There was something very wrong with this picture, but I think I'm starting to set it right. Or at least starting to achieve perspective. Or... maybe this is just the calm before the storm. I'm not completely sure I've turned off the heat on some plots I had simmering on the back burner, and I'm not in the mood to check right now. The point, the part that matters is, just as suddenly as everything fell to shit ... it somehow seems to be back in place.
I've been known to complain that no one ever seems to let me walk away and leave them behind. I found the following passage in the draft of a letter I wrote in my journal four years ago:
You fought for my friendship almost a year ago, at 3 am in my driveway on Thanksgiving Eve: "Come on, don't de-friend me." I was so furious with you that night, demanding to know why it was so fucking important to you that I not walk away. And you didn't have a reason beyond "It just is." You became another person on that epic list of people who wouldn't or couldn't just let me walk, who grabbed at my ankles, pulling me back.
And even the people who do let me walk away for awhile seem to pop out of the woodwork at incredibly inopportune moments. Y'know ... right when I've finished cleaning up the mess they left me in and am just about done thinking about it.
Sometimes though ... those returns are blessings.
As predicted, Matt has come back into the picture, albeit very peripherally. While he still hasn't grown a pair in the being true to himself department, I missed his sunshine, and his timing couldn't have been better.
I've also been presented with the opportunity for the return of my controlled black and white, via a shot and sake bomb fueled love confession from the ex last Saturday. I have every intention of making her prove it just like anyone else, but even in the cool, clear, sober light of day almost a week later, she still hasn't backed down, and if nothing else, she also still hasn't lost the ability she's always seemed to have as far as somehow managing to instantly make me feel less empty, so I'm definitely not about to discount that.
I heard from Trey, too, who I'd thought had vanished from the scene.
Basically though, I am now officially acknowledging the fact that I have more productive things to think about than who said or thinks what and why people behave in the fucked up and despicable ways they do. And as interesting and oddly comforting as I found one mutual acquaintance's allegation that she believed the artist formerly known as "my little boy," (now fondly referred to as "scumbag" in the increasingly rare instances I feel the need to reference him) might potentially be a dangerous sociopath, there are far more useful things to expend my energy on than doing Google searches on sociopathic traits, which was my last pet project before I woke up one morning and just suddenly had that sweet sensation of, "Nah, fuck it." And I'm certainly not complaining, but ... is it really possible to heal this quickly? I don't completely trust this, and I'm waiting for the catch.
In the meantime, I've been easing my way into bottoming, too ... whether it winds up being for catharsis or just for my own personal growth. Magnum and I did a little knife play the other day, and while I still really don't believe there's a submissive bone in my body ... I could easily become a slutty knife bottom. I think I'm just a sucker for sensation.
And today, after being nice and productive and going on a job interview, I got a phone call invite to go to a BDSM lesbian Mafia party (not the technical term, but I forget what it's actually called) with an absolutely adorable little Filipino subbie girl who's become a recent and welcome addition to my circle of friends. She's taking normal people length healing time as far as recovering from her last relationship, so I'm not shooting for more than friendship at the moment, but adventures with the BDSM Lesbian Mafia should definitely make for one delicious story either way.
So, all these random, unrelated updates to say: I'm still alive. I quoted a song lyric in those old journal posts: "A stronger girl would shake this off in flight and never give it more than a frowning hour." From how I've been feeling lately, it really seems like somewhere along the way, I may have actually managed become that girl. Which is a pretty awesome thought.
Thursday, March 12, 2009
Thursday, March 5, 2009
Blood Beneath the Domme Armor
I have an entire paragraph in all my online profiles geared at male Doms. It goes something along the lines of: "I'm open to friendship if you approach me with respect and as an equal. I'm not into the 'you just haven't been topped by the right man yet' line of thinking, and frankly, that's a presumptuous and rude way for anyone to approach anyone else anyway ... been there, tried that; I don't switch. If you're looking for a Domme to play with your female subbie while you watch, you're barking up the wrong tree. And I already have a daddy... he's married to mom." So, yes ... I'm ever so slightly leery of male Doms. But ... I also know a few who are pretty great. I was reminded just how great last night.
It's no secret that I've been hurting lately, and you know what? Fuck it. I'm not apologizing for that, and I'm not hiding it. Especially since the responsible party has been making a point of twisting the knife by ever so subtly and gradually broadcasting my apparent expendability in public forums where he knows I'll see it ... because apparently just hurting me and using me and wasting my time as exquisitely as he did wasn't quite enough. And I don't really think I'm dragging anyone's name through the mud here either ... only a couple people are privy to the gory details; I'm simply answering honestly when concerned parties ask me how I am. And for me, that's a sign of growth and progress. Back when I was about fifteen, I worked in a grocery store. And I remember this one day when I was hurting, kinda like now, and just standing at my register crying, this older lady customer started prying to find out what was wrong, and I damn near took her head off, like, "Who the hell are you and how is this your business?" Needless to say, she was more than a little taken aback. After last night, I'm really glad I didn't feel compelled to react to my Dom friends in a similar fashion.
The first check-in came from Damien Saint; we have several friends in common but only met a few weeks ago, so we don't really know each other that well yet, but I really like what I do know of him and his girl Salome so far. It was just a quick little message on fet, "Hey, saw you changed your status. Hope everything's ok." I wrote back, keeping it vague, "I'm hurting, but I'll be ok. Thanks for asking." He encouraged me to come out to a munch last night which he and a bunch of our mutual friends were planning to attend. So I did. I figured it was better than sitting home on the verge of tears ... even though that verge kinda stayed with me throughout the course of the evening, and whenever I wasn't involved in a conversation about something else, I wondered whether this had really been the best plan.
There was apparently a play party after the munch, which I'm not sure anyone knew about 'til we got there, but then, I never really check my email updates for those things either. I drove over with another Dom friend, Magnum. I think I've known him for just under a year now, but up 'til last night, we'd never really talked about anything real and gritty. As it turns out, he's a counselor in his vanilla life, so I figured he knew what he was talking about. More on that later.
So we walk into this lifestyle home and upstairs to their attic dungeon. My friend Kitty* who's an awesome hardcore bottom (recently renamed a "middle" in our group since she's a wealth of knowledge and helps people out with their scenes all the time) was sitting on a couch. She's one of those supersweet, comforting, snuggly types, so I lay down with my head in her lap and just kinda started thinking out loud while she stroked my hair, verbalizing bits and pieces of the ridiculous fucking blender that's been passing for my brain lately.
And maybe it was just partly appreciation because of how sweetly, unexpectedly there for me these guys had been, but for a second there, I had another little breakthrough. Another new Dom friend Leo* has been asking to suspend me for awhile, which I've considered as long as I can stay clothed. We kinda haven't really gotten past going in circles with him trying to talk me out of that condition. Anyway, I remembered a story from Scarlette's TES class about how she'd once let a friend of hers top her when she'd been bottling things up emotionally, and as part of my thinking out loud, I said something like, "Maybe I should get one of you guys to smack me around a little so I have an excuse to cry all this out." No sooner were the words out of my mouth when a hand grabbed my wrist, and I looked up to lock eyes with a random, creepy old dude I'd never seen before in my life. "Well, you I don't know from a hole in the wall," I quickly rebuffed him, "I meant one of my guys."
Muttering something about how, well, if I was gonna be picky about it ... he ambled off.
As it turned out, after that little display, I didn't end up bottoming to anyone that night. Instead, I turned to a sweet guy a few years older than me who'd been sitting across from me at the restaurant and had told me his story while I picked at his cheese fries, explaining that he was experienced but had just moved back from Georgia and didn't know anyone in the local scene and was looking for "someone who'll show me around and someone who'll hit me."
"Hey, Jay,* come over here a minute and talk about your limits with me."
Yes, I'm blunt, and I put them on the spot. It's fun for me. I watched him trip over his tongue for a minute or two, then asked, "Well, would stripping down and having me spank you a little in front of a room full of people you just met be a limit?"
"I wouldn't rule it out," he said. I think he might've blushed a little, too.
After a mini group discussion, we decided I'd start out with the form of catharsis I already knew and see if it helped. Then, if I didn't feel better, my guys were more than happy to lend a hand ... or a few well-placed lashes.
Topping Jay was a great quick fix. I felt like I maybe should have been a little more attentive as far as aftercare, and I don't know if it's technically "ok" to play with someone when you're as stuck in your own head as I was that night, but he was really sweet and didn't seem to mind ... actually, he seemed to have quite enjoyed himself.
But for no apparent reason, once I was done I decided that, for my next trick, I would wake up a napping Magnum by jumping on his lap and straddling him.
From that point until he dropped me off at my car, I basically got the free therapy session of my life. I remember a girl I knew from when I was more active in the GLBTQ community once trying to pick me up by analyzing what I was feeling about a recent breakup with the line, "I read your poems in your myspace blogs so I know you." I guess it was a clever concept in theory, but at the time I was once bitten, twice shy and more than a little bitter, so I just laughed and responded pretty condescendingly, "Oh, really now? Well, enlighten me then. Explain me to me." Surprisingly, she actually does still talk to me once in a blue moon when we run into each other.
Anyway, last night, Magnum actually managed to do just that. He pretty perfectly explained me to me. How what I'm feeling right now is normal because I had originally intended to keep everything black and white with dating vanilla girls and keeping my D/s play completely separate and nonsexual, and now everything is a gray area. I didn't even have to mention to him how notorious my burning, fiery, passionate hatred of that gray area has always been. The other thing he said that really hit home was that, as dominants, we don't like to be vulnerable. "Trust me, I get how much you just want to put your Domme armor right back on and zip it up, but you're bleeding underneath right now." Which meant that basically, I need to give myself time and just deal. And of course, I fucking hate that part. He did kinda give me a loophole on that though: "You can still go out and play and smack the shit out of someone tomorrow. Take it out on the subs. They don't need to know why."
