Y’ piss me off, ya fuckin’ jerk, y’get on my nerves

Why people get on my nerves example number 946.

Q: Have you ever beaten a masochist, submissive, or otherwise, when you were emotionally charged or angry? Have you eve been beaten by a sadist, in such a sitation?

Perfectly legitimate question. With perfectly predictable answers from the “masses” of bubble-gum players.

A: I wouldn’t take out my anger on a sub. I guess I don’t consider them to be punching bags for my frustrations.

A: He never beats me. It’s all semantics, but to me beating = abuse.

A: One of my favorite saying is “I like to hurt, not injure”. There is a difference.

A: For me if Master was angry and beat me with out me first having offered to take the abuse then at that point it would be abuse.

Of course my answer doesn’t match. It never does.

He beats me when He’s angry, and when He’s not. He beats me whenever He damn well wants to. Being angry does not equal loss of control.

I forgot to sign the part of our mythical contract that said “do whatever you want…….except for!” and then check off all the exceptions.

Now then.. now I can be Your slave. *nod*

*eyeroll*

Could you imagine if I presented this list to Master in seriousness?

Fer real. I swear to God I came from another planet. I just don’t agree with anyone these days.

Is it me? It’s me isn’t it?

It is. Has to be.

Oy.

~cunt

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“To know after absence the familiar street and road and village and house is to know again the satisfaction of home”

A random search (that I refuse to link to) netted this little gem.

“Survivors of abuse seek M/S relationships because they are only comfortable in a relationship that involves the dynamics of abuse they are familiar with. This is not a healthy place for them.”

How nice that someone, a stranger, has become the authoritative voice on what it is that is healthy for abuse “survivors”. Perhaps when they’ve finished dictating what is, and is not, acceptable in my intimate relationships, they can pick out the books I should be reading. Pre-program my television to acceptable entertainment. Choose my food.

Clearly they know more about what is healthy for me than I do. Odd of me to find that offensive.

First, I very much dislike the term “survivor”. I know other people use it and take pride (or something) in announcing that they “survived” past abuse. Personally, I think you survive a bad car accident or you survive a plane crash. And yes, I get that some people have survived horrific abuse that probably did put their lives in danger. But I was not in any danger of dying so I detest having that term applied to me.

I also reject the “victim” label. Though my past might fit the dictionary definition of being victimized, that particular word carries such a self-pitying atmosphere with it that it just makes my brain twitch. I hated being in therapy and hearing that word used for me. I did not feel like a victim until a doctor told me I was, and every time it was said I’d feel small and useless and sorry for myself all over again. I spent more time after therapy recovering from everything they told me I SHOULD be than I did working my way through the actual after-effects of the abuse.

I am not a survivor, nor am I a victim. I was an easy target for experimentation. That’s what I was. I was a little girl with little girl parts surrounded by bigger, stronger, older boys going through puberty and left unsupervised by adults. It was bad and it was ugly and blah blah blah.

I’m over it.

Sure, it had it’s traumatic moments. Losing my virginity at the age of 5 was a rotten deal. I learned all sorts of associations that people who aren’t abused probably don’t. I learned that kissing is an act of intimacy far surpassing any sex act. I learned the fine art of dissociation. I learned how to eroticize situations that aren’t. I learned how to take pain without a sound or a twitch. I learned that sex and pain go hand in hand, that one enhances the other and without both together, either one alone – sucks.

But those lessons haven’t been all bad. What happened to me during those formative years under the guise of being “victimized” also taught me valuable life lessons that I’ve used on many, many occasions. After all, if I made it through that for all those years in one piece, I can make it through *anything*. I have pulled that thought up more times than I can count when struggling through a rough situation.

I tell you what it didn’t do though. That abuse did NOT render me retarded. Or ignorant. Or stupid. Or incapable of rational thought. I am not, and never have been, unable to think for myself, to know myself, and to choose what I like. To KNOW what I like – and what I don’t.

The very idea that someone has the audacity to say that because I was abused I am incapable of making healthy decisions about my life infuriates me. I was incapable as a 5 year old, I am NOT incapable now. How was it that I was apparently fully able to birth and raise 3 children who are happy, healthy, intelligent, well-adjusted teens, manage my time and my money, hold down a job, have a house and a car, function on a day to day basis in society and FEEL normal, healthy and happy? Yet some self-proclaimed “expert” comes along and decides that I’m too damaged to make “healthy” decisions. Excuse me?

So I can function decently in all areas *except for* those areas that involve my personal, intimate relationships? That’s the brilliant conclusion they’ve come to?

How then do they rationalize that not all of the people seeking an M/s relationship are “survivors of abuse”? How do they explain away that not all “survivors of abuse” seek out an M/s relationship?

Even if – IF – I, as a “survivor”, am indeed seeking the safety of familarity, so what? So fucking what?

I fail to see why finding comfort in what is familiar automatically equals “unhealthy”. If it’s a relationship that makes me happy and fulfills my needs, WHY is it unhealthy? I’m past the magic age of 18. I’m not a drooling, blubbering, incoherent dolt. I’m not a simpleton, I’m fully capable in every other area of my life, by society’s standards, to make rational, adult decisions. So why does this one get the fish eye?

If I had used my past abuse as an excuse to abuse another child because that’s what was familiar to me, that would be an unhealthy way to deal with it. If I had chosen men who used me as an avenue to my own kids because those kinds of men were familiar to me, THAT would be an unhealthy choice. If I stayed drunk 20 hours out of the day so I didn’t have to *think* about my past, that would be unhealthy.

Some people never move more than a mile away from mom’s house. They live, raise their kids, and die in the same community they grew up in. Why? Because it’s familiar. It’s safe. They stay at the same job for 30 years, eat the same foods, watch the same tv shows, keep the same friends, frequent the same bowling alley, go to the same doctor, buy the same truck year after year after year. Because it’s comfortable. It’s familiar.

Finding comfort in what is familiar to you is not necessarily an unhealthy choice.

