’t be able to walk straight. ALL THE HOLES!! (hyperbole and a half style :D )

And, in other sorts of news:

The bad news: You all might want to check out this blog and see how many of your posts have been stolen and posted. I found two of mine and recognized two of my friends’ posts, plus another stolen off someone’s Tumblr. I don’t think any of it is original.

The good news: I got my copies pulled by reporting it to Blogger (at the top of the page, click on the ‘report abuse’ tab and follow the directions).

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Why, indeed!

(Random paraphrased questions and partially recycled answer:)

Why does your Dom feel it’s necessary to force you to do something you don’t enjoy just to assert his dominance?

Or– Why is it necessary to me that he force me to do things I don’t enjoy just to assert his dominance?

I suspect there probably are slaves out there who have either never had, or have lost or conquered, their own interests.

I am not one of those people. As much as I understand that M/s is about pleasing the M, there are still reasons why I wanted this sort of relationship.

If it doesn’t matter how he words things (a command vs a request); if it doesn’t matter that he won’t force me past comfortable; if I were able to twist his words and actions into what they are not, then I could turn any vanilla relationships into an M/s one in my head by doing exactly that.

Truth be told, I did try that in past relationships. I tried to pretend a request was a demand, I tried to pretend they had rules and expectations and that there would be consequences if I failed them.

It didn’t work.

It doesn’t work because it isn’t REAL. There were no consequences, and there were no demands, and I had no rules and there was no dominance. I was miserably unhappy and unfulfilled and I left them to search for something real.

So I need to be forced to do things I don’t want to do because I need to feel that power. And I can’t just wish a question into a command when Master makes a request. He’s asking. He’s giving me an option and a choice.

If I didn’t care about options and choices, I wouldn’t be a slave. But I do have feelings about them, very strong ones: I don’t want any.

Control. Force. Being overpowered. Consequences. Objectification. I don’t want to be asked what I want. I don’t want a say in what I GET.

Yet here I am. Listing what I want, and what I want to get, and how I want to get it. And THAT fucks with my head. All because I can’t let go of needing what brought me here.

Since being a slave is to serve him, fulfill his needs and desires then should the slave not understand that although maybe not voiced in the most masterful of ways the slave should just stfu and submit because it’s really not about how the slave wants it in either action or words?

It should.

But for me, it matters. That’s why.

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Assent Matters

(Written by SherynB)

Okay, there’s a 600lb gorilla in the room, and I’m done pretending it’s not there. What we do isn’t pretty or politically correct, and frankly, it’s dangerous if we can’t get (and stay) honest about the reality of it. So here it is as raw and real and un-PC as it is:

There is a cult of victimhood building in the scene. It’s being cultivated and nurtured in the name of something I don’t believe the originators ever intended their catchy phrase to stand for. Its endgame is dangerous for everybody involved, physically, emotionally, socially, and legally…and it’s going to harm us all if it isn’t nipped in the bud, right fucking now.

For consent to count…ASSENT has to matter.

What we do is VOLUNTARY. It’s not assault, battery or rape in any moral sense of the word, regardless of what the laws that were meant to protect people against involuntary harm actually say. We have message boards, clubs, businesses, parties and social groups where people come and ask, sometimes beg and plead, for others to hit, kick, scratch, burn, shock, bleed, humiliate, degrade, subjugate, frighten, outrage, piss on, piss off, and/or make them cry. Not because they are helpless victims, but because it sexually gratifies them to participate in those things. And there are people who agree to do it…want to do it…love to do all of those Terrible Horrible Very Nasty Things. Not because they are predatory assholes, but because it sexually gratifies them, too. And every one of those reputable organizations, and the ones that exist to protect them, insist on two things above all others: You must be an adult. You must be consenting.

And that applies to BOTH (or all) of you, dammit.

We can pretend whatever we want to in the confines of that emotional, theatrical, energetic bubble that is our “scene”, whether it’s for an hour or most of our 24/7 life. But the reality of the situation is that we are free, sentient, competent adults with a responsibility to take care of OURSELVES. If you’re not, get out of the pool. Go home. You’re not old enough or competent enough to play here. The roller coaster might look like fun, and it is, but if you aren’t tall enough to ride this ride, nobody wants you on it…because when you fall out and get harmed, it not only hurts you, it closes down the ride for the rest of us.