So today, I'm bleeding through the cracks in my armor. I've cried it out a little bit, done some scream therapy. Alternating between sobbing and rage is lovely. But I'll only do it in five minute increments for some reason. I'm really wondering if I shouldn't just try and complete the catharsis at this point by going back to that original notion of having one of them top me, just so I can really feel everything and hopefully just get it all out of my system. I'm toying with the idea, but it would be a pretty huge deal for me, and a completely different experience and dynamic from the one time in my life I had Derek do it, so I'm on the fence still.
The most fucked up part of all of this is that I have so many more people in my corner right now than I've probably ever had at any one time in my life. Most of whom I haven't even asked; they've just offered their assistance, whether it be in the form of arms, ears, shoulders, laps, advice ... or yes, even a bare ass beneath my paddle. But even though I know I can essentially turn anywhere for support ... I also feel - on some weird level that I haven't completely been able to wrap my brain around yet - more alone than I ever have before. I've been trying to make sense of that one all night, but I still haven't really come up with much.
It's no secret that I've been hurting lately, and you know what? Fuck it. I'm not apologizing for that, and I'm not hiding it. Especially since the responsible party has been making a point of twisting the knife by ever so subtly and gradually broadcasting my apparent expendability in public forums where he knows I'll see it ... because apparently just hurting me and using me and wasting my time as exquisitely as he did wasn't quite enough. And I don't really think I'm dragging anyone's name through the mud here either ... only a couple people are privy to the gory details; I'm simply answering honestly when concerned parties ask me how I am. And for me, that's a sign of growth and progress. Back when I was about fifteen, I worked in a grocery store. And I remember this one day when I was hurting, kinda like now, and just standing at my register crying, this older lady customer started prying to find out what was wrong, and I damn near took her head off, like, "Who the hell are you and how is this your business?" Needless to say, she was more than a little taken aback. After last night, I'm really glad I didn't feel compelled to react to my Dom friends in a similar fashion.
The first check-in came from Damien Saint; we have several friends in common but only met a few weeks ago, so we don't really know each other that well yet, but I really like what I do know of him and his girl Salome so far. It was just a quick little message on fet, "Hey, saw you changed your status. Hope everything's ok." I wrote back, keeping it vague, "I'm hurting, but I'll be ok. Thanks for asking." He encouraged me to come out to a munch last night which he and a bunch of our mutual friends were planning to attend. So I did. I figured it was better than sitting home on the verge of tears ... even though that verge kinda stayed with me throughout the course of the evening, and whenever I wasn't involved in a conversation about something else, I wondered whether this had really been the best plan.
There was apparently a play party after the munch, which I'm not sure anyone knew about 'til we got there, but then, I never really check my email updates for those things either. I drove over with another Dom friend, Magnum. I think I've known him for just under a year now, but up 'til last night, we'd never really talked about anything real and gritty. As it turns out, he's a counselor in his vanilla life, so I figured he knew what he was talking about. More on that later.
So we walk into this lifestyle home and upstairs to their attic dungeon. My friend Kitty* who's an awesome hardcore bottom (recently renamed a "middle" in our group since she's a wealth of knowledge and helps people out with their scenes all the time) was sitting on a couch. She's one of those supersweet, comforting, snuggly types, so I lay down with my head in her lap and just kinda started thinking out loud while she stroked my hair, verbalizing bits and pieces of the ridiculous fucking blender that's been passing for my brain lately.
And maybe it was just partly appreciation because of how sweetly, unexpectedly there for me these guys had been, but for a second there, I had another little breakthrough. Another new Dom friend Leo* has been asking to suspend me for awhile, which I've considered as long as I can stay clothed. We kinda haven't really gotten past going in circles with him trying to talk me out of that condition. Anyway, I remembered a story from Scarlette's TES class about how she'd once let a friend of hers top her when she'd been bottling things up emotionally, and as part of my thinking out loud, I said something like, "Maybe I should get one of you guys to smack me around a little so I have an excuse to cry all this out." No sooner were the words out of my mouth when a hand grabbed my wrist, and I looked up to lock eyes with a random, creepy old dude I'd never seen before in my life. "Well, you I don't know from a hole in the wall," I quickly rebuffed him, "I meant one of my guys."
Muttering something about how, well, if I was gonna be picky about it ... he ambled off.
As it turned out, after that little display, I didn't end up bottoming to anyone that night. Instead, I turned to a sweet guy a few years older than me who'd been sitting across from me at the restaurant and had told me his story while I picked at his cheese fries, explaining that he was experienced but had just moved back from Georgia and didn't know anyone in the local scene and was looking for "someone who'll show me around and someone who'll hit me."
"Hey, Jay,* come over here a minute and talk about your limits with me."
Yes, I'm blunt, and I put them on the spot. It's fun for me. I watched him trip over his tongue for a minute or two, then asked, "Well, would stripping down and having me spank you a little in front of a room full of people you just met be a limit?"
"I wouldn't rule it out," he said. I think he might've blushed a little, too.
After a mini group discussion, we decided I'd start out with the form of catharsis I already knew and see if it helped. Then, if I didn't feel better, my guys were more than happy to lend a hand ... or a few well-placed lashes.
Topping Jay was a great quick fix. I felt like I maybe should have been a little more attentive as far as aftercare, and I don't know if it's technically "ok" to play with someone when you're as stuck in your own head as I was that night, but he was really sweet and didn't seem to mind ... actually, he seemed to have quite enjoyed himself.
But for no apparent reason, once I was done I decided that, for my next trick, I would wake up a napping Magnum by jumping on his lap and straddling him.
From that point until he dropped me off at my car, I basically got the free therapy session of my life. I remember a girl I knew from when I was more active in the GLBTQ community once trying to pick me up by analyzing what I was feeling about a recent breakup with the line, "I read your poems in your myspace blogs so I know you." I guess it was a clever concept in theory, but at the time I was once bitten, twice shy and more than a little bitter, so I just laughed and responded pretty condescendingly, "Oh, really now? Well, enlighten me then. Explain me to me." Surprisingly, she actually does still talk to me once in a blue moon when we run into each other.
Anyway, last night, Magnum actually managed to do just that. He pretty perfectly explained me to me. How what I'm feeling right now is normal because I had originally intended to keep everything black and white with dating vanilla girls and keeping my D/s play completely separate and nonsexual, and now everything is a gray area. I didn't even have to mention to him how notorious my burning, fiery, passionate hatred of that gray area has always been. The other thing he said that really hit home was that, as dominants, we don't like to be vulnerable. "Trust me, I get how much you just want to put your Domme armor right back on and zip it up, but you're bleeding underneath right now." Which meant that basically, I need to give myself time and just deal. And of course, I fucking hate that part. He did kinda give me a loophole on that though: "You can still go out and play and smack the shit out of someone tomorrow. Take it out on the subs. They don't need to know why."
So today, I'm bleeding through the cracks in my armor. I've cried it out a little bit, done some scream therapy. Alternating between sobbing and rage is lovely. But I'll only do it in five minute increments for some reason. I'm really wondering if I shouldn't just try and complete the catharsis at this point by going back to that original notion of having one of them top me, just so I can really feel everything and hopefully just get it all out of my system. I'm toying with the idea, but it would be a pretty huge deal for me, and a completely different experience and dynamic from the one time in my life I had Derek do it, so I'm on the fence still.
The most fucked up part of all of this is that I have so many more people in my corner right now than I've probably ever had at any one time in my life. Most of whom I haven't even asked; they've just offered their assistance, whether it be in the form of arms, ears, shoulders, laps, advice ... or yes, even a bare ass beneath my paddle. But even though I know I can essentially turn anywhere for support ... I also feel - on some weird level that I haven't completely been able to wrap my brain around yet - more alone than I ever have before. I've been trying to make sense of that one all night, but I still haven't really come up with much.
Monday, March 2, 2009
F.I.N.E.
We've all heard the saying, "Rules are made to be broken." If that's true, then it would stand to reason that if I made the rules in the first place, they should, easily and without consequence, be subject to change at my slightest whim. One would think, anyway. But ... one would be wrong.
Alex was the first person I told when I broke my own rule (okay, or technically my own Brooke-inspired rule) and slept with John. Her reaction? "Welcome to hell, and please enjoy your stay." I took that with a grain of salt as classic Alex "the world is a terrible place and everyone in it sucks," negativity - she's a bit prone to that - and assured her that everything would be fine. Ha! Famous fucking last words. Unless you're going by my old friend Riley's* interpretation that "fine" is merely an acronym for "fucked up, insane, neurotic, and emotional."
I hadn't spoken to Riley in about four years, but he's on my mind today because according to yesterday's paper, he got blown up in Iraq this past Thursday. Fucking surreal. I had actually just been talking about him to Scarlette that afternoon ... in the context that he was kinda the reason I wound up doing my first "forced"-bi, even though I wasn't really aware that that was what I was doing at the time. I knew him during kind of a crazy experimental period in my life that I don't exactly look back on as my finest hour, but that boy was a truly beautiful soul and one of those people who just oozed charisma from every pore. It looked like he had found happiness before his tragic end, too, married for five months to a girl who was not the one who had given him boundless heartache when I knew him (little miss "I'm not a slut, I'm just a free spirit") and I was glad to see that at least ... he deserved it.
So let's go with that. Everything is Riley fine these days.