Everyone in the world finds some way to deal with the hand life dealt them. Ev-er-y-body. You, me, everyone. You don’t have to have had some hugely traumatic event(s) to require a coping mechanism. Life itself requires it. Some people shop, some people devote themselves to the church, some people avoid their own life, merely existing while “living” through some actor on a soap opera. Some people escape into books or video games – or an internet chat room. Second Life anyone? Sims?

I choose not to smoke crack as my coping mechanism. I choose not to drink a bottle of wine a day. I choose not to gamble away my husband’s paycheck. I choose not to beat my kids. I choose not to torture small animals. But as an intelligent, rational adult I choose to keep this “abuse” in my life. I am comfortable with my current relationship dynamics. I feel safe in this environment.

I don’t need you. Go save a whale or something. Sheesh.

~cunt

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Newsworthy or not?

I realize that we live spittin’ distance from Green Bay. I get that we are in Packer Country. Though I shall forever remain loyal to ‘Da Bears’ (yes they suck, I know. But they beat the Packers. Twice! Ha!) since moving to Wisconsin, I’ve become accustomed to seeing Packers furniture in the furniture stores, special Green Bay Packers license plates, houses painted in green and gold, giant inflatable Packers lawn ornaments – and I even accept that if one chooses to badmouth the Packers in public, one takes their life into their own hands around here.

Packer-love in this part of Wisconsin goes beyond home team loyalty. It’s a damn religion. For srsly.

However.

3 days of “Breaking News Coverage” surrounding Brett Favre’s retirement announcement is fucking ridiculous.

The first day? Two straight hours of uninterrupted news conferences that overrode both Dr. Phil AND Ellen (the nerve!). Isn’t this why there are numerous channels devoted entirely to SPORTS news? So they can stay the hell off of the 3 major networks, half of whose viewers don’t give a rat’s ass about Favre’s fucking retirement.

The second day, I had to watch a grown man snivel on tv while he tearfully proclaimed “I have nothing left to give the NFL!” Oh puh-leeze. AND was subjected to hearing it on every channel at LEAST a dozen times.

But what really takes the cake? A tribute song. For a football team quarterback. Are you fucking kidding me?! Not only has it forever ruined one of my very favorite songs, I’ve had to listen to it on every radio station, too! Quite literally, I could beat my head against the wall. The song – Green Day’s “Hope you had the time of your life” (or more aptly titled “Good Riddance” in my opinion) with much audio footage of Favre’s tearful television announcement.

~puke~

So.. he was a good football player. He broke records. Yippee. I’m thrilled.

The same day that Favre’s announcement was aired, a 24 year old Wisconsin soldier was killed in Iraq, leaving a wife and young children. You know what he got? Nothing. A 30 second news spot. No tribute song, no two hours of news coverage, nothing. A man who truly has nothing left to give – because he gave it all.

Seems to me this country needs to reexamine it’s standards for what makes a hero.

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Look…

You know, I have a tendency to blame myself when things start to get FUBAR-ed. Maybe that’s a submissive characteristic, or maybe it’s just me. But in spite of my smart-ass “It’s all Maser’s fault!” sarcasm here, in my personal life, and especially when it’s a serious problem, I do not look for the most convenient person to blame. I shoulder it. Because I don’t know what else to do.

Master tends to let me. It makes his life easier.

But, fact is, if I’m not going to be steering the way, my hands are tied. I can only point out that we’re heading for the ditch, as politely and respectfully as I can. What are my options? Grab the wheel and yank it? That’s not so successful. Scream and demand that he turn? Just as successful as yanking, don’t you think? Brace myself for the impact… and hope we come out relatively unscathed? Yeah. That’s about what I do.

But ditch after ditch after ditch? Bracing for the impact gets exhausting. It gets tiresome. And the self-loathing that follows the self-blame – the constant “where did I make him take a wrong turn?” and “what am I doing wrong?” while he just lets me sit in the dirty ditch because the God-complex has gone to his head? *shrug* I’m not a saint. It begins to feel futile and forced and resentful and all kinds of black and ugly things.

I appreciate the advice and the support. But you know what? You don’t know the half of it. You get about a 10 minute journal post of my entire life, and even at that, it’s only a piece of what I feel like sharing. Which lately? Has been tainted bullshit fluff because I’m not able to put all of THIS into accurate words that aren’t filled with self-loathing venom.

That link to the “When It Stops Being Fun” article? Here’s the part that is relevant to me: “The same applies to the Master. There are times (more than just a few) that life would be so much easier to kick back, enjoy a beverage served by a lovely slave, and channel surf away the day’s cares instead of being the “active Master” the relationship demands. More than one relationship with incredible potential has gone by the wayside due to this “abdication” of responsibility by the one in charge.”

Sometimes, it’s really not my fault and my hands are tied and I’m stuck until HE pulls his head out of his ass and decides what he wants and where he wants to take it. I AM NOT IN CHARGE. I don’t want to be. And if he doesn’t want to be either, then I NEED something else to focus on and think about and care for. Because being the only one interested in a dying BDSM relationship sucks fucking monkey ass. So I either get *permission*, which may or may not be the last thing I need to ask permission for, to find other hobbies and activities to occupy my time.. or he watches me go batshit insane, which is not a far travel right now. Not at all.

We’re not talking about a week of nothing here.. or a month… or whatever. You think what you want about my demands or my high maintenance behavior, but none of you know. You know what I’ve fluffed up because maybe I wasn’t even ready to face it. That’s all. I don’t care if it is my “fault” for only giving you a glimpse but a glimpse is all you can ever have with a blog. Anyone who feels like they know more, or knows me better than I know myself or knows more about my relationship than Master and I do, is delusional. And out of line. And can fuck right off.

Tell you something else, too. We are not, and never have been, anywhere close to ending our relationship. The bdsm? Yes, possibly, sometimes I’m sure of it. But us? No. We’re in love, nothing is changing that. If saving us means backing off the bdsm for now or for forever, then so be it. Contrary to popular opinion, there is more to us than perversion.

