Homework Help

Anyone have any ideas on how to make a 3D model of a convergent plate boundary?

(kink blog? what kink blog? I haz no kink!)

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My Bloody Valentine

(how many of us deviant characters titled our valentine posts with THAT title? :D )

Master took me out for an uber-romantic movie night.

We saw Friday the 13th.

Nothing like a little blood and gore and jumpy-outy moments to kindle romance.

He knows me so well.

*beams*

Hope all of your’s was as “thrilling” as mine was. ;-)

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The Measure of a Man

Recent discussions surrounding nature and manhood have gotten me to thinking about what it is that makes a man. What is it that causes people to think “Now there walks a fine man!”

Since I can only draw on my own experiences, I can only dissect the manliness of the men who play a significant role in my life. This is bound to be long, possibly non-sensical. I tend to do that.

~~*~~

Dad – my first male influence: My dad could be plunked in the middle of the wilderness, like Survivorman, and come out a month later, exhilarated and ready to go again. He’s a countrified, beer-drinking, Harley-loving, hard-working, patriotic good ol’ boy.

At 18, he enlisted in the Marines. Did one tour in Vietnam, made it out alive. Volunteered for another tour and was sent home, minus an internal organ or two. He came home to an unfaithful wife who left him shortly after.

She left him, abandoning three boys under the age of 4, leaving them to him to raise. One of the boys he knew for a fact wasn’t his, one he was pretty sure wasn’t his, and one he thought might actually be his.

He was around 23 or 24 years old.

He didn’t pansy around with paternity tests like some men might have, or dump the kids on someone else. He bought a house, got a job and settled about taking care of business.

40 years later he still doesn’t know with any certainty if any of those boys are biologically his, nor does he care. Fatherhood, he says, isn’t determined by genetics alone.

A few years after his wife left, he met my mother. She was 31 years old, recently divorced and raising six kids of her own. When they got married, my dad was 29 years old.

29 years old, and the father-figure to nine kids ranging in age from 6 to 16. Eight of whom, or maybe even all nine, were not biologically his.

He worked a factory job that started at 5am. For 40 years. He often picked up side jobs, after work and weekends, farm work mostly, for extra money. He bought an old, rickety, scheduled-to-be-demolished farmhouse because it was cheap; a house that I used to hate and was ashamed of as a kid, a house with holes in the floor, no furnace, pipes that froze in the winter and a leaky roof.

Then he rebuilt it. By himself. ALL by himself, while we lived in it. After work and on weekends, wall by wall, floor by floor. That house that they bought for less than 10 grand would probably appraise for 10 times that now. The house that had a dead racoon in one of the bedrooms at our first walk-through was pieced together– hand-painted board by hand-painted board, over a span of almost 30 years, and never once has any workman or hired help set foot in it.

The house was, and is still, heated by wood. Wood that he chops, splits, and stacks by himself. Has done so by himself for the last 30 years.

He’s 62 now, retired from the factory but still working 40 hours on a buddy’s farm. He’s still fixing odd bits of that house. He flies an American flag every day, a Marine flag, and a POW/MIA flag.

A purple heart hangs in a case on the wall, right next to several etchings of his dead friends names taken from the Vietnam Wall.

Does he measure up to being a man? Has he earned his manhood?

I’ll tell you one more thing about my dad before you decide that.

He is NOT the dominant partner in my parent’s marriage. Hasn’t been since the day they met. My mother is.

Oh, not in any formal way, I don’t think. Nothing labeled or practiced in the way that Master and I do. Probably, if asked, my mother would hasten to assure you they have an equal partnership.

But they don’t.

My mom calls the shots and runs the show. My dad is happy to let her. She controls the money, she controls his time, where he spends it and what he does. She tells him when he’s had enough to drink. She dictated the acceptable employment he could take, the hours he could work, the friends he could have. She plans, or unplans, his free time.

She is ‘The Boss’.

Is he still a man? Does he still measure up?

~~*~~

Ex-husband: my second male influence. This account will be much shorter than the first. ;-)

My ex-husband is your typical red-neck man’s man. He’s quite well known in the area we grew up, got married and had our kids in. He’s tv’s Cheers’ Norm character, the one everyone calls out to when he walks in any of the local taverns.

In high school he lettered in wrestling, raced a souped-up ’57 chevy at the drag strip on Saturday nights, snuck beer out of his dad’s garage.

He watches Nascar, follows football. He’s rough and tough, never backs down from a fight. He’s the one you want on your side in a dark alley. A scrapper, mean and stocky.