I’ve been following an epic thread on consent for months now, watching sadly as many of the comments devolve into dangerously magical thinking and wishing somebody would speak up, and say “Whoa. There’s a point at which personal responsibility comes into play here.” It took far too long. I waited longer than I should have. I said nothing at first because I respected the poster. Then because it was Sexual Assault Awareness month. Then because I was busy. And finally realized, I just didn’t really want to be the lightening rod for the reflexive push-back that would follow, when I called bullshit on the parts of it that were batshit Pollyanna craziness. But hey, there’s more than one way people can get hurt in this game, and somebody has to stand up. I’ve been on both sides of this ride, and I’m out of patience with the silence, so today, it’s me:

Being a top in this game is dangerous. Publicly, privately, with new partners or old. Being the one who does the Terrible Horrible Very Bad Things puts you in an untenable position that you cannot defend legally or morally no matter how many times they asked you to do it. As soon as somebody says “Oh, I changed my mind, I didn’t want that after all,” you are the one facing accusations of rape, boundary violations, incompetence, or predatory behavior. And it doesn’t matter how careful you were, or how ethical you were, or how well you think you negotiated. You stay in this game for more than a couple years, you’re gonna live through it whether you want to or not. Ask the biggest, baddest, kindest, most skilled, reputable and ethical tops of either gender that you know. Every single one of them has a story. Or two or three.

There are predators and crazies of all genders and every BDSM persuasion in this game. And yes, those poor tender delicate flowers of submission, slavery and painsluttery are more often than anybody talks about…dangerous, and occasionally, actually predatory. Some are crazy. Some are just uneducated or immature. But the thing the dangerous ones have in common sounds a lot like this:

“I didn’t tell you, and you didn’t know, and I didn’t say anything while it was happening, but what you did I didn’t want, and you should have known that, even though I was saying you could, because well…it’s your responsibility to know better than I do what I want. And besides…I was in subspace/headspace/dissociated/whatever the fuck…and wasn’t in my right mind when I said you could. So…I didn’t really consent to that.”

I can’t say this clearly enough:

If you go to a place when you play that makes you incompetent to give or revoke consent, you have a disability that makes you a danger to yourself and to the people you play with. And if you’re going to play this game AT ALL, you have a responsibility to choose your partners VERY carefully, disclose that problem UP FRONT, and negotiate truthfully, intelligently and with major self-awareness around it.

Because I’ve got news for those of you that think that “bottoms” can’t do or consent to this or that or the other inside of a scene…a whole fucking bunch of us can. And do. And those of you that can’t or won’t, and still ask for pick-up play with people you barely know, are the worst nightmare of every top on the planet. Especially if your version of negotiation sounds a lot like “oh, um…you’re hot…and I’ve heard good things about you…and oh, um…you know…whatever you want to do, I guess. I like [whatever it is that you do].”

Whether or not you want to live in that fantasy for yourself…or yell at me for calling you on it…keep this in mind: If you sell the notion that bottoming takes everybody to a place where consent is impossible…then ALL the work being done to make what we do legal and defensible and give us CHOICE is for naught. If we aren’t competent to consent or withdraw consent once play starts, then everything we do will always be criminal, for our own protection. You can’t have it both ways.

I know a couple that speak, teach and demonstrate some of the heaviest fear, humiliation & taboo play out there…they play deep in emotion all the time…and every time I’ve heard them speak or seen anything they’ve written for the last several years, I hear the bottom in that couple pleading for people to hear and understand: TOPS ARE NOT MINDREADERS. Her husband nods. But she’s so frustrated you can almost hear her scream. It’s a cry in the darkness I hear over and over, from tops, and from their partners, of either persuasion, and a whole bunch of bottoms who gag at being lumped in that “helpless subbie victim” category. Most of us are good with body language, with nuances of energy and emotion…some aren’t. But NONE of us are mind-readers. And when you tell us things are good, when you ask for what you want, when you use words that are understandable and in plain English, and then tell us later that’s not what you MEANT and we were supposed to KNOW that…we are helpless to respond. Because it’s NOT RATIONAL.