~~*~~

That’s what I had written yesterday, in a fit of disgust over it being alluded that I’m to blame, that I’m missing something, that I’m doing something wrong, that I’m blah blah blah… whatever.

I wasn’t going to post it. I’m sure it will piss lots of people off and cost me some readers. But you know what? I don’t care. Not one fucking bit. Sometimes I think some people need to be reminded that what you are reading on a blog is not ever the full story. Do not presume to think that you KNOW me because I write a journal. You don’t. You can’t. You get a one dimensional slice of one facet of my life of a short snippet of my day. That’s all. You want to come camp out in my living room for a few weeks, you can then tell me what I’m doing wrong.

I’ve spent the last 6 months blaming myself for something that I can’t fix or control or change. I do not need it here, too. Not today.

As it happens, Master hasn’t even read yesterday’s post. Nor will he probably be too happy when he does. This one either. But yesterday I did ask for permission to move on in my personal space. To let go of cunthood or slavery or whatever label is kosher these days. I told him I was tired of myself, fed up with my own unhappiness. That it isn’t fair the pressure it puts on him to be responsible for me and himself and the kids. That I can’t, won’t, ask him to be Superman. But that I also can’t keep doing *this*. The waiting, the expectations, the want and need… it’s too hard. Too sad. There is no blame to lay on either of us. It just happened that life intruded and though we’ve tried to hang on to it, it’s not making either of us happy right now.

He had no idea. Well.. that’s not entirely true. Unhappiness doesn’t go unnoticed in a shared bed, but the extent that I’ve hidden it and accepted responsibility for the ditch driving sugar-coated things. There is a fine line between “Oh I must communicate ev-er-y-thing to my Master!” and nagging, bitching behavior. I do not nag and/or bitch. Draw your own conclusions from that.

He didn’t try to look deeper, for his own reasons, whatever. Maybe the sand felt good around both our heads. It doesn’t matter now. What matters is he didn’t realize, or didn’t want to see, just how badly it had gotten. He is not testing me or doing it on purpose. I am not failing some “master plan”, He’s not punishing me or steering us in a different direction. I am not throwing a fit over nothing. And I certainly am not balking because it “stopped being fun”. We went south, and didn’t want to admit it. The end.

So. What now?

I don’t know. That’s the God’s honest truth. I don’t know.

He’s still driving. I’m still the passenger. The rest is up to him.

Sometimes Masters make mistakes. Maybe the litmus test for that so-called “true” Master is one who can admit it. If so? I have one.

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I quit.

So here is something that’s been rolling around in my noggin for a bit.

I had a lightbulb moment. It started as a flicker but it’s grown into a steadily burning fact. I’m gonna go with it.

I quit. I quit the whole BDSM, Master/slave, dom/sub … thing. I quit.

I don’t GET it. I mean, really, it’s so simple now that I see it. All this time that I’ve struggled and argued and confronted and and and.. just.. gone on and on about this, that and the other, trying my god-damndest to GET it.. and I don’t.

But now I know WHY I don’t.

I’m not doing it! I am not doing what the BDSM’ers are doing. Nope. Not at all. I don’t even understand what they’re doing anymore.

I’ve been a square peg trying to shove my way into a round hole for ages and ages. I’m like the Rabbi at the Catholic convention, not quite understanding why he’s drawing conflict every time he opens his mouth. Because he doesn’t know he’s a Rabbi and not a Catholic.

So.

I am not a slave. I sure as fuck am not a submissive. I may have certain aspects of my personality that mimic those of your stellar slaves and subs. But on the checklist of BDSM-defined slaves and subs? Nope. Ain’t working.

I am a cunt. Nothing more and nothing less. As far as I know, there are no rules or guidelines or right or wrongs to cunthood. I think that I get that Master gets to define my cuntness.

See, I am in this state of cunthood for a reason. I came into this relationship wanting some very specific things. And, to top it all off, I not only think I deserve them, I demand that I get them. I demand that I get them OR I retaliate by witholding my own contributions to the relationship. Apparently, that does not mesh well with the slave board of ethics.

I’ve just gone round and round with it. I don’t GET how someone gets nothing out of a relationship. I don’t get why in the hell they would even sign up for that! Nor do I understand how it is that they *create* happiness out of it. Happy with nothing? Say huh? What the fuck does that mean!?

I’m really unclear on how to maintain friendships with people who don’t see it like I do. I don’t mean that everyone has to agree with me because *obviously* people do not. And I can be friends with someone who doesn’t agree with me. It’s simply a matter of you do your thing and I’ll do mine, right?

Except.. no. I don’t know how that works really. Because being around someone who sees what I am doing as *wrong* has a certain effect on me. And that effect is not conducive to a zen state of cunthood. Sure, we could tiptoe around a conversation, careful not to step on a trigger button that might offend the other.. but that seems like a lot of work. Work that is perhaps doomed to failure?

Religion and politics, with power&money coming in a close third, are the root cause of the wars being fought. Religion and politics are a way of life. A value structure. Morals and ethics, your belief system, your reasons for getting out of bed every day. It’s all wrapped up in the way you LIVE. It’s because those on one side think their way of living is right and better and more just than the other side that they strive to either force their way on the other or, worse, to eliminate the other. That’s maybe how I view the approach to living this sort of deviant lifestyle, too. This is my way of life, it’s my reason for living, it has far-reaching, long-term effects on myself and those around me, yet, inevitably either I or someone doing it differently, tries to push that on to the other. It’s impossible, when you feel  strongly about what you do, to keep your opinions to yourself. Sincerity leads one to want to convert another. “Just listen to me. I am right! I am happy! And you will be too once you do it my way!”

So how does that work then, to have friends who feel just as strongly as I do about how they are doing what they are doing? How can they not attempt to convert me? How can I not attempt to convert them?

I know that some of y’all find extreme satisfaction in service. Me? Not so much. It really depends on the situation and what prompted the service, but service all by itself sucks ass. I get to say that because I am not a slave and I don’t *have* to either pretend I like it or turn it into something I like. I DO it because I am a cunt and I am an owned cunt, and my owner/ruler has told me to. But I also get to grump and complain while I do it because he doesn’t give a fuck HOW I do it, only that I get it done.