Lovable guy in the bar though. Plays poker in the backroom, shoots pool like a pro. He’s the party-guy, the DJ, center of attention, seems to pull people to him like a magnet. He knows where to get “things”.

He’s a lady’s man, God only knows why. Women and the irresistable pull of the “bad boy”, the one they are going to tame. Lord knows I fell for it. The one that you want only because everyone else wants him too. I remember those nights in the bars after we were married, when he was really getting into DJ’ing. There were two ways that women looked at him. One was that lustful stare, you could almost see them planning how to move in for the kill. The other look was smug, aimed more at me than him. Those girls had already had him and they wanted me to know it.

Certainly by most accounts in that crowd, he measured up to manhood. He had all the right manly hobbies and abilities, he certainly advertised his manly sexual adventures. Other men were openly envious, women were openly enticed.

He definitely ruled his roost, ruled me. He was ‘The Boss’.

A man? I suppose they thought so.

Of course they didn’t know him as I did. As I still do.

They didn’t know he often gambled away his paycheck before diapers or groceries. Or that he liked to “talk” more with his fist than his mouth. They weren’t there when the house was foreclosed on or to watch the car be repossessed.

They probably didn’t know that he skipped his daughter’s first Christmas for a dart tournament, or that he passed out in a chair at the hospital- watching his second daughter being born through a drunken haze.

They can’t know that he continuously misspells his son’s name or that he argued, incorrectly, with his daughter over when her birthday was.

I’m sure the little chippy he lives with thinks he’s a man. I wonder, sometimes, what body part he uses to talk to her. I figure that’s her mess, but she’s a nice girl and I know the spell she’s under… and I wonder.

~~*~~

Master: saved the best for last, I did. The final male influence.

Sometimes I think Master has more in common with my 13 year old son than with the other “men” in my life. He plays xbox, he plays star wars miniatures, he sneaks up behind people to scream “BOO!”, he rolls around on the floor with the dog.

He plays hide and seek with the dog, for that matter.

He likes to go sledding, he still thinks cookies and milk are yummy, he cries at sappy movies (and then tries to hide it) and wants ice cream before bed.

He whines when he’s sick. And admits it.

He doesn’t posture, or chest-beat. He doesn’t pick fights, is a peacekeeper over an instigator. He doesn’t really care for the bar scene, male-bonding, “scoring” women, or sports.

No sports. Like, at all.

He wears glasses, reads more than he talks, keeps his hair well-trimmed, dresses in khaki pants and button-down shirts and is fiercely protective of his sister.

Not your typical he-man behaviors?

He also has stepped up where another man has stepped down. Taken on 3 kids, 3 often-ungrateful, sometimes un-loveable, always-difficult teenagers that he is not obligated to take care of.

He works, 5, sometimes 6 and 7, days a week, 12 to 14 hours a day. In the cold, the wind, he comes home dirty and tired, yet he always has time for conversation and hugs.

He insists that “his” kids have the best, from cell phones to clothes, to love and opportunities. Yet, he balances it out with making sure they learn the value of earning what you have, caring for your possessions, responsibility for your actions.

He’s educated, brilliant in many things. He’s strong, big – both in size and personality. He’s outgoing, friendly, humble (mostly), has nothing to prove to anyone, ever.

He took me out of a place where I was wasting away and put me in a place where I thrive and grow. He’s bettered me, taught me, improved me- in more ways than I can list.

He’s stable and solid, predictable, forceful but not overbearing, dominant but not domineering, keeps me in my place while simultaneously lifting me up.

He is, also, The Boss.

Is that what makes a man? Being The Boss(tm)?

If it’s being dominant that measures a man, is my ex-husband just as much, or as good of, a man as Master?

If so, does that mean Master’s xbox war fighting trump my dad’s purple heart, if only because Master dominates what my dad submits to?

Are my dad’s accomplishments negated because he is in the role of the “submissive” husband?

Certainly there are men that I know that other people find to be the epitome of manliness who I find dispicable, worthless (like my ex, for instance).

Sometimes I compare Master to my dad -probably a lot of girls do, how can you not compare the differences between the two most powerful men in your life?

It is only occasionally that, when mentally comparing the two, Master comes up short. Usually that’s when I’m outside shovelling or hauling in groceries, thinking how my dad would never make my mom do this, that it would violate his sense of male chivalry or some such thing – you know, those times when I catch myself thinking more like a wife than a slave.

I’ve never compared them on a dominant level. Never found my dad to be lacking in manliness based on being the meeker of the two, never scored Master as “more manly” because he *is* dominant.