Nate gets another shout out for sitting on the phone with me 'til three AM and witnessing an extremely excessive display of humanity. Seriously, he's so sweet I just want to take a bite out of him ... and I plan to, just as soon as I fix my smile. In my opinion, he deserves a hell of a lot better than what he's been getting these days, too. Karma needs to return from its unannounced recent vacation.
In other news, I kinda want to adopt Scarlette as my BDSM big sister. The hanging out with her portion of yesterday was awesome. I love how she's got even less patience for John's bullshit than I do, even though I'm the one who's feeling its wonderful effects: "All's fair in love and war," and yeah, there are plenty of clever ways I could retaliate. But what it all boils down to is that, first off, I was certainly never under any ridiculous delusions that I was "in love" ... trust me, it ain't that easy. And secondly? Well ... I sure as shit don't want to be at war.
Tool, Matt, and John have all written an essay for me entitled, "What service means to me." I had come across John's when I was moving and stuck it in my wallet, so I let Scarlette read it yesterday. It was a really good essay, one that began with the line he had given me when I mentioned it to him over the phone (yes, once upon a time, he actually used to pick up a phone): "Ooh, can I try and just answer the question without writing the essay? Service is about making you smile." And sure, that was cute and all, but want to hear a couple things that don't make me smile? Meaningless daily flattery from random strangers paired with complete disregard from someone I actually care about. Or bullshit double standards where that aforementioned someone, by all appearances, seems to spend whatever little free time he has available utilizing the worldwide web to whore himself to every girl in the tri-state area ... and then gets all bent with me for doing a fucking play scene with someone else. Because in light of those two previously cited behaviors ... it should have occurred to me that you did, in fact, actually give a shit? Um ... my mistake. When he chose to make me aware of his displeasure, I had just finished a shoot with a pro-Domme who - while she's a lot of fun to work with - I've never exactly pictured as the warm, fuzzy, intuitive, compassionate sort ... but even she took one look at me when I got his messages and her immediate response was, "Oh my god, what's wrong?" I gave her the cliff notes version (or actually more like the little blurb on the inside of the bookjacket), leaving out names and identifying characteristics. "Um ... aren't play partners supposed to be fun?" she asked when I had finished. Ha. Excellent point.
Scarlette's advice was that I should use everything he said in his essay against him. At first, I thought the only problem with that idea was that the essay in question had been addressed to "Mistress Kay," and that now he sees me as just me. Which was cool in theory. Being able to be real with someone is good; being in "Mistress mode" twenty-four-seven is a little exhausting. But that begs the question: Why isn't "real me" deserving of the same respect as "Mistress Kay?" 'Cause, correct me if I'm wrong, but ... I'm actually pretty sure she is.
It's funny how the night I met Harrison, he specifically requested that I be "just me," and then right when I've been starting to do that, right when I'm about to get over that whole viewing my humanity as weakness that undermines my dominance thing ... this is the result.
Luckily, I generally manage to do a decent job of finding distractions for myself to help take my mind off these types of situations. But the part where I always seem to find a necessity to go looking for those distractions in the first place? I could really do without.
Alex was the first person I told when I broke my own rule (okay, or technically my own Brooke-inspired rule) and slept with John. Her reaction? "Welcome to hell, and please enjoy your stay." I took that with a grain of salt as classic Alex "the world is a terrible place and everyone in it sucks," negativity - she's a bit prone to that - and assured her that everything would be fine. Ha! Famous fucking last words. Unless you're going by my old friend Riley's* interpretation that "fine" is merely an acronym for "fucked up, insane, neurotic, and emotional."
I hadn't spoken to Riley in about four years, but he's on my mind today because according to yesterday's paper, he got blown up in Iraq this past Thursday. Fucking surreal. I had actually just been talking about him to Scarlette that afternoon ... in the context that he was kinda the reason I wound up doing my first "forced"-bi, even though I wasn't really aware that that was what I was doing at the time. I knew him during kind of a crazy experimental period in my life that I don't exactly look back on as my finest hour, but that boy was a truly beautiful soul and one of those people who just oozed charisma from every pore. It looked like he had found happiness before his tragic end, too, married for five months to a girl who was not the one who had given him boundless heartache when I knew him (little miss "I'm not a slut, I'm just a free spirit") and I was glad to see that at least ... he deserved it.
So let's go with that. Everything is Riley fine these days.
Nate gets another shout out for sitting on the phone with me 'til three AM and witnessing an extremely excessive display of humanity. Seriously, he's so sweet I just want to take a bite out of him ... and I plan to, just as soon as I fix my smile. In my opinion, he deserves a hell of a lot better than what he's been getting these days, too. Karma needs to return from its unannounced recent vacation.
In other news, I kinda want to adopt Scarlette as my BDSM big sister. The hanging out with her portion of yesterday was awesome. I love how she's got even less patience for John's bullshit than I do, even though I'm the one who's feeling its wonderful effects: "All's fair in love and war," and yeah, there are plenty of clever ways I could retaliate. But what it all boils down to is that, first off, I was certainly never under any ridiculous delusions that I was "in love" ... trust me, it ain't that easy. And secondly? Well ... I sure as shit don't want to be at war.
Tool, Matt, and John have all written an essay for me entitled, "What service means to me." I had come across John's when I was moving and stuck it in my wallet, so I let Scarlette read it yesterday. It was a really good essay, one that began with the line he had given me when I mentioned it to him over the phone (yes, once upon a time, he actually used to pick up a phone): "Ooh, can I try and just answer the question without writing the essay? Service is about making you smile." And sure, that was cute and all, but want to hear a couple things that don't make me smile? Meaningless daily flattery from random strangers paired with complete disregard from someone I actually care about. Or bullshit double standards where that aforementioned someone, by all appearances, seems to spend whatever little free time he has available utilizing the worldwide web to whore himself to every girl in the tri-state area ... and then gets all bent with me for doing a fucking play scene with someone else. Because in light of those two previously cited behaviors ... it should have occurred to me that you did, in fact, actually give a shit? Um ... my mistake. When he chose to make me aware of his displeasure, I had just finished a shoot with a pro-Domme who - while she's a lot of fun to work with - I've never exactly pictured as the warm, fuzzy, intuitive, compassionate sort ... but even she took one look at me when I got his messages and her immediate response was, "Oh my god, what's wrong?" I gave her the cliff notes version (or actually more like the little blurb on the inside of the bookjacket), leaving out names and identifying characteristics. "Um ... aren't play partners supposed to be fun?" she asked when I had finished. Ha. Excellent point.
Scarlette's advice was that I should use everything he said in his essay against him. At first, I thought the only problem with that idea was that the essay in question had been addressed to "Mistress Kay," and that now he sees me as just me. Which was cool in theory. Being able to be real with someone is good; being in "Mistress mode" twenty-four-seven is a little exhausting. But that begs the question: Why isn't "real me" deserving of the same respect as "Mistress Kay?" 'Cause, correct me if I'm wrong, but ... I'm actually pretty sure she is.
It's funny how the night I met Harrison, he specifically requested that I be "just me," and then right when I've been starting to do that, right when I'm about to get over that whole viewing my humanity as weakness that undermines my dominance thing ... this is the result.
Luckily, I generally manage to do a decent job of finding distractions for myself to help take my mind off these types of situations. But the part where I always seem to find a necessity to go looking for those distractions in the first place? I could really do without.
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
Good Girls, Bad Girls, and Everything in Between
"It's only the good girls who keep diaries; the bad girls never have the time. But me ... I just want to live the kind of life I'm going to remember, whether or not I write it down (Tallulah Brockman Bankhead)."
I'd have to second that emotion because I think I fall in the middle on that one. That vast, proverbial "gray area." I can still be sadistic even if I do occasionally feel the need to excavate my emotional navel lint. But I still can't help wondering if I'd be able to enjoy the former more if I spent a little less time on the latter. If I could just find the off switch for my brain. I'm doing a hardcore corporal shoot tomorrow and I definitely plan on earning my keep. I need to get out all this pent up ... whatever I've been going through lately. I don't really have an appropriate word for it.
I should document that I had some help in that department the other night at Suspension, and I owe my new friends Nate* and Birdie* (I'm calling her that 'cause she kinda reminded me of a hummingbird ... I'll elaborate on that later) a big thank you for that.
Nate and I met about a week ago at a workshop Scarlette taught for TES. (It was awesome, and I apologize to her if I at any point, in any way utilized it as my personal "Domme therapy." But either way, Maitresse Scarlette Stangata rocks pretty hardcore. Period, end of discussion.)
The next day, he fetlife "stalked" me and we exchanged numbers, started talking, and he wound up inviting me to meet up, grab dinner, and check out some fetish stores for a bit before the event. None of the stores we'd wanted to check out were open, but there was a cute little gay bookstore on the way, and it was immensely fun for me to waltz through the door and watch him squirm as I dragged him along behind me, informing me that, "If I get hit on, I'm gonna be really upset."
Anyway, true to form, I was shiny and bubbly and "on." It was nice to be around new people and have that brought out in me. While it has its downfalls, I actually kinda like how easily and quickly that trait of mine helps me forge connections with people when I so choose. And since I was in that mindset, his friend Birdie and I were able to hit it off pretty quickly, too. Birdie's a switch who's just starting to test out her Domme side, and she had brought a toybag so she could practice on Nate. When I suggested, "Let's double team him," she eagerly agreed.
I've played at a public event exactly once (not counting foot worship scenes). Brooke wasn't really into it (something about not wanting anyone else to steal her techniques ... as her "Mini Me," I was somewhat exempt from that rule), and I pretty much was just too self-conscious about being new and inexperienced to want anyone actually watching me do what I do at a public event. It wasn't until just before the holidays that I finally tested the waters in that department, sceneing with John when I took him to his first fetish event at Black Phoenix in Philly. We didn't really do too much for too long (Derek could tell I was still kinda psyching myself out a little), but it was fun. But thanks to Birdie, my second time around was even better.