But I can’t talk about how I grump and complain and stomp my feet and sigh and throw my hands in the air.. because in the land of slaves, that’s shameful behavior. Best case scenario- it’s frowned on, worst case scenario- it’s grounds for ‘release’. And.. not only am I not free to talk about it, neither is Master! The judgments surrounding the type of Master who would tolerate such behaviors? Profoundly ridiculously insulting. Honestly. Not even Master can admit that he enjoys it. Not even if he explains that knowing that I don’t want to serve, but do it anyway, is so much more of a turn on for him than happy-happy joy-joy, thank-you-for-letting-me-serve-you-Sir, can-I-kiss-your-feet stuff.

I am possibly maybe a masochist. I do not eroticize pain unless I do the paining to myself. Pain… hurts. A lot sometimes. It makes me squeal and beg and cry and try my damndest to get away from it. That’s generally why he ties me up first. Because I’ll bolt, given the chance. He likes that too. He also likes that I crave and need and want and beg for exactly the sort of beating that I hate. Makes his job easier I guess. He’s not reduced to having to kidnap unwilling girlies from the street to scratch his itch. He has me. A willing participant to torture. A cunt.

Stoic, calm, submissive behavior during a beating bores him to tears. He wants reaction. He wants panic. He wants tears and snot and begging for mercy. Any attempt on my part to withold such reactions only results in a harder beating and a very unhappy sadist. I’m not so sure that my fighting during a scene qualifies me for slavery. It seems like I should be graceful and silently grateful to be getting it. And um.. fuck that. It hurts. But it does qualify me for cunthood according to my made-up rules.

You know what else I don’t get? The whole spiritual movement in BDSM. I am not one of the cool kids who has reached that level I guess. To be honest I think y’all are making it up but I won’t tell you that because “just because I don’t have it doesn’t mean it isn’t real” and all. I know that so I generally extend the benefit of the doubt to you all. But in my secret bitchy place (which is not so secret but very bitchy) I think y’all are full o’ shit. (grins)

But that’s okay! Because as a cunt, I don’t have to be spiritual. I don’t have to be anything but what he tells me to be. The only worship I have to do is to a cock and the occasional stinky set of feet. And even at that I won’t be reveling in the privilege. I’ll be wrinkling my nose and telling him his tootsies are rotten.

I don’t have to find joy where there isn’t any. I get to frolic in the things that I hate with a passion. I get to have my “force fetish” scratched without it having hidden meanings of anything bad. I get to dance out of reach and sing “make me” and then run like hell, because he will make me and it will hurt.. and I love it. I get to say ‘no’ and ‘fuck you’ and ‘kiss my ass’ and I get to be stubborn and willful and difficult. I get to cry and I get to say how much I hate it and I get to ask for something more and I get to tell him that he is wrong sometimes.

I get all of that, and more, because I am not a slave. I am a cunt. And cunts have different rules. So there.

So you see? Bitchy opinionated cunts have no place in the world of BDSM. What I want, where I’m going, how I’m getting there.. it’s all at odds with the way the rest of the BDSM culture is going about their business. This should mean that I’m no longer going to be told how I’m doing it wrong because I’m not doing it. Make sense? You can’t tell me I’m a bad slave anymore because.. hahaha! I’m not a slave. Not even a sub.

I don’t submit. I don’t acquiesce. I don’t do anything of the sort. I offer myself up to be conquered. Overpowered, crushed, beaten, reduced and trampled. Repeatedly. It’s how we do it. It’s what floats our boat. A constant and ongoing process of trampling, up until, once and for all, it’s done.

When it’s done… you won’t have to listen to me babble about it. I’ll be squirreled away, taken out to be beaten and used and put away. Those are not the obvious slave aspirations, but they ARE cunt aspirations.

I am reinventing the wheel. *beams*

I don’t fit in, and more importantly, I don’t WANT to anymore. Y’all do your bdsm thing. We’re gonna do our thing. Now I just gotta come up with some cool acronyms and catch phrases.   ;-)

~cunt

(I suppose I should add in here that I’ve not yet informed Master of my decision to reject all things BDSM and possibly, maybe, tonight or tomorrow or whenever he reads this, I will be retracting my statements. But until then, I quit.)

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Annoying the world, one offense at a time.

So I think we’ve all read this by now “Pet” girl kicked off bus for wearing leash. I’m seeing it linked just about everywhere.

It was an amusing little story, and my sympathies initially went with the couple in question. Certainly they weren’t breaking any laws or doing anything that called for that sort of reaction from the bus driver.

I think the driver had a big ol’ bowl of bitchflakes for breakfast that morning.

The girl, the pet of the couple, is quoted in the story as saying “”I am a pet [...] It might seem strange but it makes us both happy. It’s my culture and my choice. It isn’t hurting anyone.”

So it’s not hurting anyone. And it is their choice. I would be completely outraged had someone walked into their home and said the things that the bus driver said. But, they brought it public. They took it outside their home. Do the same rules of tolerance apply?

I’m strongly opposed to PDK’s (public displays of kink). I think kink belongs in your home, not in Wal-mart or the Chinese buffet line. When I go out in public, I expect a modicum of appropriate behavior, from myself and everyone else.

I don’t necessarily think that this couple stepped over that line, at least not in any blatantly disrespectful way. Especially in this day and age where “goth wear” typically includes spiked collars and chains dangling from various places. I’m so accustomed to seeing goth styles that I don’t even suspect a person is into kink if I see a collar or a leash. I actually tend to look for more subtle clues these days. That flaunting style, in my opinion, rules out a serious interest in kink. (which is my opinion only. I think people who flaunt are making up for some other insecurity perhaps. But thats another entry.)

That’s why there are events and get-togethers, you know? There are appropriate places to let it all hang out and show off your interest in bdsm.