I compare actions, I suppose. I score integrity, honor, commitment. I value character, morals, ethics…

“The ultimate measure of a man is not where he stands in moments of comfort and convenience, but where he stands at times of challenge and controversy.” -Martin Luther King Jr.

My dad stood in front of a grenade.

Master stands up for me and my kids.

One is dominant, one is submissive – both are men.

My dominant ex-husband?

Is a waste of oxygen.

*nods*

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Bullet for my Valentine.

I feel the need to make an entry but I don’t really have any topic to blabber a lot about. This calls for a bullet list! I heart bullet lists. It’s like twitter only – not.

Though, to be honest, I don’t understand twitter. At all. Or facebook. Or myspace.

Speaking of myspace – is it just me or does anyone else think that any person over, say… 30-ish, who has a myspace is kind of lame? I mean, I dunno. Probably it’s just me. And probably I only think that because my ex has one, he’s 38, and I think everything he does is lame.

Ah well.

Let’s bullet, shall we? :D

First, I’ll bullet Jes.

I’m done. :D

Bubbye!

Edit: The bullets aren’t showing. *shrug* Use yer imagination!

Edit 2: Nevermind. There they are.

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They say it’s your birthday!

And it was, on Sunday. 38 years old.

Teh depression. It hurts.

Thank you for the birthday wishes. :-)

Age is bothering me lately. I don’t know if it’s because my mom is sick and I’m facing the realization that my parents won’t live forever or because Jes is thrusting granny-hood on me before I’m ready or if it’s because Am pointed out that I have wrinkles or because I’m losing the battle of the gray hair or because I’m just getting old and I don’t wanna be. Whatever the reason, I think 40 is going to be hard.

I certainly don’t *act* my age, though. Imma hang on to immaturity for as long as I can!

We had a spectacularly pleasant weekend, Master and I. One of the better ones of late. Friday, Am went to a party so she was gone for the night, and B-man had two friends over (lose one, gain two – story of my life), but it does my heart good to know the kids are making friends. That’s not easy when you’re the new kid in town.

Saturday was the local munch, and that’s always fun. We’re liking this group here quite a bit. It’s very laid back, very comfortable. There aren’t 800 rules or protocols, doesn’t seem to be any fighting or anything like that (a common problem in some munch groups is ‘office politics’) and there are a few people who Master and I had an immediate connection with. So yay for socialization!

The only bad thing about the munch is that it’s just dinner while trying to socialize about kink in a vanilla setting. Other munches that we’ve been to have taken place at someone’s house where they had a regular play place set up and after a little eating and talking, things would get down and dirty. There just isn’t that space here.

Someday, when the kids move out and we have our place set up, we’ll do it. *nods*

But speaking of being kinky in a vanilla setting, there was another thread I was reading (on Fetlife of course!) where someone was complaining about people who show up to a munch, in a vanilla setting, wearing obvious fet-wear. This person said she and her partner had stopped attending the munch because they were afraid of being seen in the company of such freaks, that whole guilty-by-association thang. I think she claimed that her husband would be jailed or fired if he was caught having breakfast with someone in a collar though she was totally fine with having face shots on a highly detailed profile on a kink site, which, oy.. nevermind. I’m getting off topic. Again. Anyway…

There are a couple of people who come to the munch here wearing questionable attire. It IS a vanilla setting, a family restaurant, though we kind of hide in a back, semi-private room. But, you know, ropes, collars, corsets, revealing clothes – that sort of thing, it doesn’t bother me at all. I don’t get the idea of condemning someone based on the company they keep. For all anyone around knows, you’re a bunch of chess geeks and some of you just dress really funny. Since when are we responsible for dressing anyone besides ourselves? Meh. Maybe because I’m a mother of teenagers who never dress how I’d prefer them to dress, I’m immune to the funny looks. I dunno.

But speaking of questionable attire, Master made me wear the tack bra to the munch. As soon as we walked in, he made sure to tell everybody that I was in desperate need of frequent body-crunching bear hugs, and then helped them by doing hug sandwiches with me in the middle.

The pain was exquisite. ~puts my fingers to my lips and blows a kiss~ Perfection.

After the munch, we came home and Jes and Am had gone to the store while we were gone and bought stuff to make and decorate a birthday cake, which I thought was really sweet. It was all lopsided with frosting an inch deep on one side and barely there on the other, but still. They’d baked it and decorated it all by themselves (and these are the kids who can’t master the toaster, remember) so I was impressed.

