I was lucky enough to spend part of Christmas Eve soaking in a hot bath, reading. Book of choice, “The Ethical Slut”. It’s been an amazing, eye opening read. I went back tonight to read a section that’s been weighing on my mind. I had given it a lot of thought, and wanted the words to run fresh through my head so I could lay back and think about them. Christmas Eve brought me a lot of clarity.
I have always disliked it intensely when someone has apologized for “hurting me”. I’m speaking emotional hurt here, not physical. I could never pinpoint why, but it was always one of those phrases that made the hair on the back of my neck stand up, and something I brushed off quickly with a “Don’t worry about it.” response. I always previously thought that this was because I hate appearing vulnerable. I’m rethinking that now. Now I think I hate feeling powerless.
I own my emotions. More than just owning them, I am fiercely protective of my right to own them. The minute someone tries to take my ownership…that annoys me.
“I’m sorry I hurt you.”
That phrase takes all the power and all the ownership and gives it to the person saying it. It removes the power and ownership from the person that feels hurt. Yes, sometimes it might feel easier to blame someone else when you feel hurt. The reality is though, if you blame them, they own it. If they own it, they are the only ones who can fix it. I prefer to have the ownership in my own hands, and find a way to fix it. Own my experience, own my emotions and find out a way to fix them. That’s where power is for me.
Recently I was discussing an experience where I felt hurt with some friends. They were continually bringing the other person in the experience into the discussion. It pissed me off to no end. I kept saying, “This is not about THEM…this is about ME.” I explained it to them that it was no longer about anyone but me, and my processing of the experience, and how I now had the right to make changes so that I could repeat, or not repeat that experience. I think a better explanation now though is that I get to own my emotions, because that is what gives me the most power. (We all know how I like power right?)
Understanding my ownership of my emotions is a great thing. It helps me realize why phrases like “I’m sorry I hurt you” annoy me. It also means I can realize that sometimes I take my emotional ownership too far. I own them to the point of thinking that they are ONLY mine. Emotional ownership is fine, healthy even, but, I’ll admit I take it to the extreme. Everything is mine, mine, mine. Mine to own, to deal with, to reconcile, and to solve…usually alone. I’m also perfectly willing to try and own other people’s emotions, and frequently have been/should be told to mind my own business. I need to learn that owning my own emotions doesn’t mean I have to deal with them alone, and that emotional ownership needs to stop with my emotions…that other people get to mind their emotions and own them as well.
Harder than it sounds.
Saturday, December 24, 2011
Wednesday, December 14, 2011
Our Love Grows....at a Munch...
We've been married for over 6 years, but I'm always amazed at the times and places when I get that awesome feeling in the pit of my stomach that reminds me how much I love the Hubby. Last night it was the crazy and a bit over whelming-ness that is this particular munch. It's huge. I can be a bit shy, so can Hubby. But even at this huge, intimidating munch, we did our own thing. I friggen LOVE that, and I love even more that it was his idea that we work this way. We each find people to hang out with and people who interest us to talk to and we're okay not hanging on each other every second at an event we go to together. So there we were, at opposite ends of this munch, and I get an e-mail about doing needles next week (YAY!) and I want to clear that he'll be home with the kids. But he's WAY over there. So I text him. Then secretly watch him till he gets it. I watch him read the simple, "May I do needles next Tuesday?" and watch him smile and share it with the people he's sitting with. I move back to my conversation about a group that does rope work like Flash Mob's work in NY...interesting stuff and I want to hear more. My phone beeps and I quickly check his response. "Sure!" I look up at him and catch his eye. Smile and do a goofy wave...he smiles and goofy waves back. That's love baby.
Later we've all settled at The Cheesecake Factory. We've found seats with separate people and are having separate conversation, but I'm trying to e-mail and my phone is totally winning the war for dominance. I hustle over to him and ask for tech support. The gentleman sitting next to him introduces himself to me and says this is his first time at this munch. I say it's my second, and he's surprised, because I seem so at ease with these people...I explain the man I just threw my phone at in frustration is actually my husband. We all chat for a few minutes and with my phone now under my semi-control, I head back to my chair. A little while later I get my own message from the Hubby. "Okay if I go rope on Monday?"
I turn toward him, even though his back at the other table is all I can see. It makes me smile anyway. I love that man. I love this life. I love doing this life, with that man...
Of course he can go rope on Monday.
Later we've all settled at The Cheesecake Factory. We've found seats with separate people and are having separate conversation, but I'm trying to e-mail and my phone is totally winning the war for dominance. I hustle over to him and ask for tech support. The gentleman sitting next to him introduces himself to me and says this is his first time at this munch. I say it's my second, and he's surprised, because I seem so at ease with these people...I explain the man I just threw my phone at in frustration is actually my husband. We all chat for a few minutes and with my phone now under my semi-control, I head back to my chair. A little while later I get my own message from the Hubby. "Okay if I go rope on Monday?"
I turn toward him, even though his back at the other table is all I can see. It makes me smile anyway. I love that man. I love this life. I love doing this life, with that man...
Of course he can go rope on Monday.
Wednesday, December 7, 2011
Sometimes, things are hard. Sometimes things are hard, but I'm good at hiding it...
Today someone suggested I do some writing. The words for what was suggested just wouldn’t come, so this is what came out instead.
I have so much work to do on myself that I’m starting to think when I have a really good day, it’s just a day I’ve been completely successful at hiding from myself. The good news is, I’m starting to embrace the emotional chaos. I think we’re taught early and often about the negative aspects of being even remotely complicated in an emotional way. We start young hiding our individual complications and emotions. The very things that make us each our own person, we’re taught to flatten, level and fit in a standard size box so they look like everyone else’s. Some of my shit isn’t box shaped though, so it’s just been crammed in there, all lumpy like and stuffy for years. I’m kind of in a love/hate relationship with watching it spread as I pull it out…like one of those expanding kids toys that you never can quite believe all fit in that little tiny pill before it went in the water. I’m fascinated by dumping buckets of water on my piles of “stuff” and seeing it swell to take up all the space that I thought was “well adjusted” but now realize was mainly just empty. What the hell is well adjusted? Is that like “normal”?
I think I’m at least moderately well aware of how far I have to go. Fairly realistic of the reasons I’m playfully called a Beautiful Train Wreck. I know I over think things, I know I worry too much about others and details I have no power over. I know I lack patience in many areas of my life and that I strive for control over…pretty much everything. I know I’m my own worst critic. I hope I actually am sane and not just one of the people who thinks they are sane. I’ll temper this paragraph with the statement that I also know I have many positive points. It wouldn’t be like me to list them here, but I AM aware of them. This isn’t an essay on self depreciation.
It seems I know plenty about myself, and could have a field day working on just that, rather than pulling up more, but somehow it seems like I’m looking for something I lost. Like something I packed away for a move at some point and want to find again. So at first I sort of started to half heartedly peek in the tops of some boxes and see what was there, but then I realized all the stuff I forgot about.
Not everything I’m finding is good. Searching through, looking for that point when I went from the young kiddo my parents describe who ran around naked constantly to the body conscious adult I’ve become. Did that happen over time? Was there an event? Can I blame that one on “society”? When did I become insecure? Did I always compensate for insecurity by appearing Type A? Nope, not in this box, let’s check another.