This couple wants to play Owner and pet. That’s wonderful. Who doesn’t? Yet, they clearly suspend the “play” when they have to. The “pet” was walking on two feet, wearing clothes, and was quoted with an articulate response in the newspaper. She wasn’t listed as saying “Arf! Arf!” (or whatever animal she’s playing) so why can’t they also suspend the roleplaying and leave the leash off when they get on the bus? People do outrageous things precisely to get that sort of shocked reaction and then whine when they get it.

But culture and choice is her defense. Fine. There are cultures where nudity is the choice but they wouldn’t be allowed on the bus either. What if the next person chooses to wear his adult Huggies, his baby bonnet, and suck on his “mommy’s” breast?

Where do you draw the line for public exposure? When did the public consent to being pulled into *your* kink?

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Babbles

I haven’t babbled in ages and ages. Seems like it’s time.

I have some stuff to give away to anyone wanting to pay the shipping costs. While cleaning out the closet yesterday I came across some things we don’t need/use/like anymore.

1. The 2nd and 3rd books from the Beauty series. I bought them years ago before I realized that bdsm fiction does nothing for me. I don’t know why I never bought the 1st one, and I don’t think I made it all the way through the 3rd. But if anyone wants them, they’re yours.

2. A short book on play piercing. It’s decent enough for basic information so if you’re new to needle play it would be a good source of info for you.

3. This set of clamps for pierced nipple rings. They *can* be used as regular nipple clamps, but they don’t fit on my ginormous nipplers anyway and I don’t have pierced nipples anymore.

4. This set of nipple clamps. You can read the review I did on them here.  They didn’t work for me, but they might work for you!

5. One snapping collar that says “slut” on it. Master didn’t buy it for me so I never wear it. You know how that is with stuff the dreaded ex bought. ;-)

6. One really cheap but really functional black-n-white zebra-striped blindfold. I have no idea where it came from but we have two other blindfolds and I can only wear one at a time!

7. And last, a set of leather(?) wrist restraints with a broken hook on one of them. I almost threw them away, but geesh, I hate to toss ‘em when someone could probably replace the hook. With the price of wrist cuffs, I thought maybe someone would want them, fix them, and viola! We have too many other sets to even worry about trying to fix it for ourselves.

I promise nothing has been spooged on or anything. It’s all clean stuff! If you want any of it, email me (kaya (at) underhishand dot com), first come, first serve.

I was more than willing to keep going with the toy giveaway right on into the paddles and stuff but Master cut me off there. Spoilsport. Srsly, just how many crops and paddles does one man need anyway??

 ~~*~~

While cleaning things out yesterday I was reminded of a chat room I used to frequent years and years ago. I was so new to bdsm and was totally and completely sucked up into all of the chat room b.s.

There was a lot of talk about toys in that room. It was something of a litmus test; your knowledge of leather care. Because clearly if you didn’t know how to properly care for your Lord’s $800.00 leather flogger, you weren’t a “true” bdsm’er.

 I didn’t know jackshit about leather care and I just remember being terrified that someone would ask me a direct question and I’d be outed as a fake, a liar, a poser! Oh noes!

And the talk about prices and types and.. jebus. I cannot tell you the difference between a deer skin flogger or a moose skin flogger. Or a cow skin flogger or a freakin’ pleather flogger. For all I care you can make it out of shoestrings and duct tape. What matters, in my opinion, is if it hurts (and shoestrings hurt, btw) so who gives a rat’s ass what animal donated it’s skin to beat you with?

 I’m just not a leather snob I guess. I couldn’t tell you now what the things in our closet are made from. It might be leather, or pleather, or black rubber for all I know. Nor do I care if I’m properly caring for it. Nothing is falling apart so I must be doing *something* right.

Besides, most of what resides in that hateful closet is metal or wood anyway. Master’s preferences are not in soft and supple leathery materials. He likes the cold, hard clink of chain and the flat crack of wooden paddles and the whistling smack of rattan canes. We have three or four floggers, they hurt if he whips me hard enough, but otherwise they aren’t *that* bad. I kinda like them as a break from the usual excruciating pain. I could probably make them really, really ouchy if I was dumb brave enough to tie knots in the end or add metal tips (who does that?? srsly?!). But I have been flogged with the more “high end” floggers at play parties and such and I can’t tell the difference between those and what we have! None whatsoever. It hurts the same if the swing is right and if it hits the right (or wrong) spot.

Master has a leather bullwhip that he frequently uses on me. I like it actually. A bunch. So I bought him a nylon singletail at a *fraction* of the cost of a leather one and that nylon whip is FAR more painful than the leather bullwhip.

Bah on leather snobbery.

Same thing goes for wasting money on clamps and other toys. Make one trip through your local hardware store and save yourself a couple hundred bucks. Those vise grips that Master has? Fuck me! Those things can tighten down to skin-popping strength if you want them to. Just seems silly (or unimaginative) to limit yourself to what’s sold in the sex shops. Unless of course all you are after is the look of it. Then by all means stay out of Home Depot.

Speaking of which, we have a wooden pony (12 bucks, Menards) that hasn’t been used yet. Consider this my official request, Master. *beams*

~~*~~

I’ve been thinking about fetishes and fantasies. Age play mostly, but it includes s&m, rape fantasies, kidnap fantasies, etc. It seems there’s a common misconception, especially on age play, that those who engage in it are closet pedophiles simply building up the courage to act on their desires.

I don’t even engage in age play and I can see how wrong that is. The same applies to those who act out fantasies of rape or kidnap. Here are some opinions I’ve previously expressed on age play, and on fantasies in general.

I don’t agree with the opinion that age play leads to pedophilia any more than puppy or pony play leads to bestiality. It is the only safe, moral and ethical way to express those types of fantasies. Two adults consensually engaging in an activity that harms nobody.

Most (if not all) people who engage in age play do not desire sex with a child. They desire sex with an adult in a role-playing situation. A pedophile is not going to be attracted to an adult, not even an adult dressed in Dr. Dentons. Pedophiles desire children. Period. They go to great and dangerous lengths to find and exploit children. If it could be that easily substituted by tossing the old lady into some pigtails and fluffy bunny slippers, not a one of those pedophiles would risk what they do to get an actual child. The two do not interchange.