The same girl who took us out after the last munch had come back to our house with us and we had hot, raunchy sex with lots of slapping and pinching ate cake and watched a movie.

Just one more occasion when I wished the kids had separate living quarters.

Opportunities for debauchery just slip right on by because the kids sit on the couch. Grrs. And they don’t leave either! Any other time, the idea of sitting on the couch on a Saturday night with mom and dad? Too boring. Too dumb. Too gay. But we bring home a sexy chic and the kids turn into sticky boogers.

Bah.

After she left, we went to bed and I woke up early Sunday, on my birthday, to 39 birthday spankings with the belt (38 years plus one to grow on!) and some awesomely hot birthday sex (there may have been 38 orgasms in there but that could be a slight exaggeration. I’ll never tell.)

Then Sunday afternoon, another M/s couple from the munch came by to visit. We’d all just kind of planned on a short little visit, have some coffee, chit chat a little, you know, take that first step to getting to know each other – and they ended up staying for like, 7 hours or something. The time flew by, and we just sat at the table talking about shit. They stayed for dinner and everything, it was really a lot of fun.

When the kids would get bored enough to wander out of earshot, we’d talk a bit about M/s stuff, how hard it can be, and when the kids were listening, we’d ease back into vanilla conversation. As the wife (slave) of the couple said, it really makes a difference to have like-minded people to converse with. Gets the creative juices flowing and all that.

I see a light at the end of the tunnel. Things are falling back into place, words are coming easier, tensions are easing.

It’s nice. Pleasant. :-)

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Where’s the love!? :P

I’d like to add that it was drizzling rain the whole time I was out there! Hmmph. No sympathy I tell ya.

As for being naked, if the kids weren’t home I probably would have been. He keeps talking about naked snow angels and, for right now anyway, thank GOD I have kids who interrupt sadistic plans like that!

If I had to shovel that whole drive, I’d die. For real. As it is I only clear about half of the driveway, probably less than half actually, just enough to get the car and truck in and out. We have a horseshoe driveway and you can’t even tell anymore where the rest of the driveway is.

Our crazy neighbor guy came by yesterday and offered to plow the drive for $20.00 and Master was like, nah, I got it covered, thanks anyway, dude and I’m thinking yeah, right, you got it covered, ya cheap-o. :P

Kinda like how he makes me go outside at stupid-o’clock every morning to start his truck for him when he has a remote starter on his keychain that could easily start it from the living room window. He likes my “personal touch” he says. Mmm-hmm. I’d like to show him a “personal touch” all right.

The other day we were driving (to the munch actually, where we had the BEST time. The munch itself was great, but then afterward one of the girls (who we are both weirdly attracted to. I say weirdly because he and I are rarely attracted to the same girl) took us out to a couple of bars which is something we hardly ever, ever do, and being new in town we had no idea where to go anyway, but so she took us around and we had a blast and I drank too much and stuff) and he made mention of needing to piss all up in my face or something to “take me down a couple of notches on the ol’ ladder” and I replied that I was pretty damn comfortable right where I was, tyvm.

I suppose a smart girl would heed that warning and start unhooking her claws before they get ripped out, huh? I sense a come to Jesus meeting up ahead.

Well. As you can see, everything here is right back to normal. And I got my necklace back. *beams* We’re gonna be okay. I’m certainly not glad that it happened like it did, but I can see the pluses. I had some realizations and learned a couple of things. I have a little better perspective and insight. So, yanno, every cloud has a silver lining, right?

:-)

~me

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‘Cause I’d rather feel pain than nothing at all…

I’ve been thinking about sex and pain. Or, more accurately, painful sex. The deeply-felt, internal pain with intercourse, not sex with accompanied pain in other places.

I’ve been checked out by the doctor and, according to him, my female parts are all in fine working order. There is no obvious reason for the pelvic pain that often accompanies sex. So I figure it’s just a damn good thing I’m a masochist, otherwise, I’d be screwed.

Heh. I said screwed. ;-)

The other day, Master’d sent me under the desk for His favorite sexual pasttime of under-the-desk fucking. There is a definite disconnect that occurs with under-the-desk fucking. I can’t see Him, I can’t touch Him, I can’t talk to Him and I really can’t hear Him. His voice, on the rare occasion He tries to talk to me down there, is muffled, far off, distant.

Which is all well and good and as it should be and whatever other smarmy phrase fits here. That IS the purpose of the under-the-desk fucking. I am, as Master tells me, a masturbation tool, nothing more, nothing less. He’s happily lost in His own little world, looking at porn, reading porn, watching porn videos. I’m forgotten, silent, a “thing”. It’s the grown-up equivalent of locking himself in the bathroom with mom’s handlotion and the JC Penney catalogue opened to the women’s underwear section.