Sometimes I want to grab a box and stuff crap back in there to be dealt with at some later and unspecified time, but it seems like right now I’m more likely to make piles. You know when you organize a big mess by trying to make it a neater mess? Sort of like that. I’m not actually solving things yet, but I’m sort of moving about, making things look more presentable so I’ll be less intimated about going back and looking through the pile at some point. (Yeah, THAT needs to be looked at…later) But some of it doesn’t stack up neatly. It’s like that expanding kids toy…you never can be too sure what to do with it when you are done. It’s here, all big and sort of squishy, but what exactly do you do with a huge gelatinous dinosaur stuffed inside a bucket of water? What do I do with this…feeling? Keep it? Appreciate it, and then toss it? How much do emotions from years ago that I ignored matter now? Can you genuinely process and move on, or do you accept them as part of your life and somehow store them away in a healthier manner?
There is a certain part of this journey that makes me feel three years old again. It’s no longer enough for me to be so “strong” I can say, this is what I am, deal with it. Now I want to say why. Why am I like this…not just the challenging parts, but the parts I’m proud of too. Understand why. I love understanding. I should have been a scientist who could base everything on fact, thought honestly in some ways that would bore me. More fun is the answer to Why which can be picked over, studied. The answer to Why that can be debated and discussed, even if only within my own head.
I’m asking a lot of why’s lately. I’m talking in a lot circles but finding sometimes, a different way to say the same thing, seems to trigger another box in my mind to open. Some answers are more clear to me than they were even two weeks ago, but the questions are more complicated now than they were last week. Sometimes I find the answer to one Why at the bottom of a box full of questions, all the while I seem sure that answer to everything is in the box I can’t see or reach yet, that’s at the bottom of the pile. I know if I pull it out, just to get to the answer, that won’t work at all…but patience…patience isn’t my strong point, remember. So I try. I try to sit on the floor and sort things into piles, one box at a time. Some of the time I’m laughing, some of it I’m crying, sometimes I sit in complete disbelief that I forgot about THAT. Some of the boxes are full of more questions and some of them seen to have answers to things I can even express yet. What I want, who I am and how I want to get there. The questions and answers are here somewhere, if I can stop talking in circles long enough to get there…
I have so much work to do on myself that I’m starting to think when I have a really good day, it’s just a day I’ve been completely successful at hiding from myself. The good news is, I’m starting to embrace the emotional chaos. I think we’re taught early and often about the negative aspects of being even remotely complicated in an emotional way. We start young hiding our individual complications and emotions. The very things that make us each our own person, we’re taught to flatten, level and fit in a standard size box so they look like everyone else’s. Some of my shit isn’t box shaped though, so it’s just been crammed in there, all lumpy like and stuffy for years. I’m kind of in a love/hate relationship with watching it spread as I pull it out…like one of those expanding kids toys that you never can quite believe all fit in that little tiny pill before it went in the water. I’m fascinated by dumping buckets of water on my piles of “stuff” and seeing it swell to take up all the space that I thought was “well adjusted” but now realize was mainly just empty. What the hell is well adjusted? Is that like “normal”?
I think I’m at least moderately well aware of how far I have to go. Fairly realistic of the reasons I’m playfully called a Beautiful Train Wreck. I know I over think things, I know I worry too much about others and details I have no power over. I know I lack patience in many areas of my life and that I strive for control over…pretty much everything. I know I’m my own worst critic. I hope I actually am sane and not just one of the people who thinks they are sane. I’ll temper this paragraph with the statement that I also know I have many positive points. It wouldn’t be like me to list them here, but I AM aware of them. This isn’t an essay on self depreciation.
It seems I know plenty about myself, and could have a field day working on just that, rather than pulling up more, but somehow it seems like I’m looking for something I lost. Like something I packed away for a move at some point and want to find again. So at first I sort of started to half heartedly peek in the tops of some boxes and see what was there, but then I realized all the stuff I forgot about.
Not everything I’m finding is good. Searching through, looking for that point when I went from the young kiddo my parents describe who ran around naked constantly to the body conscious adult I’ve become. Did that happen over time? Was there an event? Can I blame that one on “society”? When did I become insecure? Did I always compensate for insecurity by appearing Type A? Nope, not in this box, let’s check another.
Sometimes I want to grab a box and stuff crap back in there to be dealt with at some later and unspecified time, but it seems like right now I’m more likely to make piles. You know when you organize a big mess by trying to make it a neater mess? Sort of like that. I’m not actually solving things yet, but I’m sort of moving about, making things look more presentable so I’ll be less intimated about going back and looking through the pile at some point. (Yeah, THAT needs to be looked at…later) But some of it doesn’t stack up neatly. It’s like that expanding kids toy…you never can be too sure what to do with it when you are done. It’s here, all big and sort of squishy, but what exactly do you do with a huge gelatinous dinosaur stuffed inside a bucket of water? What do I do with this…feeling? Keep it? Appreciate it, and then toss it? How much do emotions from years ago that I ignored matter now? Can you genuinely process and move on, or do you accept them as part of your life and somehow store them away in a healthier manner?
There is a certain part of this journey that makes me feel three years old again. It’s no longer enough for me to be so “strong” I can say, this is what I am, deal with it. Now I want to say why. Why am I like this…not just the challenging parts, but the parts I’m proud of too. Understand why. I love understanding. I should have been a scientist who could base everything on fact, thought honestly in some ways that would bore me. More fun is the answer to Why which can be picked over, studied. The answer to Why that can be debated and discussed, even if only within my own head.
I’m asking a lot of why’s lately. I’m talking in a lot circles but finding sometimes, a different way to say the same thing, seems to trigger another box in my mind to open. Some answers are more clear to me than they were even two weeks ago, but the questions are more complicated now than they were last week. Sometimes I find the answer to one Why at the bottom of a box full of questions, all the while I seem sure that answer to everything is in the box I can’t see or reach yet, that’s at the bottom of the pile. I know if I pull it out, just to get to the answer, that won’t work at all…but patience…patience isn’t my strong point, remember. So I try. I try to sit on the floor and sort things into piles, one box at a time. Some of the time I’m laughing, some of it I’m crying, sometimes I sit in complete disbelief that I forgot about THAT. Some of the boxes are full of more questions and some of them seen to have answers to things I can even express yet. What I want, who I am and how I want to get there. The questions and answers are here somewhere, if I can stop talking in circles long enough to get there…
Monday, December 5, 2011
Needles take TWO...
I am now just fully accepting I love needles. I love the process, I love the calm, I love the small unexpected stings when a mean needle comes out. I love the eww factor for many people. I love how it's starting to push me in a totally mental way.
Saturday night I was lucky enough to end up at a party that 'S' was also at. She carved out sometime toward the end of a busy night for her to do some needles on me. I had brought beads filled with glue to cap the ends of the needles that she used for an arm corset, and that came out lovely...a few hiccups in the logistics, but a learning process so that at some point we could do that and I could leave them in and walk around for a party I think. Very cool. Then I laid flat and she started between my shoulders and did a line right down my spine of alternating 20 and 22 gauge needles. Just over 30 of them. She figured out pretty quick she could play that like a needle xylophone and it made me giggle. It made me laugh. It made my entire body shaky and feel like it was vibrating. I was pretty floaty I think.