Even though Birdie has even less experience than I do, she threw herself into our scene with Nate with such enthusiasm and such a complete lack of self conciousness, that I was able to finally stop overthinking and really just enjoy getting into it myself.
I've done corporal stuff, and I've done tease and denial type stuff, but I don't think I've ever actually blended them quite like I did that night. And it felt pretty fucking fantastic. I still need to work on my back swing, but I knew that already. And even though he had warned me about a tendency to hold back reactions to piss people off, as it turned out, Nate gave awesome feedback ... which made gradually deepening the rosy hue on his cute little butt just that much more enjoyable. And even though he's not really a pain slut, he took it like a champ, which was even better. Seriously, that fact alone made it good enough for me to not even mind how crowded it was, or that random people kept bumping into us or walking through my back swing ... and even the being watched part was actually kind of fun. I was just right there in the moment, into just doing what I do without worrying about dissecting my every move.
Birdie kept on disappearing, excitedly flitting from one person to the next socializing (hence my choice of alias), so I was the one to finally end the scene when I decided he'd taken enough. The whole thing was a really nice little buzz.
The only fly in the ointment is this: I really hate hate hate that little part of me that gets distracted from great experiences like that. That annoying little, wistful part that sometimes whispers, "That was awesome. And you should have been there to share it with me; I really wish you had been." I really kinda wish she'd just shut the fuck up and quit killing my buzz. Maybe next time I'll come prepared with a ballgag or something for her.
Granted, she's got a point. The whole business of wanting is shitty. Particularly when you can't help thinking that if the feeling were mutual, wouldn't it make sense that they'd actually want to be there sharing in it all, too? That then the wishing would thereby be rendered unnecessary, and that, since it's not, there's really no point?
I mean, Nate actually even asked me to keep him in mind if things didn't work out, which was really adorable. It would be beyond awesome if everything really was just that easy.
Of course, all wasn't lost or anything so melodramatic as all that. I still got an incredible experience out of the deal, and I'm really grateful for that. But I would love to find out how much I'd be capable of if I stopped allowing myself to be so distracted. Oh, well, there's always next time ...
I'd have to second that emotion because I think I fall in the middle on that one. That vast, proverbial "gray area." I can still be sadistic even if I do occasionally feel the need to excavate my emotional navel lint. But I still can't help wondering if I'd be able to enjoy the former more if I spent a little less time on the latter. If I could just find the off switch for my brain. I'm doing a hardcore corporal shoot tomorrow and I definitely plan on earning my keep. I need to get out all this pent up ... whatever I've been going through lately. I don't really have an appropriate word for it.
I should document that I had some help in that department the other night at Suspension, and I owe my new friends Nate* and Birdie* (I'm calling her that 'cause she kinda reminded me of a hummingbird ... I'll elaborate on that later) a big thank you for that.
Nate and I met about a week ago at a workshop Scarlette taught for TES. (It was awesome, and I apologize to her if I at any point, in any way utilized it as my personal "Domme therapy." But either way, Maitresse Scarlette Stangata rocks pretty hardcore. Period, end of discussion.)
The next day, he fetlife "stalked" me and we exchanged numbers, started talking, and he wound up inviting me to meet up, grab dinner, and check out some fetish stores for a bit before the event. None of the stores we'd wanted to check out were open, but there was a cute little gay bookstore on the way, and it was immensely fun for me to waltz through the door and watch him squirm as I dragged him along behind me, informing me that, "If I get hit on, I'm gonna be really upset."
Anyway, true to form, I was shiny and bubbly and "on." It was nice to be around new people and have that brought out in me. While it has its downfalls, I actually kinda like how easily and quickly that trait of mine helps me forge connections with people when I so choose. And since I was in that mindset, his friend Birdie and I were able to hit it off pretty quickly, too. Birdie's a switch who's just starting to test out her Domme side, and she had brought a toybag so she could practice on Nate. When I suggested, "Let's double team him," she eagerly agreed.
I've played at a public event exactly once (not counting foot worship scenes). Brooke wasn't really into it (something about not wanting anyone else to steal her techniques ... as her "Mini Me," I was somewhat exempt from that rule), and I pretty much was just too self-conscious about being new and inexperienced to want anyone actually watching me do what I do at a public event. It wasn't until just before the holidays that I finally tested the waters in that department, sceneing with John when I took him to his first fetish event at Black Phoenix in Philly. We didn't really do too much for too long (Derek could tell I was still kinda psyching myself out a little), but it was fun. But thanks to Birdie, my second time around was even better.
Even though Birdie has even less experience than I do, she threw herself into our scene with Nate with such enthusiasm and such a complete lack of self conciousness, that I was able to finally stop overthinking and really just enjoy getting into it myself.
I've done corporal stuff, and I've done tease and denial type stuff, but I don't think I've ever actually blended them quite like I did that night. And it felt pretty fucking fantastic. I still need to work on my back swing, but I knew that already. And even though he had warned me about a tendency to hold back reactions to piss people off, as it turned out, Nate gave awesome feedback ... which made gradually deepening the rosy hue on his cute little butt just that much more enjoyable. And even though he's not really a pain slut, he took it like a champ, which was even better. Seriously, that fact alone made it good enough for me to not even mind how crowded it was, or that random people kept bumping into us or walking through my back swing ... and even the being watched part was actually kind of fun. I was just right there in the moment, into just doing what I do without worrying about dissecting my every move.
Birdie kept on disappearing, excitedly flitting from one person to the next socializing (hence my choice of alias), so I was the one to finally end the scene when I decided he'd taken enough. The whole thing was a really nice little buzz.
The only fly in the ointment is this: I really hate hate hate that little part of me that gets distracted from great experiences like that. That annoying little, wistful part that sometimes whispers, "That was awesome. And you should have been there to share it with me; I really wish you had been." I really kinda wish she'd just shut the fuck up and quit killing my buzz. Maybe next time I'll come prepared with a ballgag or something for her.
Granted, she's got a point. The whole business of wanting is shitty. Particularly when you can't help thinking that if the feeling were mutual, wouldn't it make sense that they'd actually want to be there sharing in it all, too? That then the wishing would thereby be rendered unnecessary, and that, since it's not, there's really no point?
I mean, Nate actually even asked me to keep him in mind if things didn't work out, which was really adorable. It would be beyond awesome if everything really was just that easy.
Of course, all wasn't lost or anything so melodramatic as all that. I still got an incredible experience out of the deal, and I'm really grateful for that. But I would love to find out how much I'd be capable of if I stopped allowing myself to be so distracted. Oh, well, there's always next time ...
Saturday, February 21, 2009
Growing Pains
I've had my share of growing pains during my little evolution. Thing is, I'm not the only one who feels 'em.
The first hardcore beating I ever delivered was actually born out of my growing pains in a way.
It started one late summer night at Paddles. Tool had been complaining that he felt I hadn't been spending enough time with him in exchange for the monthly rent money he had agreed to pay me, so I had told him he was welcome to join Derek and Rachel* (the girl Derek was seeing at the time), Alex, Sasha and me that night, letting him know in advance that I had already made plans to play with Harrison once there. I had also offered a few of the guys I had been talking to on CM the opportunity to come introduce themselves to me in person. Add to the mix that Alex and Sasha were both having problems with the respective men in their lives (this night was actually Sasha's last foray into fetish because her boyfriend didn't approve), and I was being pulled in about six different directions all night.
My day had gotten off to a bad start as it was; I had spent the afternoon having lunch and puppy play in a public park with one of those "energy vampires" Brooke had warned me about. I didn't even see it coming because he was a really sweet guy, so it took me by surprise that I felt so drained and shitty by the time I got home ... I kept taking breaks from getting ready for our Paddles evening to commission Derek for hugs so I would feel better.
Anyway, it was all downhill from there. In the car on the way there, I was telling Tool and the girls about my afternoon with the energy vampire in sheep's clothing when Tool's cell phone rang. Shushing me, he held up a hand and scrambled to answer the call. Ooh, bad fucking move, buddy.
I turned to Sasha, "As soon as he hangs up, pay attention."
We waited a good ten to fifteen minutes for him to wrap things up, his whiny, nasally voice and loud, nervous laughter grating on my last frayed nerve.
"Okay, I realize you might need to take work-related calls sometimes ..." I began.
"Oh, that was a personal call," he breezily interrupted me for the second time in the last half hour. The man's denseness really knew no bounds, and given my already bad mood, I pounced on this little nugget of information.
"Oh, was it? And you think it's perfectly acceptable and appropriate behavior for you to 'shush' me so you can answer a personal call?"
"I didn't shush you ..." he started to protest.
"And now you're arguing the point with me to boot!?" I exclaimed, holding up a hand as he began spewing more excuses, "Ohhh, no. I'm speaking now, and for once in your life, you're going to stop flapping your gums just to hear the sound of your own voice and listen. That is completely unacceptable! Now, what do you think would have been a respectful and appropriate response to your phone ringing when I'm in the middle of telling you something?"
"I ... don't know."
"Well, think," I snapped.
"I ... could have said 'Goddess, may I please answer my phone?"" he tried.
"That certainly would have been a preferable plan to the gross display of disrespect you just forced us to witness."
"I'm sorry, Goddess."
"We've been over this," I told him, "your being 'sorry' is worthless to me. Don't be 'sorry,' be better." I had recently picked that line up from Derek and had been using it quite liberally.
"Yes, Goddess."