I am allowed to get myself off if I want to. But my pleasure during an under-the-desk occasion is not His concern. In other circumstances He’s a very generous lover, making sure I’ve orgasmed several times before coming Himself, but under the desk is different. I am the pocket pussy and pocket pussies don’t need consideration. He’d not worry that the pocket pussy was pleasured and so, down there, He doesn’t worry if I am pleased. If I am, it’s all my own doing, with my thoughts and my fingers and the rythmic pumping of His cock in my unmoving cunt.

I’ve gotten quite good at it over the years. I can come, I can have out-of-this-world orgasms that zing through my entire body and make my eyes cross, and not move one half of an inch out of position or make one audible sound. Other than the pulse of my cunt around His cock, a sure-fire indication of my doings, He’d have no clue to my pleasures I don’t think. And I can continue to hold perfectly still and perfectly silent through that awfully intense, highly sensitive, immediate post-orgasmic minute as He carries on pumping in and out of me.

And I can hold perfectly still and remain almost silent as He pounds away at me through deep, internal pelvic pain.

On this occasion, His deep thrusts and the constant pelvic pressure that spiked with each upward thrust was feeling divine. It was feeling good. I kept catching myself thrusting back against Him each time He stabbed in, trying to deepen and harden the upshot, to raise the pain up a notch. He rose to the unspoken challenge and began slamming me, knocking into me so hard that I fell forward, smashing my face into the carpet and getting rugburn on my forehead.

The pain was intense, but just right. And later, after I’d crawled out and sucked Him of my juices, I sat on the floor cradling my abdomen and waiting for the sharp cramp to fade to a dull ache. He sat in a chair and I noticed that He was cradling His groin.

“Ow.” He said. I looked at Him quizzically. Ow was usually my line.

“Ow?” I repeated.

He nodded. “When I fuck you like that, there’s no give. It hurts sometimes.”

I blinked. “It hurts YOU?” I was confused and… appalled. He hurt? For my pleasure? My brain was twitching. He’d never indicated that fucking me so violently caused Him anything but extreme yum. “But…. why?”

Misunderstanding what I was asking an explanation for, He reached out and began jabbing His finger on the unweilding wood of the desk. “It’s like fucking this,” He said, His fingertip bending with each jab. “Whatever my dick is hitting inside of you doesn’t give. Too long and too hard and my dick gets sore.”

“But why do You do it?” I asked again. “If it hurts, I mean.”

He just smiled knowingly, in that secretive, there-are-things-you-don’t-need-to-know way, that is, I think, particular to evil dominants, and patted me on the head. “Oh, you’ll figure it out soon enough.” and off He went, leaving me to hate not being able to stamp my feet and demand that I be told what I want to know when I want to know it. (Which is maddening, really, don’t you think? I think so.)

I’m not going to claim that after a fuck of that sort I walk bowlegged, or that I’m hunched over in pain. Nothing quite that dramatic. I do sit a bit gingerly. I do ache in my pelvic region. I do cringe at the thought of fucking again anytime soon.

And by soon I mean anytime in the next week. But Master tends to have other ideas. No surprise there, really.

It was the next day though. I would say He waited a whole day in order to let me recover, but that would be a lie. The only thing that happens in a days time is swelling, bruising, and increased tenderness. Just the touch of His cock against my pussy lips and I hissed.

And He smiled. He… leered.

“Hurt?” He asked, pressing harder against me.

“Yes, Sir.” I answered between whimpers.

“You’re tight. Swollen.” He said, more to Himself than to me, still pressing, pushing, forging entrance through the bruised tissue. Again I whimpered out a “yes, Sir”. He pinned my legs back and in simple, missionary style sex, with not a toy around, no bondage, no smacking, no effort, He made me cry.

This was not the good pain that I bucked back against, this was deeper, sharper, more intimate. A pain I couldn’t harness and direct. A pain that consumed my mind and my body, a pain that took every ounce of willpower I had to not resist, leaving nothing left to control the whimpers and quiet cries that flowed on each breath, nothing left to control the trembles that racked my limbs, nothing left to mask my face. Genuine, naked, vulnerable pain.

He drank it in, He leaned His ear close to my mouth so as to not miss a single whimper and He hurt me. “This is why,” He said, barely rocking His hips against mine while I shivered beneath Him. “So easy.” He breathed.