We were set up in a fairly public spot and my guess is people passed back and forth most of the time she was doing them. I have no memory of many of the details, except one. I floated up briefly and was slightly more lucid...not sure if she had asked me something, or had just played the xylophone or what, but I was slightly with it, and I looked over to a row of 4 chairs set up about 5 feet from us. In each chair was an observer, calmly watching our needle scene...eating. Totally weird-ed me out. I had to flip my head the other way so I couldn't see them.
So she gets as many needles in as she can handle (it's hard on the back, leaning over to put in needles) and asks if I want to lay there and enjoy the needles for a while. I must have indicated in some way that I did...I sort of remember that part. But only vaguely remember her either mentioning she was going to go get the sjambok, or perhaps asking if she should, and I encouraged it for some reason, which wouldn't surprise me. Either way, she ended up letting me lay there with the needles in while she practiced more with the sjambok. She can be an intense hitter. Slightly more rapid fire than I've experienced before. There was no time between swats for the endorphins to hit, so they would all slam into me at once when she paused. Sometimes she would pause and then lean over and play the needle xylophone, which left me sounding like a lunatic, and her not sure if I was sobbing or laughing. She would pause, the endorphins would hit, then she would play the xylophone and that would make my whole body all shivery. It was like that point while being tickled where you are positive there are three outcomes; you will either die, burst into flames or pee everywhere. Totally overwhelming. Not something I think could ever be recreated. Being beaten with the needles down my spin was really interesting. I was coming from such a floaty place to start with, there was no "gear up" to the pain. No mental preparation at all. I think it left my pain tolerances much lower than normal cause I wasn't really actively processing at all, I was just kind of laying their drooling, sound like an injured hyena.
Good Times.
Saturday night I was lucky enough to end up at a party that 'S' was also at. She carved out sometime toward the end of a busy night for her to do some needles on me. I had brought beads filled with glue to cap the ends of the needles that she used for an arm corset, and that came out lovely...a few hiccups in the logistics, but a learning process so that at some point we could do that and I could leave them in and walk around for a party I think. Very cool. Then I laid flat and she started between my shoulders and did a line right down my spine of alternating 20 and 22 gauge needles. Just over 30 of them. She figured out pretty quick she could play that like a needle xylophone and it made me giggle. It made me laugh. It made my entire body shaky and feel like it was vibrating. I was pretty floaty I think.
We were set up in a fairly public spot and my guess is people passed back and forth most of the time she was doing them. I have no memory of many of the details, except one. I floated up briefly and was slightly more lucid...not sure if she had asked me something, or had just played the xylophone or what, but I was slightly with it, and I looked over to a row of 4 chairs set up about 5 feet from us. In each chair was an observer, calmly watching our needle scene...eating. Totally weird-ed me out. I had to flip my head the other way so I couldn't see them.
So she gets as many needles in as she can handle (it's hard on the back, leaning over to put in needles) and asks if I want to lay there and enjoy the needles for a while. I must have indicated in some way that I did...I sort of remember that part. But only vaguely remember her either mentioning she was going to go get the sjambok, or perhaps asking if she should, and I encouraged it for some reason, which wouldn't surprise me. Either way, she ended up letting me lay there with the needles in while she practiced more with the sjambok. She can be an intense hitter. Slightly more rapid fire than I've experienced before. There was no time between swats for the endorphins to hit, so they would all slam into me at once when she paused. Sometimes she would pause and then lean over and play the needle xylophone, which left me sounding like a lunatic, and her not sure if I was sobbing or laughing. She would pause, the endorphins would hit, then she would play the xylophone and that would make my whole body all shivery. It was like that point while being tickled where you are positive there are three outcomes; you will either die, burst into flames or pee everywhere. Totally overwhelming. Not something I think could ever be recreated. Being beaten with the needles down my spin was really interesting. I was coming from such a floaty place to start with, there was no "gear up" to the pain. No mental preparation at all. I think it left my pain tolerances much lower than normal cause I wasn't really actively processing at all, I was just kind of laying their drooling, sound like an injured hyena.
Good Times.
Saturday, December 3, 2011
Talented Tops
I just cannot tell this story enough…it cracks me up.
Last night I found myself bent over a pool table full of Mr. T's beautifully crafted paddles and floggers on the business end of a shiny new sjambok. I was all too happy to put my butt on the line in the name of learning and let 'S' practice her sjambok technique on me. Love those things! Details always escape me after the fact, but at some point I recall Mr. T offering up this mammoth paddle that was lying right in front of me. Having bought a paddle from him earlier, I found myself thinking, “Nothing on this table intimidated me, expect THAT.” That giant, ass covering paddle. He assures me over my protests; it’s not as bad as it looks. The paddle quickly changes hands and begins to thud off my bottom, and he says, “Not too bad right?”, and I reluctantly agree…it’s actually not that bad. Then, slowly it starts to become pretty much as good/bad (you know exactly what I mean there!) as I was thinking it would be. We’re a few minutes into the give and receive of this beautiful paddle and I sort of glance by my left hip, checking positioning of all those moving around me. 'S' is on my left. Now when you think about someone behind you, topping you from your left side, swinging a paddle, the feet should be facing my right side, or maybe potentially toward me…RIGHT? Wrong. They are facing directly left, away from me. That stops me dead in my pain processing tracks and I have to think, why the heck are her feet facing that way? I finally can’t stand not knowing and pop up just far enough to glance back and see her stance before I’m assisted back to my position leaning over the pool table. Answer? This is a BIG paddle, about 3’ long. Being a Top on the small side, she compensated by adjusting how she used it. She was holding the handle with her left hand, and supporting the back of the paddle with the right and then using her whole body as weight behind the paddle so she could almost swing it “threw” my ass and thighs. By rotating her pivot point, it meant she was able to put much more behind the paddle than just swinging it would have. I don’t know if 'S' stopped and thought about that, or just did it…and I’m not sure which would be scarier either.
Friggen smart Tops. That change in position meant it was (I would think) easier for her to handle the paddle, while at the same time decidedly NOT easier on me. Win/win (…or something like that). It was a moment where I had a love/hate/laugh reaction to the fact that when we choose smart people to beat us, they will apparently quickly adapt to a new toy, and we sometimes end up with more (of the paddle) than we bargained for.