Age play is about emotion and safety and feeling loved and safe and innocent. It’s a chance to nurture and coddle and spoil and revert to more innocent times. The reason that it will sometimes lead to sex is because it IS adults pretending, and *because* they are still adults, and still show love and affection and tenderness with their partner in an adult manner, they have sex.

No doubt there are a few who are indeed pedophiles trying to disguise it with age play. Just as there are priests and little league coaches and boy scout leaders who are predators in disguise. Are all priests? All coaches? Of course not. Neither are all “Daddies”.

I’d bet there are many MANY more abusers who jump into bdsm and use s&m or D/s as a disguise to abuse women (or men). That is much more prevalent than a pedophile, I’d lay money on it. How many crime stories start out with BDSM or bondage as the “sick and twisted” beginning of a serial killing spree? LOTS. So is anyone who is into bdsm a practicing serial killer/rapist? The evidence and history is far stronger stacked on that side than on the age play/pedophile side.

Sadly some people do think that though. Any of us who enjoy s&m are essentially enrolled in Serial Killing 101. And those of you just enjoying a little bedroom spanking and not even dabbling in the more “extreme” s&m activities? Just wait. You’re on a slippery slope, too. We’ll all probably meet up in a dark alley, prowling for victims, if you’re to believe the predictions.

I don’t even know what to say on the side of bestiality. Pony play, and puppy play, has *exploded* here lately (or at least my exposure to it has). Does that mean that animal shelters need to be on guard before adopting out pets now?

I don’t always understand a person’s fetish, but more than that, I don’t always understand a person’s frightened reaction to a fetish. It smacks of ignorance more so than intolerance. Ignorance and fear?

~~*~~

Let’s see. What else.

There’s a fascinating thread going on over at TSR on the possibilities, or lack thereof, of enslavement while also being a mother and/or an employee. Some people are of the opinion that having a child makes enslavement impossible merely because motherhood necessarily puts limits on slavery. Same thing with a job, a job outside the home limits slavery.

I think that people get offended, highly so, when they are told that they cannot be enslaved because of reason a, b, or c. So much so that they no longer hear the reasons listed.

I know that my initial reaction was to become defensive, to spout off with how deeply I can too be enslaved in spite of having children in the house. But really, if you take a step back and think about it, it’s absolutely correct, in my opinion.

The process of becoming enslaved cannot succeed when that process is limited, either by children or a job or any other outside influence. That’s not to say that one can’t succeed as much as possible within the confines of those limitations, but it’s not going to be the same as it would be without those limitations.

I think that’s a large part of why I’ve been in this funk of mine for so long. I am going back to work. Trying to make M/s work around the kids was hard enough, and limited enough, without my job’s interference. The reason that Master pulled me out of the work force in the first place was precisely because working interfered with the level of control that he desired. And he was absolutely correct. Once I’d quit work, things deepened exponentially around here, though, still frustratingly limited by HIS career and the kids.

It’s been coming to terms with the fact that we aren’t going to progress any farther in the enslavement process as long as the kids are living with us and as long as he needs to work the hours he does with the travel he does to make ends meet that has unsettled me so. We’d reached The End, or hit the top, or whatever analogy you want to use. So do we keep banging our heads into the ceiling or do we accept the facts and work with it from there?

I’m all for accepting the facts. Banging my head was giving my a killer headache, and had the added effect of undoing what success we did have out of pure frustration. What are the options here? Give the kids away? Both of us quit our jobs and live on the streets, all in the name of achieving the elusive goal of proper enslavement? Continue in this stagnating pool of *almost but not quite* enslaved?

I mourned, I think, the realization that we were going to have to take a step back in order to someday move forward. I’m accepting the loss of my fantasies for now. For a while I felt like I’d failed, that WE had failed. I wanted to reject the whole thing on the basis that if I can’t have it all I don’t want ANY of it. Very childish, no?

I don’t feel that way anymore. It’s not the end of anything and it IS doing something that will help to ensure the success of it later. Enslavement isn’t something you get just because you want it, or just because you say you can do it. The limitations are there, and they are huge, and wishing won’t make them go away. But that doesn’t equal failure, or impossible, or anything like that. It simply means you work out what needs to be worked out and you do what you can while you can… and you wait. But waiting doesn’t have to be a waste of time either. A whole lot can be accomplished and learned in the interim, IF you aren’t a stubborn, resentful cunt like I was. ;-)

So, okay then. I think I’m done babbling for now. I do have a task to do today and he will be expecting those pictures up before he comes home so I’ll be back this way soon!

~cunt

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Monthly PMS Rant(s)

I mustn’t break tradition and suffer in silence. I shall generously share with you.

 Things that piss me off, December 2007.

 1. Recipe sites that allow for posting reviews of the recipe. It’s not the review itself that’s irritating because when trying a new recipe I rather like hearing some opinions on it. What is irritating as fuck are the people who write something like this: “I gave this a 5 star rating! I did make a few changes though! I used diced tomatoes instead of soup, canned potatoes and carrots instead of noodles, beef broth in place of the water, added garlic powder for more flavor, only a 1/2 a pack of taco seasoning, and leftover pot roast instead of ground beef. It turned out great!”

WTF! That’s not a review of the original recipe, it’s a review of your own fucking recipe. You have to add a little more salt, or liked it better the next day, or thought it was too spicy, you can do a review. If you’re changing more than 4 main ingredients, you’re making a new dish. Write it on your own recipe site. ‘tard.

2. This journal pisses me off. But that’s old news.

3. My neighbors, who think that WE are the odd ones because we don’t think it’s a fun time to sit on the front porch and get slobbered-up drunk like a bunch of white trash morons. I don’t refer to my kids as “jeagermiester babies!” and then cackle like letting your child know he was a drunken mistake is humorous. I don’t think pizza hut is a career, (especially if you’ve worked there for 19 years and are still a waittess. Bet I make more painting clothespins. Ha!). Nor do I buy weed for my teenager, or think having the cops parked at my curb is “cute”. But mostly, we’re weird because I don’t work. Welllll… maybe if you’d all stop spending a paycheck on beer and poker, you could quit your minimum wage “careers” too.