When a single, unchecked, gutteral sob escaped from my lips to caress His earlobe, He softly cried out “Oh. God.” and shuddered to an orgasm.

Later, still feeling exposed and vulnerable, I curled up close to Him, seeking reassurance and comfort. He pulled me to Him and let me find my own way back. I always do.

“You’re mean.” I accused, tracing my finger around His nipple.

“Yes.” He said.

“That really hurt.” I pouted, feeling around for any hint of regret or apology on His part.

“Good.”

I grinned against His chest. “Bastard.” I said affectionately. He laughed, the sound echoing through His chest and into my ear. I sighed, contented. Sore and achy – but happy.

It is as it should be.

So glad He’s home.

~cunt

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It’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas…

Ev’rywhere you go!

I have snow pictures. When I took them I was all kinds of snow-happy. I’d even shoveled the walk before 7am, go-gettin’ little slave that I am!

But then Jes got her car stuck in the ditch and it cost me (cost Master) sixty-freaking-dollars to tow it out, so after that I was a snow-hating little bitch.

But the pictures were still pretty and since I have nothing else to share because I am pathetically desperate for bdsm sustenance, I’m going to post them anyway.

Behind the cut, of course. :-)

~cunt

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Not feeling bloggy

I don’t know what’s going on with me lately. I just ain’t feelin’ it. I guess that happens sometimes. With Master traveling though, He expects a daily entry and I am struggling with that.

There was an amusing little exchange between Master and I before He left.  One of the things I do for Him that is very much a slave-ish, service-y thing (to us) is to wait for Him outside the shower, towel in hand, and wipe Him dry when He’s finished showering. On this day I was in the shower, and He was standing outside and we were chit chatting about something or other. Anyway I opened the shower door and there He stands, towel in hand, waiting to dry me off.

I very much had a deer-in-headlights moment. Immediately, the urge to obey without question hit and I started toward Him. But right on the heels of that was the internal slave wiring slamming on the brakes, screaming, no-no-no-no, reverse reverse! I kind of stuttered that way for a bit, one foot in the shower, one out,  while He stood there patiently waiting. And grinning.

Fucker. He knows what that does to me.

Finally I just tentatively reached for my towel. “Weird.” I said, pleadingly. “Too weird. Weird weird weird. Can I just have it, please?” He threw it at me, laughing.

I really have strangely strong reactions to the idea of Him serving, or servicing, me in any way. But I somehow separate that from old-fashioned, gentlemanly mannerisms. For instance, He will almost always open doors for me and will actually get a little pissy if I reach the door first and open it ahead of Him. Yet I don’t see that as a service to me, even though it is.

I absolutely am not, cannot be, comfortable with Him performing oral sex on me. It’s not that it doesn’t feel good, not that He isn’t very good at it, not that I would even think to deny it to Him if/when He wants to do it. But I cannot pull my head away from the repeating thought of being serviced to enjoy it on any level whatsoever. He likes to 69, but it such an emotionally uncomfortable process for me, that I’m stiff as a board, totally unresponsive, even though I’m also servicing HIM at the same time, it just.. fucks with my head in the most stupid way. But I can do a reverse 69, with Him on top fucking my mouth while He also does other wickedly sinful things between my legs. That works well for me.

Yet I recognize the paradox between how, when He caters to my silly reactions to being serviced, He is, actually servicing me by default.

Oy.

Course I get that He’s not going to do anything He doesn’t want to do. Or, even, that He isn’t going to NOT do something that He wants to do. Had He wanted to dry me off, He’d have put up with my stuttering hesitation for all of 2 seconds before snapping His fingers and pointing at the floor in front of Him where I’d have stood with my arms held out like a good little statue while He fluffed the towel over me.

And my brain would have twitched the whole time.

I remember, a long time ago, I had an argument (on the internet. What a surprise! kaya was arguing on the net! Heh.) with a master over the concept of whether or not a master *should* do things that make a slave feel useful. His position was that a master should NOT be motivated to do, or not do, anything based soley on how the slave feels about it. My position was that a master should.

Here’s the example we used.  The slave is outside, or otherwise busy with something and Master wants a coffee refill. Does the master do the easiest and fastest thing, which is to serve himself his own coffee, even knowing that to do so will make the slave feel badly.  Or does he hunt down the busy slave, have her stop what she’s doing so she can serve him purely to allow her to feel useful?

I’ve since changed my opinion. I no longer think that the master should do anything at all based on how it makes the slave feel. I think mastery is, by it’s very nature, a selfish, self-centered personality trait. Too much leaning the other way and one has to wonder who is serving who. Or whom is serving whom. (Grammar. I suck at it.)