(FYI: Both ends of a sjambok can apparently be the business end)
Last night I found myself bent over a pool table full of Mr. T's beautifully crafted paddles and floggers on the business end of a shiny new sjambok. I was all too happy to put my butt on the line in the name of learning and let 'S' practice her sjambok technique on me. Love those things! Details always escape me after the fact, but at some point I recall Mr. T offering up this mammoth paddle that was lying right in front of me. Having bought a paddle from him earlier, I found myself thinking, “Nothing on this table intimidated me, expect THAT.” That giant, ass covering paddle. He assures me over my protests; it’s not as bad as it looks. The paddle quickly changes hands and begins to thud off my bottom, and he says, “Not too bad right?”, and I reluctantly agree…it’s actually not that bad. Then, slowly it starts to become pretty much as good/bad (you know exactly what I mean there!) as I was thinking it would be. We’re a few minutes into the give and receive of this beautiful paddle and I sort of glance by my left hip, checking positioning of all those moving around me. 'S' is on my left. Now when you think about someone behind you, topping you from your left side, swinging a paddle, the feet should be facing my right side, or maybe potentially toward me…RIGHT? Wrong. They are facing directly left, away from me. That stops me dead in my pain processing tracks and I have to think, why the heck are her feet facing that way? I finally can’t stand not knowing and pop up just far enough to glance back and see her stance before I’m assisted back to my position leaning over the pool table. Answer? This is a BIG paddle, about 3’ long. Being a Top on the small side, she compensated by adjusting how she used it. She was holding the handle with her left hand, and supporting the back of the paddle with the right and then using her whole body as weight behind the paddle so she could almost swing it “threw” my ass and thighs. By rotating her pivot point, it meant she was able to put much more behind the paddle than just swinging it would have. I don’t know if 'S' stopped and thought about that, or just did it…and I’m not sure which would be scarier either.
Friggen smart Tops. That change in position meant it was (I would think) easier for her to handle the paddle, while at the same time decidedly NOT easier on me. Win/win (…or something like that). It was a moment where I had a love/hate/laugh reaction to the fact that when we choose smart people to beat us, they will apparently quickly adapt to a new toy, and we sometimes end up with more (of the paddle) than we bargained for.
(FYI: Both ends of a sjambok can apparently be the business end)
Saturday, November 26, 2011
Submission...is it a Gift?
My basic belief is that no, I don't call MY submission a gift. Not technically. I will readily admit that part of me is just getting wrapped up in the technicality of calling it a "gift", but for me, that emotion is there none the less, so I don't refer to MY personal submission as a gift. Here is an article that sums up some, but not all of my feelings on why pretty well, and in a much more concise way than I could :)
Gift Theory
I guess for me personally, there are a lot of reasons why I don't identify my submission as a gift...not in the traditional sense. It's not a gift I give. Is it a "gift"...yes. It's MY gift. Like the gift of playing piano, or excelling in some other way. My submission is one of the many gifts I have, that make up who I am. It's part of me...a very personal part of me actually. I don't believe those parts of us can be given in the way many people refer to submission being given as a gift. I believe they can be shared, enjoyed together, and that there is a give and take to all those exchanges, but I don't believe it's something I'm "giving". That's me...part of me. It's mine, and I can share it...for 5 minutes, a scene or a lifetime, but it's still always mine, always my choice. It isn't a gift because as a gift, I feel obligation. That my submission is now theirs and not mine. I then have to take it back instead of just choosing not to share it anymore.
Is all of this way over thinking things? Oh most definitely. I'm kind of known for that though.
Gift Theory
I guess for me personally, there are a lot of reasons why I don't identify my submission as a gift...not in the traditional sense. It's not a gift I give. Is it a "gift"...yes. It's MY gift. Like the gift of playing piano, or excelling in some other way. My submission is one of the many gifts I have, that make up who I am. It's part of me...a very personal part of me actually. I don't believe those parts of us can be given in the way many people refer to submission being given as a gift. I believe they can be shared, enjoyed together, and that there is a give and take to all those exchanges, but I don't believe it's something I'm "giving". That's me...part of me. It's mine, and I can share it...for 5 minutes, a scene or a lifetime, but it's still always mine, always my choice. It isn't a gift because as a gift, I feel obligation. That my submission is now theirs and not mine. I then have to take it back instead of just choosing not to share it anymore.
Is all of this way over thinking things? Oh most definitely. I'm kind of known for that though.
Tuesday, November 22, 2011
My 1st Needles Experience
First my background: I am a former “pass out” queen in a medical environment. I have passed out while sitting in chairs after a blood draw. I would go deathly pale even while lying flat to get an IV. I am not a person who would be considered “into” needles or blood. Squeamish, faint, and nauseated are all better descriptions of me in any medical environment involving needles and/or blood…especially if it was happening to me. In recent years, thanks to an auto immune disease, I have had to tolerate blood draws, injections and IV’s on a more regular basis. I am better than I use to be with needles. I don’t watch it happen, but with careful breathing, I get through it. However when you combine my compete lack of tolerance of seeing my own blood with some abuse in the past involving blood play; I was more concerned with how I would react to the sight of blood when the needles came out than I was with the pain of the actual needles.
I had a few offers to do needles for me the first time. I’m not sure if needle tops just really love the newbies, or if there just are not many needle bottoms, but word that I was looking to try needles spread. Perhaps I just have amazing friends who were looking forward to me being stuck over and over? When 'S' offered to be my pokey Top, I was thrilled. I haven’t known 'S' for that long, but her reputation in the scene is very good. She’s known for being very good at what she does, and I have to completely agree with that.
Why needles? My rational for trying needle play was my complete love of things that are a mental challenge. Pain wise I figured there was little chance that a needle could have more sting than an evil stick. I imagine that a Top could make it hurt significantly and in ways much different than an evil stick, but I was confident 'S' wouldn’t do that to me, my first time out of the pokey gates. I knew pain wise, I would be fine. I’ve been swatted with things once or twice, so am fairly aware of my own tolerance for pain, sting, and other ouch. Mentally, getting by the part where I was willingly laying down and letting someone thread needles through my skin….that was a little weirder, but doable. Considering the part where she would pull the needles back out and I would bleed though... Hmm. Not my favorite part to contemplate when thinking about the needle experience, but something I clearly had to except as a part of the process.
I ordered 22 gauge and 20 gauge needles that were 1 ½ inches long. Needles are the same as all things “gauged” the larger the gauge, the thinner the needle. As reference, around a 26 gauge is a butterfly needle which is what is typically used on children to draw blood. We were not planning to thread a meat hook through me or anything crazy. We would use 22 gauge needles for me, and start on my back where I could not see any of it, but just get used to the sensation.
'S' had me breathe in and out a couple times and then told me on the next exhale she would do the needle. I took a deep breath, and as I exhaled she slid the first needle through. I think I giggled. If I didn’t, it was because I was so stunned by how little it hurt. Her skill certainly played a part in that. She was as gentle on me as humanly possible. She paused and asked me how I was. I was fine. (Disclaimer: I understand these were beginner needles from a wonderful Top who was going insanely easy on me. I would appreciate not getting 100 offers of experiencing mean needles.
From here on, I’m a little less clear. I know she did a cluster of maybe 4 or 5 needles lined up close together on my right shoulder area and a small pinwheel on the right. She did add some 20 gauge needles to the pinwheel after we saw I could handle the 22’s without any problems. I did not find a significant different in the level of pain between the 20’s and 22’s. She went a little deeper with the 20’s but pain wise it was still fairly minor. There were certainly some sensations as I moved my shoulders. I could feel the needles in, but they were sort of just there, not in a painful or obvious way. 'S' would also pat and adjust needles as she added more which was a really interesting feeling that I enjoyed a lot. Overall, I would say my head space went to a very “I’m getting a massage” sort of place. I listened to her instructions on when to breathe in and out with each needle, and answered her questions when she checked in on me, but it was actually a pretty relaxing, mellow experience. Mentally once I knew I could handle a 22 ga. in one area; it seemed she could add more to that area in the same way and they all felt pretty similar. After she did both patterns on the back, each one being 5-7 needles, she asked if I wanted to take them out and try some on my chest.