We drove the rest of the way to Paddles in silence ... not that anything improved once we got there. The place was packed (I forget what the event was), and no one was really playing, which kind of defeated the purpose as far as I was concerned since I couldn't really come up with a better training method for Sasha. Only one of my CM guys had showed up, which was just as well, really, since I wasn't in the mood to even have him and Tool trailing me like the Pied Piper, let alone anyone else. I chatted a bit with CM guy, but focused most of my attention on Sasha and Alex (Derek and Rachel were long gone at this point, exploring the club while he led her around in her lingerie). We finally found what looked like the set up for a scene, but there was nowhere to sit, so Tool volunteered his services as a chair while CM guy turned himself into a footstool.
They picked a ridiculous spot left and center across from the bar where people were tripping over us, and as it turned out, human furniture was not my thing at all, so after a few minutes, I announced as much, throwing in a catty comment about how if I had wanted a vibrating massage chair, I could have purchased a far more comfortable one for good measure. Of course, Tool immediately went into a snit over that one, but thankfully, Harrison chose that moment to enter. I launched myself at him (well, as much as I could "launch" in stiletto thigh high boots, anyway) in one of those classic "never been so happy to see anyone in my life" bear hugs, but he kind of killed the moment when, by way of greeting, he said, "Hey, my friend who has a huge trampling fetish is here if you want to play with him."
"Why? I don't know him," I retorted way more shortly than he deserved.
He held up his hands, "Okay, just thought I'd ask."
"I'm having a bad night," I explained, softening just as quickly, "I really am glad to see you."
Then when we made our way over to the couch so he could try to fix my smile with some of his fabulous foot worship, Tool and CM guy followed, planting themselves at my feet on either side of him, both successfully making Harrison incredibly uncomfortable and catapulting my aggravation to heights I hadn't even known existed in one fell swoop.
CM guy got the hint first, making his way over to the bar, and after what seemed like ages, Tool finally followed suit. But the damage had been done, and my bitchy disposition (regardless whether I was directing it at him or not) was apparently reminding Harrison of his ex-girlfriend in a really bad way, compounding the fact that he had recently been struggling with depression. Once he confided as much to me, we finished off the foot worship with me snuggling his face into my cleavage, stroking his hair, and asking him to call me when he felt up to talking (which he did a few days later, so I must not have been that awful ... well, to him anyway).
Tool was sitting by himself at a table when we finished, so I made my way over and sat down across from him.
"I hope you'll play with me like that one day," he said.
Not really thinking, I replied, "Well, we can certainly play, but it won't be quite like that ... Harrison is a bit more age appropriate for me."
All hell broke loose then. I still can't decide whether I would have actually preferred it had he lain down on the floor, kicking and screaming. In any event, it simply blew his mind that I had stated the patently obvious fact that he was old enough to be my father. And furthermore, while he claimed the foot worship scene had been beautiful, he also deemed it, "Too obnoxious for me or the other guy to sit there in service anymore."
"So I'm obnoxious now, am I?" Really, he was making finding fault with his behavior entirely too easy, "Because, I don't recall asking either of you to join us. However, I do recall telling you when I invited you here that I had already made plans to play with Harrison this evening."
"Well, I didn't realize it would be like that," he pouted.
"Where are my friends?" I spat, rising, "I'm sick to death of talking in circles with you."
Alex was in the car, pseudo napping and wallowing in her boy problems. I chatted with CM guy for a bit, acknowledging the chaotic vibe of the evening, explaining about my bad day, and encouraging him to call me for a second meeting where things would hopefully be less hectic. Then I found Sasha, and we watched a few more scenes before deciding to call it a night. After wishing Harrison a good night, we headed outside where Tool was talking to Derek and Rachel by the car ... complaining about me, I shortly learned via a text from Alex, informing me of the disruption of her nap courtesy of his whining and obnoxious laugh. Of course, when confronted, he denied this, too.
"Are you accusing Mistress Alexandra of lying now, on top of your tantrum?" I asked incredulously, "Apologize to her, and then I don't want to hear another word out of you the rest of the way home." Once he complied, I added, "Thank you for driving and for paying our cover, but the rest of your behavior this evening was deplorable."
A few days later, Derek volunteered to mediate a discussion between Tool and me (and a cane), in hopes of helping me to reign him in. True to form, Tool spent the first half of the discussion mouthing off until I slapped him across the face, wondering why I hadn't done so ages ago. Since Derek had spent our planning frequently employing the quote, "The beatings will continue until morale improves," it wasn't long before the discussion escalated to me turning to Tool. "So, I don't give you enough attention? Well, that's all going to change tonight. Tonight you're going to get the attention you've earned. Tonight you're going to be my little pain slut."
And, while Alex and Derek watched (Derek narrating a play by play to his friend Libby* over the phone and informing me that Libby's suggestion was "harder"), I made use of every toy in both Derek's and my toy bags, several clothespins, and the knife sharpener from the kitchen (which, as luck would have it, doubled quite nicely as a surprisingly mean little paddle). There was no warm up, no safe word, and I had what I referred to as "flogger's elbow" for a few days afterwards. I beat the shit out of him with everything I could get my hands on and flicked the clothespins 'til he doubled over. And the whole time, I mockingly demanded, "Is this enough attention for you, my little attention piggy? Do you feel like you're getting your money's worth now? Maybe now you'll learn to show me some respect and realize that I'm not your little puppet Mistress!"
"I never thought that, Goddess," he whimpered, "I just want to please you. I'm sorry I didn't realize your power before."
"Which is code for you didn't take me seriously before," I corrected. Oh, please. Like he was really going to win with me? "Sit up!" I barked as he rolled in pain on the floor after a particularly savage flick to one of the clothespins on his nipples, "I thought you said you wanted to please me? Well, this pleases me."
Behind me, Alex let out a snort, as I emphasized my statement by giving the clothespin another good, hard flick.
"Well, I don't know about you, but I feel much better," I announced cheerfully when I finally showed him out later on that night. As the door closed behind him, I at last allowed myself to join Alex in her cackling.
"Now that gives a whole new definition to the word 'owned!'" she declared.
Hurting Tool was, hands down, the best possible medicine for releasing all my pent up frustration. I did feel worlds better. And I had learned from a few mistakes that I didn't plan on making again. All in all, it was a win-win for me; since he was the most irritating individual I had ever encountered, I really didn't feel any kind of remorse over my lesson's expense to him. The important part, just as I had said to him that night, was that I felt better.
I don't really deal with things that way anymore. Up until recently, I've been making a more concentrated effort to keep my growing pains to myself a little more.
Putting them in print here has been really cathartic for me.
But the other day ... once again, I stopped being the only one who was feeling the effects of my growing pains. And hurting John hasn't been nearly as satisfying as beating the shit out of Tool was. Wait, let me rephrase that: hurting someone I actually care about isn't even remotely satisfying. In fact, it kinda sucks.
The silver lining there is that it was nice to find out he actually cared. 'Cause I really wasn't sure either way before. Communication on the subject has been limited to text messages, but for once, I really feel like I'm finally being completely straightforward and putting it all out there, saying exactly what I mean, and trying my best not to leave anything out. Well, I think we both are, really. He's got a bit of a problem with vagueness himself, but he's been a lot more expressive in this instance. And part of me is really pleased with what seems like an extremely healthy development.
As for the other half? She really wants to be lying in bed with a certain little boy's head nestled into that nook between her breasts and collarbone, fingers in his hair, brushing her lips in the occasional kiss across his forehead ... just 'cause that's the best aftercare idea she can come up with in the aftermath of this particular brand of hurting.
The first hardcore beating I ever delivered was actually born out of my growing pains in a way.
It started one late summer night at Paddles. Tool had been complaining that he felt I hadn't been spending enough time with him in exchange for the monthly rent money he had agreed to pay me, so I had told him he was welcome to join Derek and Rachel* (the girl Derek was seeing at the time), Alex, Sasha and me that night, letting him know in advance that I had already made plans to play with Harrison once there. I had also offered a few of the guys I had been talking to on CM the opportunity to come introduce themselves to me in person. Add to the mix that Alex and Sasha were both having problems with the respective men in their lives (this night was actually Sasha's last foray into fetish because her boyfriend didn't approve), and I was being pulled in about six different directions all night.
My day had gotten off to a bad start as it was; I had spent the afternoon having lunch and puppy play in a public park with one of those "energy vampires" Brooke had warned me about. I didn't even see it coming because he was a really sweet guy, so it took me by surprise that I felt so drained and shitty by the time I got home ... I kept taking breaks from getting ready for our Paddles evening to commission Derek for hugs so I would feel better.
Anyway, it was all downhill from there. In the car on the way there, I was telling Tool and the girls about my afternoon with the energy vampire in sheep's clothing when Tool's cell phone rang. Shushing me, he held up a hand and scrambled to answer the call. Ooh, bad fucking move, buddy.
I turned to Sasha, "As soon as he hangs up, pay attention."
We waited a good ten to fifteen minutes for him to wrap things up, his whiny, nasally voice and loud, nervous laughter grating on my last frayed nerve.
"Okay, I realize you might need to take work-related calls sometimes ..." I began.
"Oh, that was a personal call," he breezily interrupted me for the second time in the last half hour. The man's denseness really knew no bounds, and given my already bad mood, I pounced on this little nugget of information.
"Oh, was it? And you think it's perfectly acceptable and appropriate behavior for you to 'shush' me so you can answer a personal call?"
"I didn't shush you ..." he started to protest.
"And now you're arguing the point with me to boot!?" I exclaimed, holding up a hand as he began spewing more excuses, "Ohhh, no. I'm speaking now, and for once in your life, you're going to stop flapping your gums just to hear the sound of your own voice and listen. That is completely unacceptable! Now, what do you think would have been a respectful and appropriate response to your phone ringing when I'm in the middle of telling you something?"