Although, I also think that too much of not letting the slave feel useful and slave-like is detrimental, too. Maybe, once again, in all things – balance.  

Master naturally leans more toward the ‘hunt down the busy slave and make her get the coffee’ than the other anyway. On the occasion that He does serve Himself because I am elsewhere or because He’s just closer to it, I notice it. I do more than notice it, I *feel* it. Like a quick little jab to the gut.

I’ve yet to decide if that’s a good thing or not. I’m reacting, perhaps petulantly, that He’s doing “my” job and taking from me that which makes me feel useful. But I’m also noticing, and internally marking, an area that may require more active anticipatory service.  Maybe to check the status of His coffee before I go downstairs to do laundry? Or, whatever it may be.

Ah, slaves. We’re a difficult lot.

Well. I am, at least. :D

~cunt

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The Gay Cure

(Wow. I didn’t plan on taking the week off. I guess with Master away, there wasn’t much to talk about. He’s home, got in last night, and is leaving again Monday for two weeks (sad face). But hopefully, this wraps up the expected travel for awhile. Although, the economy… bah… we gotta do what we gotta do, right?)

Anyway, I had an interesting conversation with my mother the other day. My mom is having a crisis of faith these last couple of years. She’s 66, but it’s never too late to be enlightened in my opinion.

My mother is a staunch Republican, quite conservative and rather closed-minded. She might think that woman’s lib was the beginning of the breakdown of our Norman Rockwell society, though I’m not sure she’d ever come right out and say so. She certainly believes a woman’s place is at home, happily procreating in God’s image and cooking meatloaf on Tuesday night. An ex-Sunday school teacher, but not of the sweetness and light, God loves everybody type – more the hellfire and brimstone, we’re all doomed to eternal damnation type.

Her views, especially on sexuality, are prim and proper, prudish really. Masturbation is a disgusting sin earning you a one-way ticket to Hell. People who buy sex toys or watch pornos are “sick” and “have something wrong in their heads”. In fact, the reason she filed for divorce from my bio-dad is because he had “weird sex ideas” and he wanted to “swap partners!” (and here she literally shudders in revulsion).

Needless to say, I’m an atheist. Something my mom and I don’t talk about very often. It’s no surprise to me, as “weird and sick” as I am, that I choose not to believe such a God exists.

Okay, so, I think I’ve painted an accurate picture of my mother. My mom and I have had our moments and our heartaches, but the last couple of years have been good and we have come to a place where we can get along and almost become friends. I don’t want to paint her in an all bad light, because she’s really just a product of her generation and had no reason to ever question it.

One strongly held view that both she and my dad (step-dad, but he raised me so he’s dad to me) had was on homosexuality. My mother condemned it based on religious beliefs, my dad – well, he just thinks it’s gross.

My dad (also Republican) is a Harley-lovin’, beer-drinkin’, Vietnam-hardened ex-Marine. Patriotic, good old American apple pie, keep your homos, fags, and the little woman outta my military kinda guy.

Once, and only once, I argued with my dad over his view on gays in the military. I’d had just enough to drink that my brass balls were swinging, and he’d had just enough to drink that he was almost mellow. He made the claim that when he was in combat and he was ducked down in a trench with bullets zinging over his head and his life depended on the man next to him, the last thing he wanted was some “limp-wristed, panty-wearing fruit snivelling in the dirt”. (his words, not mine)

I suggested that not all gays were “fruit”, nor did they wear panties and “snivel” and that, probably, in fact, very very probably, one or more of the men in that trench with him were homosexuals. He slammed his beer on the table, told me that he knew all the fucking Marines he was with and not one of them were “fucking fags”.

Well. I shut up then, because, I dunno, I guess I figure you can’t force change on people. It has to come from within. Which brings me, finally, to the meat of the post.

My mother and her crisis of faith. About 6 years ago, maybe 7, my mother’s youngest brother died. It was very much unexpected. In the years just prior to his passing, he and my mother had become quite close.

He was a bachelor, always just saying that he hadn’t found the right girl. And then he died, and the real reason for his bachelorhood came out. He was gay. In fact, he was in a very serious relationship with a man that nobody in the family knew existed. And thus began my mother’s crisis.

Were she to continue believing as she had always believed, her baby brother was in Hell for committing the unforgivable sin of being a homosexual. I think it was very easy for her to condemn strangers to that fate when she knew nothing about them. But to think of the goodness and sweetness that lived within her brother, to think that he was eternally damned merely for loving a man, this someone that she knew and loved… it wasn’t sitting well at all.