I was really curious about what the removal would feel like, and if there would be any pain. When done nicely, there is pretty much zero pain. 'S' was nice enough to pull most of the needles out in that way, straight back through, so the bevel on the end of the needle wasn’t cutting inside on the way back through the channel. After a few like that she asked if I wanted a little more “mean”. Of course I did! So she did one needle removed at a slight angle so the bevel drags along the inside of flesh, cutting as it comes back out. That pain was not intense, but it was certainly a different sensation than pulling the needle straight out had been. I think that was the only evil thing she did to me. She talked about some other evil stuff but said she would rather not do them to me my first time.
So the needles are out, but by now I’m pretty zoned out and not even really thinking that at this point, there might be a little blood back there. She cleans the area with alcohol (YAY! I love that) and I giggle a bit through the sting. Then I feel her fingers slowly start to trace little circles on my back. It takes me about 3 seconds to realize she is either drawing or writing with my blood back there. I mentally check in with myself and realize that, nope…I don’t care. Apparently I’m not bothered by the idea of someone playfully making some kind of shape or word with my blood. Good to know. I still don’t know what she wrote or drew back there, as I haven’t seen the pictures yet.
Once the blood on my back was cleaned and beginning to clot, which happens really fast for me, I flipped over and we contemplate some pretty stuff for my front. She did another small cluster of 4 needles above my right breast. Then we decide I can sit up and we’ll do a corset down my left arm. Six needles and some purple ribbon later I’m sporting my first needle corset. It was beautiful! For two of the needles in the corset I was even able to watch her slide them through. I loved it so much, I asked for a second small corset starting under my collarbone. I did make the interesting discovery that when a needle goes through and is in the “wrong” spot and is removed and then slid through again, it is actually a bit more painful. Not a lot, but apparently the needles do get less sharp after that first pass. 'S' warned me that it wouldn’t be as sharp, but I was still surprised and found it interesting. I would think that steel vs flesh, it would take more than one pass to make it noticeably dull, but there was a noticeable difference in how it felt to me.
Then I had the pleasure of a little break with my needles still in while someone else got a turn and I got to watch. 'S' showed me a few other techniques, a little more evil, how some Tops cap the needle in the flesh. It was really nice to be able to watch the process and learn more about it. I was offered the chance to use a pokey but I declined. No Topping for me right now (everyone can breathe a sigh of relief)…
When the needles came out, I was able to see how much the holes bled and we watched the blood trail down his back and side. 'S' asked me a couple times if I was okay and I was. I was almost shocked that I could handle it like that, but rationalized that it wasn’t my own blood.
Then the time rolled around to take out the rest of my needles. She asked where we should start and I said the arm. I wanted to know how I would handle the blood right away. This is where I am supposed to tell you guys I fainted right?
I was fine.
When the blood was my own and I could see it and feel it rolling down my arm, it made it seem brighter…warmer…somehow “more” than I was expecting. It was an interesting thing, how a blood in a non-medical setting was so different to me than blood in a medical setting. The blood becomes almost...spell binding. To be clear, there was not a lot of blood. We are talking trickles…but certainly still a surprise for me in how I handled it! When the needles were removed from my chest, she let the blood run down and just stopped it from hitting my bra. Then from *somewhere* came the suggestion that I needed a mustache. Out of my own blood. She gleefully added a goatee to match. All I could do was laugh. I am fairly certain there are pictures of me sporting a huge grin with a stunning mustache and little goatee made out of blood from my first needle experience.
So while you shiver and shake and say…NEVER, consider this. My list of “nevers” used to include:
*I would never sub/bottom to a switch
*I would never sub/bottom to a female
*I might consider staples, but never needles
*I would never consider any blood play…at all…
So this is what I pulled from my first needles experience! Over and above the fact that I can tolerate at least “nice” needle play, I learned I need to say never a lot less. Obviously everyone has their hard limits, but this showed me that I needed to get in touch with WHY I have a limit, what it’s based on and which ones were completely arbitrary.
I had a few offers to do needles for me the first time. I’m not sure if needle tops just really love the newbies, or if there just are not many needle bottoms, but word that I was looking to try needles spread. Perhaps I just have amazing friends who were looking forward to me being stuck over and over? When 'S' offered to be my pokey Top, I was thrilled. I haven’t known 'S' for that long, but her reputation in the scene is very good. She’s known for being very good at what she does, and I have to completely agree with that.
Why needles? My rational for trying needle play was my complete love of things that are a mental challenge. Pain wise I figured there was little chance that a needle could have more sting than an evil stick. I imagine that a Top could make it hurt significantly and in ways much different than an evil stick, but I was confident 'S' wouldn’t do that to me, my first time out of the pokey gates. I knew pain wise, I would be fine. I’ve been swatted with things once or twice, so am fairly aware of my own tolerance for pain, sting, and other ouch. Mentally, getting by the part where I was willingly laying down and letting someone thread needles through my skin….that was a little weirder, but doable. Considering the part where she would pull the needles back out and I would bleed though... Hmm. Not my favorite part to contemplate when thinking about the needle experience, but something I clearly had to except as a part of the process.
I ordered 22 gauge and 20 gauge needles that were 1 ½ inches long. Needles are the same as all things “gauged” the larger the gauge, the thinner the needle. As reference, around a 26 gauge is a butterfly needle which is what is typically used on children to draw blood. We were not planning to thread a meat hook through me or anything crazy. We would use 22 gauge needles for me, and start on my back where I could not see any of it, but just get used to the sensation.
'S' had me breathe in and out a couple times and then told me on the next exhale she would do the needle. I took a deep breath, and as I exhaled she slid the first needle through. I think I giggled. If I didn’t, it was because I was so stunned by how little it hurt. Her skill certainly played a part in that. She was as gentle on me as humanly possible. She paused and asked me how I was. I was fine. (Disclaimer: I understand these were beginner needles from a wonderful Top who was going insanely easy on me. I would appreciate not getting 100 offers of experiencing mean needles.
From here on, I’m a little less clear. I know she did a cluster of maybe 4 or 5 needles lined up close together on my right shoulder area and a small pinwheel on the right. She did add some 20 gauge needles to the pinwheel after we saw I could handle the 22’s without any problems. I did not find a significant different in the level of pain between the 20’s and 22’s. She went a little deeper with the 20’s but pain wise it was still fairly minor. There were certainly some sensations as I moved my shoulders. I could feel the needles in, but they were sort of just there, not in a painful or obvious way. 'S' would also pat and adjust needles as she added more which was a really interesting feeling that I enjoyed a lot. Overall, I would say my head space went to a very “I’m getting a massage” sort of place. I listened to her instructions on when to breathe in and out with each needle, and answered her questions when she checked in on me, but it was actually a pretty relaxing, mellow experience. Mentally once I knew I could handle a 22 ga. in one area; it seemed she could add more to that area in the same way and they all felt pretty similar. After she did both patterns on the back, each one being 5-7 needles, she asked if I wanted to take them out and try some on my chest.