They’ve finally stopped inviting us over for white trash poker night and we all live in relative peace. We wave if we’re outside, which is plenty more interaction than I care for as it is. Gah. Even if I wanted to be social, it wouldn’t be with them.

4. People who write post after post after post about the problems in their life… and do NOTHING to change it. At first, I’m all kinds of sympathetic. A year later, same whining, same woe-is-me? Piss off. I can only listen to you crying in your cheerios for so long. You aren’t helpless, you aren’t a child, ain’t nothing going to fix itself. Get off your ass and change or shut the fuck up. Self-pity is HIGHLY unattractive, don’t wonder why you are still alone.

5. Bell ringers. If I want to donate I will but don’t guilt me into it. That completely ruins my giving spirit. I like the bell ringers who do a gentle tinkle. I do NOT like those who rattle it like a freakin cow bell the very second you come into earshot, who lift it up and shake it in front of you when you walk by, or who flash you dirty looks if you walk by without poking money into the slot. I have no problem with charities and we do more than our fair share of donating, but Jesus, it hardly feels like a charitable donation when I feel “attacked” going in AND out of the store. Back off already.

6. Senseless violence and the media for turning it into a circus. I’ve made this rant before. If they’d stop making these murderers famous, they’d stop doing it for that reason. What was the shooter in Nebraska’s note? “I’ll be famous now” or something like that.

And senseless stupidity that results in someone else’s death. A few weeks ago, a woman babysitting six kids left them in a running van while she went in to the store. The van caught on fire. A nine-month old and a two year old died, three other children were hospitalized in critical condition. Two families are burying their children when they should be buying them Christmas presents.

I remember watching a news story a few months ago, detailing the events of another shooting not far from here. A man, involved in a spat over an ex-girlfriend, walked into a house where a little party was going on and started shooting. 6 people were killed, all of them high school aged kids. You get so used to hearing it anymore that you become numb to it. I was really only half-listening to the broadcast when they ran a clip of an interview with the mother of one of the victims, a 14 yr old girl. (Don’t get me started on the gall it takes to stick a camera in the face of a woman, standing on the street, who has JUST learned that her daughter is dead) What she said nearly broke my heart and I haven’t yet gotten it out of my head. She said “I haven’t seen her yet. Maybe she’s hiding out somewhere waiting until it’s safe to come out.”

So sad.

Well now I don’t feel like ranting anymore. Now I want to hug my kids.

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Validation

Let’s see if we can’t scroll that picture down a tad, huh? Talk about an “up close and personal” view. Whew.

 It’s interesting to me, sometimes, the reaction that I get concerning the pictures. The pictures and the comments can be a real stickler for people. I see these little barbs, either left for me in a comment or put in a post, things like “I don’t need that kind of attention” or “I don’t need 100 people leaving me comments every day!”, “I don’t need people to agree with me all day.”

 Of course the insinuation there is that I do need that. Which isn’t true. I don’t need it. I just get it. And I like that I get it.  I like the readers that I have. I am, often, validated and agreed with. I’d be a liar to say I don’t enjoy that.

Why do I get it? I have no idea. I don’t think I’m anything special. I don’t think I’m “hot” or “extreme”, I can’t compare to some of the other things I see and read on the ‘net. Why 2 million visitors and 20,000 comments?

No clue. You tell me why. I’m not out soliciting comments or doctoring the stats. I don’t even know how. Ask my webslut..lol. I can’t do shit on here. But I think that’s what people suspect. That somehow I’m forcing this to happen.

I think the people who profess to NOT want it crave it far more than I do. One doth protest too much perhaps? We all blog for a reason, for connection, companionship, attention (of some sort and to varying degrees), validation. If those weren’t some of the reasons, we’d have paper diaries that nobody was aware of. We want people to read, and if your comments are open, you want to know what people think of what you said.

Why do I blog? Because Master says I have to. Luckily for me, I also happen to enjoy it. He’s made me quit before. And he made me start it back up. There have been times when I’ve felt like I’ve hit the end of the road, that I sound like a broken record and I’ve asked to be done with it, and he’s vetoed that. There have been times when HE’S been the one considering stopping it and I’ve been sitting here in agony thinking ‘no no no I don’t wanna stop yet!’

But it all falls under obedience. That’s the very basic foundation of being under someone else’s control, yes? He says, I do. He says go blog, he says post this picture, he says kiss my feet, suck my dick, write about this, show that, sell this, film that, do it, do it, do it. Why does it seem, for some people, that I should be picking and choosing which *thing* I don’t have to do?

 There are so many things that I do, or don’t do,  in the name of obedience and submission. Rules surround everything. For instance:

Hair.

Shaving.

Chocolate.

Shopping.

Food.

Blogging.

Pictures.

Sex.

Pain.

Yardwork.

Cooking.

Sleeping.

Dressing.

Housework.

Videos.

Speech.

Books.

Television.

Job.

Bathroom.

Privacy.

Freedom.

And you know, the list probably goes on and on. It’s just surprising to me, continuously, that people claim to “get” what submission and slavery and power exchange is all about. And then will turn around and say “why do you do x, y, or z??”

*head desk*

I made a blurb some time ago about the remote control. About how Master has the right to come into the room where I may have been watching something and turn the channel.

 That was apparently ”over the top”.

It’s not. It’s submission.

I post whatever picture he points to. Not because *I* want that picture up, but because HE does.

That’s submission.

Do I NEED it? Do I need this blog, the comments, the validation? No. I was doing exactly this way before I even had any readers or comments.

What I NEED is to obey, to exercise his will over mine, to see the results of his dominance. Whether that comes in the form of an in-your-face picture of my cunt, a dvd being mailed out to strangers or handing over the remote control, it doesn’t matter.

He says; I do.

The end.

~cunt

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Poop Cake. Or… Something deeper.

My eyes haven’t forgiven me yet. I’ve still not recovered from the chocolate-poop association. I could be traumatized forever!