My dad, on the other hand, neatly, and with irrational finality, categorized it. Fags were still fags, but Uncle Harry was just Harry. How that makes sense to him I haven’t a clue, but it does.

Now we enter my daughter, the lesbian. Probably, I should send up an offering of thanks to Uncle Harry for paving Am’s way with my parents.

My mom, once again, is faced with either having to condemn her granddaughter to an eternity of hell or to re-examine that which she’s believed her entire life. My mom, of course, loves Am to pieces. So does my dad, and once again, he’s seperating Am from the “rest of the queers”.

For the record, I love my parents very much. I have a deep appreciation for everything they have done in their lives and how they’ve sacrificed for us. I can love them and vehemently disagree with them. And I do.

So, I was talking to my mom on the phone and the conversation turned to religion and homosexuality. I asked her how she was reconciling Am’s sexual preference with her religious beliefs. She asked me if I was *sure* Am was a lesbian? I told her that it really wasn’t my call to make, but that Am seemed pretty sure of it. She then suggested that maybe homosexuality was just one of those sins that people were going to have ask forgiveness for – like telling lies and stealing cookies.

I just laughed.

She then mentioned that she’d heard somewhere that scientists had isolated the gene that caused gayness! She said that just like Down’s syndrome, homosexuality came from an extra chromosome. A cure could be on the horizon, you know.

(I don’t know where my mom gets her information, and I no longer ask. When I talk to my mom, we have an unspoken agreement. She doesn’t question me too hard about my lifestyle choices and I don’t argue too much with her off-the-wall “I read this in a magazine” beliefs. It’s easier on us both to just carry on with the base idea of what she’s said. So ignore with me the fact or fiction of extra chromosomes, or what “causes” homosexuality, okay? It’s hard, I know.)

She asked me if I could go back in time to Am’s creation and if scientists could have tested her in the womb and known she had the “gay gene” but that they could “fix” it, would I have done so?

I didn’t brush it off as a stupid question because it’s really NOT a stupid question. Every parent wants their child’s life to be perfect and easy. Do I think homosexuality is easy? No. There is still discrimination, there is still hatred and bigotry. Am cried after election day. “It’s like one step forward and two steps backward.” she said. “We’ve elected a black man for president, but we ban gay marriages. Why?”

And what answer is there? Why? I don’t know why. And when I look at the bigotry still alive and well and I know my daughter is the target of that, would I elect to avoid that for her? That is not a stupid question, and not an easy answer.

But I’m not at that point in time. I’m not pregnant with an unknown person. What I have now IS a person. A delightful, beautiful whole person. I cannot, even in theory, pretend I don’t have that. She is who and what she is, and every part of her and every experience she has had is what has shaped her into this person.

Would I take the “gay cure” at the moment of conception? I don’t know. Would I go back in time and do it and take the chance of altering the daughter I have now? No. Not in a million years. She is perfect exactly as she is, in my eyes.

That was my answer for my mother’s question. She agreed, with a very quiet admission that that’s true.

I asked her if she thought Am was defective in some way.

Of course not, she said, not at all. What an awful thought that is.

Yet you’re saying, Mom, that homosexuality is a birth defect, like Down’s syndrome.

Well, yes, she agreed with that.

But, I said, if you believe that God is the creator of human life, then isn’t it your God who created Am exactly as she is? Does your God make mistakes?

No. No no no. God doesn’t make mistakes. Of that she’s sure.

*sigh*

I think she’s struggling with what kind of God to believe in. I can only imagine the turmoil she’s in, 60+ years of deeply held beliefs, a world and a life that was wrapped up in a neat little package with reasonable (to her) explanations for the wrongness in it.

It’s hard to say what conclusions she’ll come to. I know that she’ll never, ever condemn her granddaughter to an eternity in Hell.

Am has pulled away from the church she was enjoying because of an overheard conversation between two church members about homosexuality. One minute she’s gushing about the church and the youth group, how she honestly believed that there was a reason for everything and the reason we had to move here was so she could grow spiritually in this new-found church that she really felt a connection to — and the next minute she just didn’t want to go, couldn’t go, isn’t ready to face the judgement.

The two of them, my mother and my daughter, both in their own crisis of faith. My mother struggling to accept a God who just may embrace homosexuality, my daughter struggling with the idea of a God who condemns it, who condemns her.

I will give you peace and quietness.
– I Chronicles 16:11

Any day now, God. Any day.

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