I was really curious about what the removal would feel like, and if there would be any pain. When done nicely, there is pretty much zero pain. 'S' was nice enough to pull most of the needles out in that way, straight back through, so the bevel on the end of the needle wasn’t cutting inside on the way back through the channel. After a few like that she asked if I wanted a little more “mean”. Of course I did! So she did one needle removed at a slight angle so the bevel drags along the inside of flesh, cutting as it comes back out. That pain was not intense, but it was certainly a different sensation than pulling the needle straight out had been. I think that was the only evil thing she did to me. She talked about some other evil stuff but said she would rather not do them to me my first time.
So the needles are out, but by now I’m pretty zoned out and not even really thinking that at this point, there might be a little blood back there. She cleans the area with alcohol (YAY! I love that) and I giggle a bit through the sting. Then I feel her fingers slowly start to trace little circles on my back. It takes me about 3 seconds to realize she is either drawing or writing with my blood back there. I mentally check in with myself and realize that, nope…I don’t care. Apparently I’m not bothered by the idea of someone playfully making some kind of shape or word with my blood. Good to know. I still don’t know what she wrote or drew back there, as I haven’t seen the pictures yet.
Once the blood on my back was cleaned and beginning to clot, which happens really fast for me, I flipped over and we contemplate some pretty stuff for my front. She did another small cluster of 4 needles above my right breast. Then we decide I can sit up and we’ll do a corset down my left arm. Six needles and some purple ribbon later I’m sporting my first needle corset. It was beautiful! For two of the needles in the corset I was even able to watch her slide them through. I loved it so much, I asked for a second small corset starting under my collarbone. I did make the interesting discovery that when a needle goes through and is in the “wrong” spot and is removed and then slid through again, it is actually a bit more painful. Not a lot, but apparently the needles do get less sharp after that first pass. 'S' warned me that it wouldn’t be as sharp, but I was still surprised and found it interesting. I would think that steel vs flesh, it would take more than one pass to make it noticeably dull, but there was a noticeable difference in how it felt to me.
Then I had the pleasure of a little break with my needles still in while someone else got a turn and I got to watch. 'S' showed me a few other techniques, a little more evil, how some Tops cap the needle in the flesh. It was really nice to be able to watch the process and learn more about it. I was offered the chance to use a pokey but I declined. No Topping for me right now (everyone can breathe a sigh of relief)…
When the needles came out, I was able to see how much the holes bled and we watched the blood trail down his back and side. 'S' asked me a couple times if I was okay and I was. I was almost shocked that I could handle it like that, but rationalized that it wasn’t my own blood.
Then the time rolled around to take out the rest of my needles. She asked where we should start and I said the arm. I wanted to know how I would handle the blood right away. This is where I am supposed to tell you guys I fainted right?
I was fine.
When the blood was my own and I could see it and feel it rolling down my arm, it made it seem brighter…warmer…somehow “more” than I was expecting. It was an interesting thing, how a blood in a non-medical setting was so different to me than blood in a medical setting. The blood becomes almost...spell binding. To be clear, there was not a lot of blood. We are talking trickles…but certainly still a surprise for me in how I handled it! When the needles were removed from my chest, she let the blood run down and just stopped it from hitting my bra. Then from *somewhere* came the suggestion that I needed a mustache. Out of my own blood. She gleefully added a goatee to match. All I could do was laugh. I am fairly certain there are pictures of me sporting a huge grin with a stunning mustache and little goatee made out of blood from my first needle experience.
So while you shiver and shake and say…NEVER, consider this. My list of “nevers” used to include:
*I would never sub/bottom to a switch
*I would never sub/bottom to a female
*I might consider staples, but never needles
*I would never consider any blood play…at all…
So this is what I pulled from my first needles experience! Over and above the fact that I can tolerate at least “nice” needle play, I learned I need to say never a lot less. Obviously everyone has their hard limits, but this showed me that I needed to get in touch with WHY I have a limit, what it’s based on and which ones were completely arbitrary.
Sunday, November 20, 2011
Public Play
This past weekend, I did my first public scene. 'T' and 'T', a married couple, co-topped me at a BDSM night held at a swingers club. Amazing space, amazing tops and that made for a wonderful scene for which I actually got down to only my bra and underwear. The wonders never cease.
I wasn't sure I could do it, and a lot of the reason I could and did was just the set up, that the environment was so great. We were "in" a room with three walls, and I was able to face away from the open wall, so all I saw were walls, and had no indication that there was anyone behind me at all. Even given all that though, it didn't stop the anxiety from washing over me when I was told to get down to whatever I was "comfortable with"...I felt like saying, I'm comfortable fully clothed thanks. I knew that wasn't what he meant, and I wanted a beating like no other time I can really remember. Just the slow process of peeling off my tights, and stripping out of everything else made me acutely aware of every small sound around me. Face down on the spanking bench, I was more comfortable, but still very...naked...even though I wasn't.
I relaxed though...some. Pain does seem to do that. I was even able to chuckle a bit that while tied up and being beaten, my underwear kept sliding down, and the Top kept having to pull them back up. He might have been Topping me, but my underwear were totally Topping him. They ran the whole scene :)
I found out later that we had a small audience for most of the scene, which I loved...I just don't want to know they are there till it's over and I'm dressed.
Now my ass is sore...wonderfully so.
I wasn't sure I could do it, and a lot of the reason I could and did was just the set up, that the environment was so great. We were "in" a room with three walls, and I was able to face away from the open wall, so all I saw were walls, and had no indication that there was anyone behind me at all. Even given all that though, it didn't stop the anxiety from washing over me when I was told to get down to whatever I was "comfortable with"...I felt like saying, I'm comfortable fully clothed thanks. I knew that wasn't what he meant, and I wanted a beating like no other time I can really remember. Just the slow process of peeling off my tights, and stripping out of everything else made me acutely aware of every small sound around me. Face down on the spanking bench, I was more comfortable, but still very...naked...even though I wasn't.
I relaxed though...some. Pain does seem to do that. I was even able to chuckle a bit that while tied up and being beaten, my underwear kept sliding down, and the Top kept having to pull them back up. He might have been Topping me, but my underwear were totally Topping him. They ran the whole scene :)
I found out later that we had a small audience for most of the scene, which I loved...I just don't want to know they are there till it's over and I'm dressed.
Now my ass is sore...wonderfully so.
Wednesday, November 2, 2011
A better start this time...
The further I go into my adult life (by numerical standards, I still refuse to completely grow up) I realize I have fewer and fewer friends. Six years of marriage and 3 kids, and I feel we have almost no “couple friends”. They are the needle in a haystack where both my husband and I connect on any level with two people who also are married and have children. Rare. I’m also realizing how artificial some of our friendships can be. How little time and reason we have to build friendships in our vanilla life where they matter on a level completely beyond “let’s have dinner and grab a movie because we have basic things in common.”
We have really only been in the local scene for several months. I’m amazed at the strength of relationships and attachments I find myself building. I have never been someone who “attached” to people, especially other women. Guys were easier as friends because they required so little of me emotionally. Only months into this “lifestyle” I find myself building confidences that I absolutely trust and respect. This lifestyle almost demands it. It’s hard to build friendships, to discuss and share the depth of emotion surrounding us, to play together, learn together and grow together without building bonds beyond those that would be obligatory and basic. I know there are many who try, and likely succeed in making this NOT about emotion, or connection, but I’m thrilled to realize that isn’t for me. I went that route, the difference when I’m open to real friendship and trust is like the difference between a tomato out the garden and a grocery store tomato in January…One barely reminiscent of the other, and lacking whole lot of complexity and flavor.