"I ... don't know."
"Well, think," I snapped.
"I ... could have said 'Goddess, may I please answer my phone?"" he tried.
"That certainly would have been a preferable plan to the gross display of disrespect you just forced us to witness."
"I'm sorry, Goddess."
"We've been over this," I told him, "your being 'sorry' is worthless to me. Don't be 'sorry,' be better." I had recently picked that line up from Derek and had been using it quite liberally.
"Yes, Goddess."
We drove the rest of the way to Paddles in silence ... not that anything improved once we got there. The place was packed (I forget what the event was), and no one was really playing, which kind of defeated the purpose as far as I was concerned since I couldn't really come up with a better training method for Sasha. Only one of my CM guys had showed up, which was just as well, really, since I wasn't in the mood to even have him and Tool trailing me like the Pied Piper, let alone anyone else. I chatted a bit with CM guy, but focused most of my attention on Sasha and Alex (Derek and Rachel were long gone at this point, exploring the club while he led her around in her lingerie). We finally found what looked like the set up for a scene, but there was nowhere to sit, so Tool volunteered his services as a chair while CM guy turned himself into a footstool.
They picked a ridiculous spot left and center across from the bar where people were tripping over us, and as it turned out, human furniture was not my thing at all, so after a few minutes, I announced as much, throwing in a catty comment about how if I had wanted a vibrating massage chair, I could have purchased a far more comfortable one for good measure. Of course, Tool immediately went into a snit over that one, but thankfully, Harrison chose that moment to enter. I launched myself at him (well, as much as I could "launch" in stiletto thigh high boots, anyway) in one of those classic "never been so happy to see anyone in my life" bear hugs, but he kind of killed the moment when, by way of greeting, he said, "Hey, my friend who has a huge trampling fetish is here if you want to play with him."
"Why? I don't know him," I retorted way more shortly than he deserved.
He held up his hands, "Okay, just thought I'd ask."
"I'm having a bad night," I explained, softening just as quickly, "I really am glad to see you."
Then when we made our way over to the couch so he could try to fix my smile with some of his fabulous foot worship, Tool and CM guy followed, planting themselves at my feet on either side of him, both successfully making Harrison incredibly uncomfortable and catapulting my aggravation to heights I hadn't even known existed in one fell swoop.
CM guy got the hint first, making his way over to the bar, and after what seemed like ages, Tool finally followed suit. But the damage had been done, and my bitchy disposition (regardless whether I was directing it at him or not) was apparently reminding Harrison of his ex-girlfriend in a really bad way, compounding the fact that he had recently been struggling with depression. Once he confided as much to me, we finished off the foot worship with me snuggling his face into my cleavage, stroking his hair, and asking him to call me when he felt up to talking (which he did a few days later, so I must not have been that awful ... well, to him anyway).
Tool was sitting by himself at a table when we finished, so I made my way over and sat down across from him.
"I hope you'll play with me like that one day," he said.
Not really thinking, I replied, "Well, we can certainly play, but it won't be quite like that ... Harrison is a bit more age appropriate for me."
All hell broke loose then. I still can't decide whether I would have actually preferred it had he lain down on the floor, kicking and screaming. In any event, it simply blew his mind that I had stated the patently obvious fact that he was old enough to be my father. And furthermore, while he claimed the foot worship scene had been beautiful, he also deemed it, "Too obnoxious for me or the other guy to sit there in service anymore."
"So I'm obnoxious now, am I?" Really, he was making finding fault with his behavior entirely too easy, "Because, I don't recall asking either of you to join us. However, I do recall telling you when I invited you here that I had already made plans to play with Harrison this evening."
"Well, I didn't realize it would be like that," he pouted.
"Where are my friends?" I spat, rising, "I'm sick to death of talking in circles with you."
Alex was in the car, pseudo napping and wallowing in her boy problems. I chatted with CM guy for a bit, acknowledging the chaotic vibe of the evening, explaining about my bad day, and encouraging him to call me for a second meeting where things would hopefully be less hectic. Then I found Sasha, and we watched a few more scenes before deciding to call it a night. After wishing Harrison a good night, we headed outside where Tool was talking to Derek and Rachel by the car ... complaining about me, I shortly learned via a text from Alex, informing me of the disruption of her nap courtesy of his whining and obnoxious laugh. Of course, when confronted, he denied this, too.
"Are you accusing Mistress Alexandra of lying now, on top of your tantrum?" I asked incredulously, "Apologize to her, and then I don't want to hear another word out of you the rest of the way home." Once he complied, I added, "Thank you for driving and for paying our cover, but the rest of your behavior this evening was deplorable."
A few days later, Derek volunteered to mediate a discussion between Tool and me (and a cane), in hopes of helping me to reign him in. True to form, Tool spent the first half of the discussion mouthing off until I slapped him across the face, wondering why I hadn't done so ages ago. Since Derek had spent our planning frequently employing the quote, "The beatings will continue until morale improves," it wasn't long before the discussion escalated to me turning to Tool. "So, I don't give you enough attention? Well, that's all going to change tonight. Tonight you're going to get the attention you've earned. Tonight you're going to be my little pain slut."
And, while Alex and Derek watched (Derek narrating a play by play to his friend Libby* over the phone and informing me that Libby's suggestion was "harder"), I made use of every toy in both Derek's and my toy bags, several clothespins, and the knife sharpener from the kitchen (which, as luck would have it, doubled quite nicely as a surprisingly mean little paddle). There was no warm up, no safe word, and I had what I referred to as "flogger's elbow" for a few days afterwards. I beat the shit out of him with everything I could get my hands on and flicked the clothespins 'til he doubled over. And the whole time, I mockingly demanded, "Is this enough attention for you, my little attention piggy? Do you feel like you're getting your money's worth now? Maybe now you'll learn to show me some respect and realize that I'm not your little puppet Mistress!"
"I never thought that, Goddess," he whimpered, "I just want to please you. I'm sorry I didn't realize your power before."
"Which is code for you didn't take me seriously before," I corrected. Oh, please. Like he was really going to win with me? "Sit up!" I barked as he rolled in pain on the floor after a particularly savage flick to one of the clothespins on his nipples, "I thought you said you wanted to please me? Well, this pleases me."
Behind me, Alex let out a snort, as I emphasized my statement by giving the clothespin another good, hard flick.
"Well, I don't know about you, but I feel much better," I announced cheerfully when I finally showed him out later on that night. As the door closed behind him, I at last allowed myself to join Alex in her cackling.
"Now that gives a whole new definition to the word 'owned!'" she declared.
Hurting Tool was, hands down, the best possible medicine for releasing all my pent up frustration. I did feel worlds better. And I had learned from a few mistakes that I didn't plan on making again. All in all, it was a win-win for me; since he was the most irritating individual I had ever encountered, I really didn't feel any kind of remorse over my lesson's expense to him. The important part, just as I had said to him that night, was that I felt better.
I don't really deal with things that way anymore. Up until recently, I've been making a more concentrated effort to keep my growing pains to myself a little more.
Putting them in print here has been really cathartic for me.
But the other day ... once again, I stopped being the only one who was feeling the effects of my growing pains. And hurting John hasn't been nearly as satisfying as beating the shit out of Tool was. Wait, let me rephrase that: hurting someone I actually care about isn't even remotely satisfying. In fact, it kinda sucks.
The silver lining there is that it was nice to find out he actually cared. 'Cause I really wasn't sure either way before. Communication on the subject has been limited to text messages, but for once, I really feel like I'm finally being completely straightforward and putting it all out there, saying exactly what I mean, and trying my best not to leave anything out. Well, I think we both are, really. He's got a bit of a problem with vagueness himself, but he's been a lot more expressive in this instance. And part of me is really pleased with what seems like an extremely healthy development.
As for the other half? She really wants to be lying in bed with a certain little boy's head nestled into that nook between her breasts and collarbone, fingers in his hair, brushing her lips in the occasional kiss across his forehead ... just 'cause that's the best aftercare idea she can come up with in the aftermath of this particular brand of hurting.
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
"Kisses are for Lovers"
"Trying to keep you off balance ... is just the evil version of sweeping you off your feet. (Thomas Rayfiel)"
I just read that line over breakfast this morning and it kind of smacked me in the face.
I really need to learn all the different faces of topping from the bottom and control manipulation. According to Derek, it comes in about eighty five thousand different forms, from the obvious (Tool trying to change my name or presenting all the things that catered to his own fantasies to me as the hard and fast rules for what BDSM was and wasn't about, banking on my lack of experience to keep me from questioning it) to the more subtle (a slave or submissive who is obedient but takes their sweet time carrying out a task). Or, in the same vein ... one who's prone to things like sporadic contact and dropping off the face of the planet periodically. And that quote just might perfectly sum up why I've been putting up with it.
Brooke was dating two guys when I apprenticed to her. Ben* was sweet and reliable and openly adored her, sending her daily "thinking of you" text messages which inspired snorts of disgust and which she frequently read aloud in a mocking, singsong voice. Brendon* was elusive and distant and inspired such behaviors in Brooke as dialing his number and listening to it ring and go to voicemail twenty eight times in a row ... for the specific purpose of allowing him to find the twenty eight missed calls from her - all made within two minutes of each other - in his call log.
Brendon was the reason I saw her break and give her vulnerability permission to emerge for a brief moment. Granted, it took her under five minutes to pull it together, but before that, I got the works: first, a text sent from their private dinner for two about how he was barely even talking to her and the admission that "I'm so hurt right now," then the screaming, crying phone call on her drive home, and finally, the seat next to her on the edge of her bed when she got there, stroking her hair and catching her tears with my fingertips ... until she caught herself in the role reversal because "(she was) supposed to be the one taking care of (me)." When I left L.A., I reminded her, "Plenty of people pay good money to worship you ... so don't spend too much of your time settling for anything less anywhere else." Which I thought was incredibly sweet and insightful and adorable of me at the time, but like so many other things ... it's easier said than done.