I saw a poop cake in the bakery section of our local Piggly Wiggly. I’ve never considered myself to be prudish… but I gotta tell ya. Seeing a poop cake has had me gobsmacked ever since.

It was large, tall and fat, all swirled up tubes of chocolate frosting, with big plastic flies stuck on it. And peanuts scattered here and there. And corn kernels.

*blink blink blink*

I was torn between wanting to buy it (it was chocolate after all) and knowing that if I did, I’d not be able to eat it anyway. I may *know* it’s not poop, but it looked like poop. Scat is not my thing. No how no way. Not even pretend.

I’ve seen boob cakes and dick cakes and pussy cakes (in adult settings!) but never shit cakes. It seems wrong somehow to have a poop cake in a Piggly Wiggly.

(I found a picture of a similar cake here. Apparently, I had missed the entire poop cake phenomena until now.)

But that’s not really what I wanted to post about. I just had to get it out though because… gobsmacked I tell ya.

I wanted to talk about a comment that I got that really made a LOT of sense to me. Something that has put my mind at ease in a big way. From l{Fh}:

Part of surviving intact as ‘differently minded’ (IE not vanilla mentality) requires a certain degree of stubbornness. [...] That takes someone who isn’t going to compromise on life. [...]So why is it surprising that this fine honed survival skill has side effects and drifts into our slave life? It’s the natural residue, if you like, of getting this far intact as WHO YOU ARE. If we were all that submissive we would have given in to the social status quo years ago and not said boo to M/s.

I think that is the most profound thing I’ve heard in quite some time. It’s absolutely correct. The determination to get the life that I want is how I got here. What sense does it make that I would then roll over and play dead just because I’m (almost) here? I’m *still* fighting, determined to get what I came for.

If it weren’t important enough to me to fight for, to work for, I’d have given up a LONG time ago. Being different, in any capacity that goes against the grain of society, isn’t an easy road. Not for anyone. No matter what it is that makes one stand out against the crowd, the pressure to give in, to go with the flow, to be a sheeple is *huge*.

I don’t think that that drive is simply going to disappear, be nonexistent just because I’ve come this far. And she’s right. If I were THAT submissive, I’d have “submitted” to society long ago. I’d be one more closet submissive, masturbating to BDSM porn and fantasies or carrying on a hidden relationship.

But I’m not. I took chances and made things happen because I want what I want. I work for what I want. I’m not submissive. I’m determined.

‘Submissive’ would have led me to settling. Settling for those previous doms, those who may have been close to what I wanted… but not close enough. It’s not easy to end a relationship, especially when that relationship gives you some of what you’ve been looking for. When you don’t know if you’ll ever have anything even close to that again, when you’re facing being alone, again, and starting over, again.

So no. Being strong and driven and competent and determined does not mean that I can’t also be a slave. At least, not in my, or Master’s, opinion.

I do try to top from the bottom (try being the operative word here), and I try, I think, because I think I’m a smart girl. I think I know what’s good for me and I think I know what I want. But, I’m a slave because my topping from the bottom is thwarted consistently and constantly and in that process, I obey.

I talk about being in trouble and I discuss my punishments, but even in those instances, we’re talking about a flash of temper where I neglected to say ‘Sir’, or I got stubborn and took too long to serve him something. I’m not stomping around all day breaking rules and being a bitch. I’m not busting out of the cage (snicker) or chopping my hair off or chatting up other men or spending his money on a new wardrobe.

My basic approach is obedience because I do try and I know that obedience is the very foundation of being a slave… but none of that also requires that I forget, or ignore, the principle motivating factor that I came with. The determination to not let this path that we are on slip off into nowhere.

I don’t think it’s just Master’s responsibility to keep things moving forward and on the up and up. It’s both of ours. It’s his prerogative to steer it, but I’ll be god damned if that means I can’t speak up and say “where in Sam’s hill are you going???” and point out that a wrong turn seems to have been taken. We both know where we want to go. Sometimes He gets sidetracked or pulled away. Sometimes I do. It’s because we’re both wanting the same thing that we both get to yank the other one by the bootstraps.

Because I sure as fuck ain’t going to have made it this far to sit back and quietly and submissively watch it be ran into the ground.

I may not be as easily malleable as some. But you know, we’ve only been at this for a bit over 3 years. In 3 years, he’s changed me in some deeply profound ways. There are other people who have been at this for much longer than we have and who aren’t half as far along. So I don’t at all consider myself, or our relationship, a failure. It’s two steps forward, one step back, and anything easier would probably only be a surface change. I think we are doing it right, doing it in exactly the manner that we need to to satisfy ourselves. Y’all may not agree, but you’re also only getting snippets of the big picture. It’s impossible for me to accurately relay every little detail. I would if I could! But I can’t. Unless you want to move in? ;-)

As it stands right now, somewhere along the way in the not-so-distant past, a wrong turn was made. There is no fault or blame being assigned because it doesn’t matter a bit who detoured. Him or me? Who cares. What matters is that we are able to recognize it and work to fix it. Fixing a wrong turn requires backing up, finding where we deviated from the path and moving forward again. So that’s what we’re doing. We’re reversing until we identify the error.

“There are always two choices. Two paths to take. One is easy. And its only reward is that it’s easy.”

“There’s no thrill in easy sailing when the skies are clear and blue, there’s no joy in merely doing things which any one can do. But there is some satisfaction that is mighty sweet to take, when you reach a destination that you never thought you’d make.”

I could give up on my dreams. I could hush, keep my worries and thoughts to myself. I could… but what would he end up with? A lesser version of me.

He could bowl over my dreams. Ignore them, no longer make them a priority. At what cost though? A “nicer” journal? One of those perfect, fluffy ones? And still, a lesser version of me.

He wants to own me, to possess me. He doesn’t only want a robotic, yes-girl. Those are a dime a dozen. He’s going to take my dreams and he’s going to meld them with his own, until someday, there is no discernible difference. How’s he going to get there if I roll over and play dead??

~cunt

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