I think it must be a hard fight, a real choice to participate in this lifestyle without depth. I know I came in not sure I could trust. Hurt, scared, confused. I came in sure it would take years to build any trust in anyone. But try as I might, I couldn’t hold on to that. The lifestyle gently took me by the hand, and showed me if I wanted to truly grow, I HAD to trust. I couldn’t trust superficially. When you ask someone to show you what a choke feels like, you have to be sure you trust them. You can’t always take permission back in time. You can’t always watch your own back; especially if that’s the place you are being bitten. Even if you don’t WANT to need it, you sometimes need someone next to you to pat your hair after a hard drop…because you can’t always pat your own hair and calm yourself in the ways you want to. I’m so grateful that this time around, I met the people who could grab that trust when offered and staple it back to my leg while I moaned in all the right ways. I’m so grateful I have found friends who hurt, hug, cuddle, and show me that giggles in response to pain, are about as normal as wanting pain anyway, so why not giggle as loud as possible? Friends who want my reactions, my emotions, and even gasp the drama of my past. Someone once discussed with me how drama gets a bad rap. There is certainly unnecessary drama, but there is also GOOD drama. Drama brought by all the intricacies of all our minds, emotions and feeling. Interactions between people naturally create drama to be dealt with. It’s not all bad; it means we care for each other, about each other. When a friend says, “I won’t let you fail”…what better drama is there than that? I will take that drama with a bowl of popcorn and a cozy blanket to wrap myself in anytime.
I came back to this lifestyle after almost 10 years away from it. So hurt the first time, emotionally and physically, I thought there was no safe way to be part of it for me. I am SO happy to be back. It’s not an easy process…feeling like that “broken” one. Carefully disclosing pieces of my history to those I play with, caught somewhere between fearing rejection from them for being too “complicated” and wishing I was strong enough to REALLY feel that if they can’t handle me they don’t deserve me. But here I am, trusting people. Who’d a thought? And here I am, thanking the ones who showed me I can, trying to show others THEY can. I never intended to be a role model, and I don’t want that now, but what I do want is to just show that for me, it’s time to end the quiet. So thank you to those who have showed me I can share this. I love you all.
I’ll call him R. Not cause I’m afraid of him anymore or want to protect him or myself…just because his name doesn’t really matter. His name doesn’t matter anymore than mine does. This story plays out all over our community in any number of ways, everyday. Some different than mine, some the similar, all of them though, woefully kept quiet. Till one day someone says, I was abused, misused, mistreated and then others…too many others…say, yeah, me too. So here is my version.
This is my story of misuse. It might cause others to trigger or recall their own stories of abuse, and misuse. I welcome anyone who wants to talk to me about what they have been through or where they have been. But please read forward with care if you are likely to trigger on stories of abuse.
R came highly recommended. He wasn’t someone I randomly picked out of a pool of Dom’s. I thought I was so smart. I got to know a couple who worked in a local group. Told them my situation, told them I wanted to learn, that this was something in me, a part of me, and I wanted to explore it. They nodded and yes’d me, and told me how smart I was for looking for a teacher, not some young stud who would be all about the sexual side of BDSM. They said for a girl in her early 20’s, I was wise beyond my years. I had heard that my whole damn life and too easily believed them, and their own wisdom in recommending a Dom who was 40 years my senior. They listed his experience and accomplishments and how long he had been in the lifestyle. They were significant to my starry eyed, idealistic and yes, a bit romantic young self. I was told and it was reinforced how lucky I was he was willing to take a sub who was so young and inexperienced. Lucky me. So very lucky
R and I carefully negotiated a contract. I was allowed to lay out anything that was a hard limit. However since I knew nothing, what could I really lay out? I had almost zero knowledge of the depths of BDSM. I laid out that I’d rather there was no sex, and that I didn’t want to be “covered” in bruises. Naïve? Hell yes, but so be it. Those were my conditions, and we set forth on our merry way to explore my limits and likes as he said.
He started slow. (sarcasm, get use to it) I think it was 3 sessions in (so the second week) before he broke out a bamboo cane and worked me shoulder to knee with it for 30-45 minutes. I recall vividly what it was like to drive home with my clothing sticking to the ooze that caning creates. Not blood. But that ooze of blisters created and immediately opened. It dried to my sweater and pants and required me to peel them gently away from skin while I ran a shower. I remember standing there, looking at the shower, not sure what the hell to do. Clearly I needed a shower, but I was miserable and not at all sure I had the mental capacity left in me to decide even if a hot or a cold shower would hurt less. I went with luke warm. It hurt like a mother fucker. According to R, mental capacity was what separated a submissive from a student. A submissive had the actual mental capacity to take and process pain without feedback to the Dom. In simpler terms, keep the whining and crying to yourself. If you want to be “real” shut the hell up. Your verbal response is not required and in fact, strongly discouraged. Well in that shower, my mental capacity was clearly elsewhere. I remember how weak I felt as my crying echoed off the tiny bathroom walls. It was a scene that would replay itself over the coming 4 months, twice a week, like clockwork. So much for no “all over” bruising right?
Communication guidelines were established early. Basically R spent part of his day, twice a week working with me. That was a significant time commitment on his part. A further time commitment to then communicate on those sessions was not something he could regularly tolerate. He requested that any little piddly suggestions I had, like hey I asked at one point that you not bruise me head to toe, were communicated to him via e-mail. He would get to those when he had the time and felt up to it. I would wait patiently for his responses, such as, bruising as a result of tools, did not really fall under bruising. If I did not want bruising from tools, I should have listed those tools as a hard limit in my contract. I had not said canes were a hard limit, therefore the bruising as a result of a cane, was not a limit either. Hmm. Okay. I knew no better. He said canes couldn’t be used without bruising so it was only “logical” that if I accepted caning, I also accepted the heavy bruising they imparted.