Case in point? I'm new, I'm young, and (while, obviously, I have my insecurities just like everyone else) most would say genetics have been kind to me. I have no shortage of attention from submissive males, and the simple act of checking my email is a daily exercise in equal parts of ego boost and annoyance.
So, naturally, I decide to make my play for the one who goes disappearing on alternate Tuesdays.
And it sucks, 'cause after last weekend he was doing really well, too. I was even prepared to cut him some slack because he was starting a new job that entailed a six day work week, but even with that, he was still keeping in pretty regular contact ... even if it was just to text me to say good morning before work. It was all looking really promising, and it made me happy because it also looked like just maybe he really did want to prove to me that he could be mine. But now, he's back to his old charming habits and has gone M.I.A. Yet again. And that little game? Has gotten really fucking tiresome. And twenty eight missed calls all within two minutes of each other is kinda not my style.
My last correspondence with him was a very polite text message last night (sent after he had ignored two or three previous text messages between Sunday night and Monday), informing him that if there's any way he can get out of work next Sunday, Derek is planning a bondage party. John's a huge bondage slut, and I still need to learn how to handle rope properly. Usually I just stick with restraints (conveniently hooked to the headboard of his bed), and I don't really even do that as often as he'd probably like, both because we do a lot of breath play and also because I like the feel of his hands on my hips. Anyway, the text also contained the postscript that this would be the last text message I would be sending his way unless or until he decided to become responsive again. I've been a bitch about that in the past, but this time, I was sweet as cherry pie. Now, one of two things is going to happen: either I'll get a text or email apology from him within the next few days, likely something along the lines of, "work's been kicking my ass, and I've been passing out as soon as I get home," or that text message will be the last time I interact with him in any way, shape, or form. Because seriously? Fuck this noise.
I was wandering through Borders yesterday and flipped through a paperback in the erotica section with the storyline of an escort who gets picked up by a dominant woman who awakens the escort's submissive desires. I didn't feel especially compelled to buy it (all those sex scenes are too extra cheese for my taste), but one excerpt stood out. In it, the submissive is bound, the Domme leans in close, and right when she thinks she's about to kiss her, she pulls away and tells her, "Kisses are for lovers." I have every intention of stealing that one now: "Kisses are for lovers ... and as far as I can tell, the only thing you really seem to have any interest in being to me is my part time guinea pig." And then I'd really love to hear how exactly he'd go about trying to tell me I'm wrong. Yeah, as fantasies go, that one's kind of boring. But know what? Plenty of people are begging me to show them the slightest attention on a daily basis. So why would I settle for anything less anywhere else?
My saving grace is my excellent willpower. I do this in vanilla relationships, too. This New Year's Eve was when I decided I was done with all the back and forth, on again off again nonsense with my last girlfriend once and for all. We still talk, but she hasn't been able to suck me back in since ... and not for lack of trying on her part. And it was actually just a few days after that when I first blurred the lines between play and more for myself with John. I'd been inching my way there since I ended up at his house around four AM on New Year's Day (that was the first time I ever bit his bottom lip ... a pretty regular occurrence these days, but up until that point, I had still been all about keeping everything separate ... well, with the exception of utilizing his warm body for spooning purposes, anyway). And a night or two later, curled up on the bed in our now-familiar position, I asked him, apropos of nothing, what he wanted.
"I want to learn how many different laughs you have," he told me.
If not necessarily the sweetest thing I'd ever heard, that one was definitely well within the top ten. And the most appropriate thing I could come up with by way of response was to turn and kiss him full on the mouth ... our first kiss. But when he requested another one before I left the next day, I told him no and didn't relent for a good couple weeks before letting it happen again.
"Is this fucking with your head?" I asked him the second time around, "'Cause I can hear the argument now: 'If you don't want to be a kinky girlfriend, then why do you act like one?'"
Of course, he assured me it was fine, that he was taking everything at face value: "Did you notice how after I asked that one time and you said no, I never tried to initiate anything? Everything is completely up to you."
Well, if that's the case, then I guess it's "up to me" to decide that kisses are for lovers and that since, quite obviously, he isn't mine, there will be no more. Maybe I should have simplified things even further for him: "proving it" equals being there. And, no, I am not actually naive enough to imagine that that would have made the slightest difference.
I just read that line over breakfast this morning and it kind of smacked me in the face.
I really need to learn all the different faces of topping from the bottom and control manipulation. According to Derek, it comes in about eighty five thousand different forms, from the obvious (Tool trying to change my name or presenting all the things that catered to his own fantasies to me as the hard and fast rules for what BDSM was and wasn't about, banking on my lack of experience to keep me from questioning it) to the more subtle (a slave or submissive who is obedient but takes their sweet time carrying out a task). Or, in the same vein ... one who's prone to things like sporadic contact and dropping off the face of the planet periodically. And that quote just might perfectly sum up why I've been putting up with it.
Brooke was dating two guys when I apprenticed to her. Ben* was sweet and reliable and openly adored her, sending her daily "thinking of you" text messages which inspired snorts of disgust and which she frequently read aloud in a mocking, singsong voice. Brendon* was elusive and distant and inspired such behaviors in Brooke as dialing his number and listening to it ring and go to voicemail twenty eight times in a row ... for the specific purpose of allowing him to find the twenty eight missed calls from her - all made within two minutes of each other - in his call log.
Brendon was the reason I saw her break and give her vulnerability permission to emerge for a brief moment. Granted, it took her under five minutes to pull it together, but before that, I got the works: first, a text sent from their private dinner for two about how he was barely even talking to her and the admission that "I'm so hurt right now," then the screaming, crying phone call on her drive home, and finally, the seat next to her on the edge of her bed when she got there, stroking her hair and catching her tears with my fingertips ... until she caught herself in the role reversal because "(she was) supposed to be the one taking care of (me)." When I left L.A., I reminded her, "Plenty of people pay good money to worship you ... so don't spend too much of your time settling for anything less anywhere else." Which I thought was incredibly sweet and insightful and adorable of me at the time, but like so many other things ... it's easier said than done.
Case in point? I'm new, I'm young, and (while, obviously, I have my insecurities just like everyone else) most would say genetics have been kind to me. I have no shortage of attention from submissive males, and the simple act of checking my email is a daily exercise in equal parts of ego boost and annoyance.
So, naturally, I decide to make my play for the one who goes disappearing on alternate Tuesdays.
And it sucks, 'cause after last weekend he was doing really well, too. I was even prepared to cut him some slack because he was starting a new job that entailed a six day work week, but even with that, he was still keeping in pretty regular contact ... even if it was just to text me to say good morning before work. It was all looking really promising, and it made me happy because it also looked like just maybe he really did want to prove to me that he could be mine. But now, he's back to his old charming habits and has gone M.I.A. Yet again. And that little game? Has gotten really fucking tiresome. And twenty eight missed calls all within two minutes of each other is kinda not my style.
My last correspondence with him was a very polite text message last night (sent after he had ignored two or three previous text messages between Sunday night and Monday), informing him that if there's any way he can get out of work next Sunday, Derek is planning a bondage party. John's a huge bondage slut, and I still need to learn how to handle rope properly. Usually I just stick with restraints (conveniently hooked to the headboard of his bed), and I don't really even do that as often as he'd probably like, both because we do a lot of breath play and also because I like the feel of his hands on my hips. Anyway, the text also contained the postscript that this would be the last text message I would be sending his way unless or until he decided to become responsive again. I've been a bitch about that in the past, but this time, I was sweet as cherry pie. Now, one of two things is going to happen: either I'll get a text or email apology from him within the next few days, likely something along the lines of, "work's been kicking my ass, and I've been passing out as soon as I get home," or that text message will be the last time I interact with him in any way, shape, or form. Because seriously? Fuck this noise.
I was wandering through Borders yesterday and flipped through a paperback in the erotica section with the storyline of an escort who gets picked up by a dominant woman who awakens the escort's submissive desires. I didn't feel especially compelled to buy it (all those sex scenes are too extra cheese for my taste), but one excerpt stood out. In it, the submissive is bound, the Domme leans in close, and right when she thinks she's about to kiss her, she pulls away and tells her, "Kisses are for lovers." I have every intention of stealing that one now: "Kisses are for lovers ... and as far as I can tell, the only thing you really seem to have any interest in being to me is my part time guinea pig." And then I'd really love to hear how exactly he'd go about trying to tell me I'm wrong. Yeah, as fantasies go, that one's kind of boring. But know what? Plenty of people are begging me to show them the slightest attention on a daily basis. So why would I settle for anything less anywhere else?
My saving grace is my excellent willpower. I do this in vanilla relationships, too. This New Year's Eve was when I decided I was done with all the back and forth, on again off again nonsense with my last girlfriend once and for all. We still talk, but she hasn't been able to suck me back in since ... and not for lack of trying on her part. And it was actually just a few days after that when I first blurred the lines between play and more for myself with John. I'd been inching my way there since I ended up at his house around four AM on New Year's Day (that was the first time I ever bit his bottom lip ... a pretty regular occurrence these days, but up until that point, I had still been all about keeping everything separate ... well, with the exception of utilizing his warm body for spooning purposes, anyway). And a night or two later, curled up on the bed in our now-familiar position, I asked him, apropos of nothing, what he wanted.
"I want to learn how many different laughs you have," he told me.