Physical and emotional landmines happen. Endorphins and adrenaline allow things that the rational mind isn’t comfortable with. We ALL wake up the next day sometimes thinking “What the FUCK was I thinking when I did/allowed/asked for that??” Or with more marks or bruises or embarrassment or physical or emotional hurt than we wanted, for ourselves or our partners. Sometimes it takes months to untangle whatever knots we surfaced. Sometimes we trigger stuff that needs therapy, or even medical treatment. Sometimes we do it on purpose, sometimes we don’t. Shit happens, and often it’s nobody’s fault…unless you knew that shit was there, and didn’t disclose it.

But when you wake up the next day and think to yourself: “Wow. I’m not comfortable with how far that went.” Ask yourself what you actually did or said. Ask your partner what you did or said. Ask bystanders what you did or said. And own your part in it. Because whatever you were thinking…if you actually held the conversation and all the responses entirely in your head…you can’t hold someone else responsible for what you didn’t say or do here on the planet where the rest of us are. And if you couldn’t possibly have predicted the outcome, how rational is it for you to expect that your partner should have?

Safewords exist for a reason. Plain English exists for a reason. All those classes on negotiation exist for a reason. Read the book The Gift of Fear (Gavin de Becker) and learn not just what a real predator looks like…but where YOUR responsibility to recognize the obvious signs and protect yourself begins. Find your emotional power to recognize and say “no” to what you don’t want BEFORE you get naked and tied up and give up your actual physical power to walk away to anybody. And if you find, after the fact, that you don’t have a voice in that situation…get one. Therapy and education and finding your own power will serve you far better in this life than setting yourself up for perpetual victimhood again and again, and wondering why it keeps happening to YOU.

Because your consent DOES count. And when you give it…you have a responsibility to give it honestly, and to expect to be taken at your word. And when you withdraw it, which you have a perfect right to do at any time, you have responsibility to communicate it clearly, and to act on it. Anything else puts you and everybody you play with at risk. Once you’ve done THAT, there’s no excuse and no apology for anybody violating it. But until you do…it’s magical and dangerous thinking to believe that someone else is going to “know” what you want, and do it, despite what you say or don’t say. In fact, somebody who would discount your communication that way, is far more dangerous than someone who takes you at your word, as a competent, sentient adult, who has decided for yourself that you’re big enough to be on this strange and wonderful ride.

Now somebody get that gorilla a banana. We’ve been ignoring it for far too long.

~Whenever possible, please leave comments at the original post. Thank you.

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DS310 – Graduate Studies in Dominance

(Written by ObdurateDemand)

A powerful dominant is like a magnet. The slaves are like iron filings. On their own, they have no attractive or kinetic power. They cannot hold together. They require a powerful force to bind them. You must be that force. If you’re seeking a slave in the tone and tenor you write with above, you’re not being that force. You’re being tossed to and fro at their whim.

A slave is a person, and whether you like it or not, you have to play the mating dance. Sure, the rules are different, no candle-lit dinners and long walks on the beach, but you still have to dance with them. How? You must be dangerous, mysterious, sexy, compelling, and fierce.

A slave is a wax figurine. They are not solid and fixed. You are. You’re the rock. That’s part of why they come to you. They know that they’re LACKING something. They need to be owned. They need you to be strong, with or without them.

A slave is unfinished. Incomplete.

And I don’t mean incomplete in the traditional ways that people think of them as incomplete. I don’t mean that their personality is incomplete. I mean that literally they do NOT know how to be your slave. No slave possibly could. What they’re looking for, no matter how you slice it – is a firm hand that molds them into the object you desire. And, it has to be done with patience, tenderness, and deep affection.

By tenderness and deep affection – I don’t mean for the slave. Don’t worry about them. They will fall head over heels in love with you and worship the ground you walk on. What I mean by tenderness and deep affection is for the process – The process of enslavement, the mating dance, the molding.

When you demonstrate that you not only can do this, but reliably do this, the quality of your applicants will change from being people seeking a girlfriend or wife to those seeking, actually seeking – an owner.

~Whenever possible, please leave comments at the original post. Thank you.

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Vacay

See you when I get back!

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