If not necessarily the sweetest thing I'd ever heard, that one was definitely well within the top ten. And the most appropriate thing I could come up with by way of response was to turn and kiss him full on the mouth ... our first kiss. But when he requested another one before I left the next day, I told him no and didn't relent for a good couple weeks before letting it happen again.
"Is this fucking with your head?" I asked him the second time around, "'Cause I can hear the argument now: 'If you don't want to be a kinky girlfriend, then why do you act like one?'"
Of course, he assured me it was fine, that he was taking everything at face value: "Did you notice how after I asked that one time and you said no, I never tried to initiate anything? Everything is completely up to you."
Well, if that's the case, then I guess it's "up to me" to decide that kisses are for lovers and that since, quite obviously, he isn't mine, there will be no more. Maybe I should have simplified things even further for him: "proving it" equals being there. And, no, I am not actually naive enough to imagine that that would have made the slightest difference.
Thursday, February 12, 2009
Mistress Addicts Anonymous?
Ok, so I'm feeling a little guilty over the shameless exploitation that's about to ensue, but this is a personal first and I'm really not quite sure what to make of it.
During one of John's flaky periods, I had an opportunity for a shoot ... but the woman who was running it wanted me to bring my own sub so I would be working with someone I was already comfortable with. By this point, a fair amount of guys on CM had stumbled across some of my other clips and contacted me asking for an opportunity to shoot with me. I had spoken to Trey* on the phone, and he had seemed sweet and normal (if ever so slightly cocky and shallow, but judging by his photo attachments, Mother Nature had blessed him with a reason for this), so I contacted him to see if he might be interested.
Trey was married, but assured me that his wife (unlike Matt's poor, oblivious girlfriend) knew about his "extracurricular activities," and readily agreed to help me out as long as I could give him a ballpark figure of when he'd be back ... perhaps I should have thought to ask beforehand exactly how much she knew. Anyway, once I talked him through a minor case of cold feet about appearing unmasked (after which he texted me thanking me for explaining things and apologizing for "being a pussy.." his word choice, not mine, though it did make me smile), we were set.
I had him meet me at a nearby Starbucks (apparently my venue of choice for attached submissives) an hour before the shoot so he could be "comfortable and at ease with me." I didn't see any reason to mention that this was as much for my own benefit as for his ... might as well maintain my control from the start, right? Upon arriving, I was pleased to discover both that the pictures hadn't lied and also that - contrary to some of my intial impressions - he did, in fact, have slightly more depth to him than your average puddle.
Though the shoot itself didn't exactly fit my idea of "FemDom" (the storyline was more porn-ish: guy walks in on his girlfriend cheating on him with another girl, then the two girls humiliate him, trample him, and smother him with their breasts and asses), we had a lot of fun. Suffice it to say, I didn't really achieve full-on topspace at any point, but now ... I can't even begin to imagine what the aftermath might have been if I had.
Trey and I have texted and emailed a bit since the shoot. I heard from him the other day, just your average check in, during which he told me he would be going away on vacation, and that he missed me. I told him we would figure out a time to see each other when he got back.
Fast forward to last night. I'm at home, minding my own business when I receive a text message from Trey telling me how gorgeous I am and reiterating how much he misses me. Since it also contained the line, "You're so hard to not forget," I responded much as I would have to anyone else in those circumstances: "Aw, are you drunk right now, little boy?"
Figuring I'd throw him a bone, I also asked when he would be back from vacation because I wanted someone to accompany me to a class next week.
Trey responded that he was just "buzzed enough to grow the balls to text (me)," and went on that no one had ever made him so nervous and that I was "such a fantasy." Unfortunately, he wouldn't be back until late evening the day after the class, which I told him was a shame.
The response to that was something along the lines of, "Yes, it is a shame, but please find another way to use me because I'm addicted to You and want to do all kinds of disgusting, humiliating things for You."
Well, I actually had no idea what to say to that. So I waited until this morning and simply asked how his hangover was, another classic response of mine after a bout of drunk texting.
Trey said he was recovering nicely and thanked me for asking.
Of course, then I just had to feel things out a little more. I started by casually mentioning that he was the first sub to have ever drunk texted me. (Okay, so John and I may have texted back and forth a time or two when one or both of us has been out drinking, but not like that.)
Then he apologized and said he was embarrassed.
I told him it was fine, and not to be embarrassed because it had made me smile. Which - despite my being completely caught off guard in the moment - was true.
And now?
Well, as I began typing this, Trey and I were still texting back and forth about the dirty, degrading things he'd be willing to do for me. All because I mentioned maybe using him for more hardcore shoots next time if he thought he could handle it, and when I got the response, "For You? Fuck yes. I'm open to more nasty stuff, too," of course, I had to press the issue even more and ask for examples.
To be honest, I'm not really sure why all this caught me off guard as much as it did. I certainly get enough messages from randoms containing worse; I once had a fifty something year old guy write me an unsolicited seventeen page long erotic story about his new life as Mistress Kay's sissy panty boy ... and while the more explicit sexual descriptions made me throw up in my mouth a little, for the most part, I just found it amusing. With Trey, I actually want to play with him again, and hell, just as two people with pulses, if he wasn't married, I'd tap that.
But when I said "prove it," the other day? This was kinda not quite what I had in mind.
Hey, then again, maybe Trey read that post and this whole thing was just a manipulation on his part because he wanted to be in my blog, too? Then I wouldn't have to feel quite so bad about the whole shameless exploitation thing. Oh, whatever. I can dream.
During one of John's flaky periods, I had an opportunity for a shoot ... but the woman who was running it wanted me to bring my own sub so I would be working with someone I was already comfortable with. By this point, a fair amount of guys on CM had stumbled across some of my other clips and contacted me asking for an opportunity to shoot with me. I had spoken to Trey* on the phone, and he had seemed sweet and normal (if ever so slightly cocky and shallow, but judging by his photo attachments, Mother Nature had blessed him with a reason for this), so I contacted him to see if he might be interested.
Trey was married, but assured me that his wife (unlike Matt's poor, oblivious girlfriend) knew about his "extracurricular activities," and readily agreed to help me out as long as I could give him a ballpark figure of when he'd be back ... perhaps I should have thought to ask beforehand exactly how much she knew. Anyway, once I talked him through a minor case of cold feet about appearing unmasked (after which he texted me thanking me for explaining things and apologizing for "being a pussy.." his word choice, not mine, though it did make me smile), we were set.
I had him meet me at a nearby Starbucks (apparently my venue of choice for attached submissives) an hour before the shoot so he could be "comfortable and at ease with me." I didn't see any reason to mention that this was as much for my own benefit as for his ... might as well maintain my control from the start, right? Upon arriving, I was pleased to discover both that the pictures hadn't lied and also that - contrary to some of my intial impressions - he did, in fact, have slightly more depth to him than your average puddle.
Though the shoot itself didn't exactly fit my idea of "FemDom" (the storyline was more porn-ish: guy walks in on his girlfriend cheating on him with another girl, then the two girls humiliate him, trample him, and smother him with their breasts and asses), we had a lot of fun. Suffice it to say, I didn't really achieve full-on topspace at any point, but now ... I can't even begin to imagine what the aftermath might have been if I had.
Trey and I have texted and emailed a bit since the shoot. I heard from him the other day, just your average check in, during which he told me he would be going away on vacation, and that he missed me. I told him we would figure out a time to see each other when he got back.
Fast forward to last night. I'm at home, minding my own business when I receive a text message from Trey telling me how gorgeous I am and reiterating how much he misses me. Since it also contained the line, "You're so hard to not forget," I responded much as I would have to anyone else in those circumstances: "Aw, are you drunk right now, little boy?"
Figuring I'd throw him a bone, I also asked when he would be back from vacation because I wanted someone to accompany me to a class next week.
Trey responded that he was just "buzzed enough to grow the balls to text (me)," and went on that no one had ever made him so nervous and that I was "such a fantasy." Unfortunately, he wouldn't be back until late evening the day after the class, which I told him was a shame.
The response to that was something along the lines of, "Yes, it is a shame, but please find another way to use me because I'm addicted to You and want to do all kinds of disgusting, humiliating things for You."
Well, I actually had no idea what to say to that. So I waited until this morning and simply asked how his hangover was, another classic response of mine after a bout of drunk texting.
Trey said he was recovering nicely and thanked me for asking.
Of course, then I just had to feel things out a little more. I started by casually mentioning that he was the first sub to have ever drunk texted me. (Okay, so John and I may have texted back and forth a time or two when one or both of us has been out drinking, but not like that.)
Then he apologized and said he was embarrassed.
I told him it was fine, and not to be embarrassed because it had made me smile. Which - despite my being completely caught off guard in the moment - was true.
And now?
Well, as I began typing this, Trey and I were still texting back and forth about the dirty, degrading things he'd be willing to do for me. All because I mentioned maybe using him for more hardcore shoots next time if he thought he could handle it, and when I got the response, "For You? Fuck yes. I'm open to more nasty stuff, too," of course, I had to press the issue even more and ask for examples.
To be honest, I'm not really sure why all this caught me off guard as much as it did. I certainly get enough messages from randoms containing worse; I once had a fifty something year old guy write me an unsolicited seventeen page long erotic story about his new life as Mistress Kay's sissy panty boy ... and while the more explicit sexual descriptions made me throw up in my mouth a little, for the most part, I just found it amusing. With Trey, I actually want to play with him again, and hell, just as two people with pulses, if he wasn't married, I'd tap that.
But when I said "prove it," the other day? This was kinda not quite what I had in mind.
Hey, then again, maybe Trey read that post and this whole thing was just a manipulation on his part because he wanted to be in my blog, too? Then I wouldn't have to feel quite so bad about the whole shameless exploitation thing. Oh, whatever. I can dream.
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