R was really fond of caning. I would guess over the course of our 4 month “relationship” he broke on average of one cane a week over my back side. Not every session…only every other! The sound and feel of a cane pulled so far back it whips and snaps against you is not one you typically take silently…but of course I did…cause I was real damn it. (Sarcasm, are you use to it yet?) I also learned quickly tears, even silent ones, caused him to lash out in disappointment at me. R expressed disappointment by pushing me indifferent ways, so I could prove my submission. Pushing me in ways I had no idea I should have been listing as hard limits, because I didn’t know anything about them when we wrote the contract. Each of these pushes that I later expressed discomfort in (by e-mail of course) were quickly rebuffed as “not listed in the contract”…
Things I failed, as a brand new subbie, to list in my contact included fun things like blood play…or blood “art” as R liked to call it. Blood art started shortly after R moved me from standing on the floor, arms tied above my head to a rafter, to standing on two stools arms tied above my head to a rafter. The second or third time in this position, R had been gradually tying the rope that held my hands to the rafter looser and looser. It meant I had a little play back and forth as he hit me. I had to have some balance, but, because I was actually tied, a weeble could wobble, but it wouldn’t fall down. It would however, move about quite a bit, making sure it stayed on the stools. Moving targets are, I would guess, harder to hit. Frustrating for poor R I guess. It made him hit harder, and consequently, me to whimper, just a tiny bit. When I heard the small click of him laying the cane on his desk behind me, I knew an “opportunity to be real” was coming, and I was grateful I had not eaten before or the sense of anxiousness washing over me would surely have left me with an empty stomach anyway. I looked down to see a sheet of poster board slide between my two stools and as he circled to stand in front of me, he didn’t even look up. He held tiny nail scissors in his hand and perfunctorily clipped 6 downward V’s in me. Two on my right inner thigh, two on my left inner thigh, and then pausing just for a second as my knees gave out and I hung by my wrists, he pulled my labia tight and clipped one V on each side. To this day, I have no idea how long I would hang, unable for my knees to support me each time he did this. Mentally, this wasn’t even the hardest thing he did, but it wrecked me. Blood drops hitting a sheet of stiff, laminated poster board in a small room were like hail on a tin roof to me. He would sometimes just sit behind me, silent. He would sometimes just sit in front of me, and shift the poster board with his foot after each series of drips. He would intermittently wipe me with alcohol to prolong the period of time before they would clot. I forgot to say, no blood play. I don’t forget that anymore.
One thing I didn’t forget though was sex. Remember that? I said it. It was listed as “no penetration” in the contract. He worded it so sterile and proper-like. What I didn’t know was all the ways I could make a contract that states so little, basically “null”. I would say about 2 months into our sessions, he began drawing on me. That can be hot right? I guess it could be. What isn’t as hot is when he starts a session by circling, highlighting, commenting and critiquing each part of your body, the way they are lacking, they ways they fall short, what they should look like, and how sad it is that I was created how I was. Not hot at all. Sorta shitty actually. It also meant that each area he wrote on, was covered in non-washable marker and that provided areas for him to concentrate on with whips, straps and canes. They were like emotional and physical bull-eyes. Each swat, sting and welt to my breasts a reminder of all the ways they were imperfect. Each bruise and mark to my thighs a reinforcement of his negativity. Hours later, a final souvenir as I attempted to removed marker under layers of sensitive bruising and welts so I could try to forget his cutting words. Words can hurt. We all know that. I would guess it was the second time he drew on me, he casually lifted an arm, stopping to hold the cap to a bright red marker in front of my mouth and said, “Hold it”. I held it. He told me to. About 10 minutes later, I felt his finger tips enter me slowly anally and then were quickly followed by the marker itself. I spit the marker cap from my mouth, tears sprang to my eyes, and I pushed to try to remove the marker. He held in place, clearly ready for that move. I sputtered unintelligible sounds and noises, trying to get out verbally the line he had crossed for me emotionally and physically. He held the marker in and swatted me across the small of my back with a thick cane 3 or 4 times telling me to shut up. I did, but he worked the small of my back with the cane anyway. My back swelled and turned purple and it was actually hard to get urine out for nearly a week. When I could, it was often pink. When I told him, he said it was me being dramatic. I had no idea till then that feeling emotional impacted your ability to urinate…he taught me so much.
Clearly a sternly worded E-MAIL was in order here…and he got one. His brief response was that I had rendered the no penetration clause “null and void” by allowing oral penetration of an object in session. It was my choice. It was then his to exploit…and he did.
I’m sure with just the brief view of the highlights; many can fill in the low lights of this relationship. There was no aftercare. Not “poor” aftercare, there was just none. He would let me down from the tied position, and tell me to sit. I would sit on the stool and he would spend some time giving me feedback. Feedback consisted of him listing everything I did flat our wrong, the multitude of things I did poorly, many things I just “couldn’t seem to learn” and always a few dozen, you still disappointment me by doing “X” statement. He would often just need a break to sit at his desk for a few minutes to ponder if I was even worth his time. He would verbally discuss with himself out loud if it was worth his time to have me come back again, because I was such a slow learner, and making no attempt at real submission to him. I was a fake; I clearly did not even want to try to be “real”. But in the end it was always him being clear that he wasn’t a quitter and he would keep trying. Then a quick, “Dress and go. I’ll see you Thursday,” and I was allowed to leave. My walk down the staircase leaving his office was always the same. Shaky, one stair at a time, with the tears starting about ½ way down. Hysterics and dry heaving by the time I reached the car. Sit there…in his parking lot for about 30 minutes till I gathered the resolve to head home and care for myself. Always, start a shower and then a slow, very painful strip out of my clothing. Survey the damage front and back. Enter the shower carefully with spray adjusted to hit areas that were not open or heavily bruised so the stream of water could gently stream over the worst areas…cleaning them, but not adding insult to injury. Insults to injury were the areas I had to use a rough sponge on to remove the damn marker. Those were bad. After the shower, and tending anything open, I would immediately sit at my computer and begin my follow up e-mail. I learned quickly that it could wait till morning, when I could think straight, he would think it not important enough to address at all. Never mind that most evenings after a session I would have preferred to curl into a ball and cry and come down…there wasn’t time for that. There was time for tending the aftermath, an e-mail, filling ice packs and then some Nyquil to get me to sleep.
This was my introduction to this lifestyle. There was no care. There was no trust. There was little consent beyond my showing up over and over. For R, consent was when he opened the door and I was there. There was no growth for me as a person, or in my kink. Our sessions were not about me. At all. There was almost no respect for me as a person, physically, mentally or emotionally. In retrospect, that is starkly obvious.
How did it end? It ended with bronchitis. Yes. Bronchitis. Standing on two stools, barely able to breathe, being beaten with, of course, a cane. His collar, which I had never asked for, or agreed to, but which was strapped around my neck anyway, wrapped around my neck, making it harder to breathe it seemed. The room closing in and me being dizzy and asking for a break. Him, ignoring me. It continued with me starting to cry and hyper ventilating. Him, continuing to hit me harder and harder, completely ignoring my panic. He snapped the cane he was working with and then crossed to his desk and picked up a pair of scissors, and inserted them vaginally, and started massaging my clit while I was crying. In a moment of complete clarity, seeming brought on by lack of oxygen, I said, Red. It was in the contract.
He ignored me.
I said, Red.
He ignored me.
I said, Red.
He ignored me, but did remove the scissors. He then proceeded to bite me. Clamping down, over and over, the length of each arm, and leg in 4-6 neat rows per limb. Wrist to shoulder, ankle to hip bone. My entire torso, often tearing his teeth back and forth. I completely shut down and mentally left. I have no idea how long he did that. I have no idea how many times he bit me. I know at some point I felt him shaking me roughly, and then untying my hands. I know that evening I fell from the stools, and felt acutely aware of the way the floor vibrated as he walked away from me. I felt my bundle of clothing hit me in face as I lay on the floor. With strength from somewhere we all store a little bit extra I think, I stood, dropping my clothes to the floor in a pile, and with one hand, started to unbuckle the collar around my neck. He stepped forward, grabbing a handful of my hair and pulled me close to him, and then put one hand on my shoulder and tried to push me down to a kneel while growling at me to be a real sub for ONCE. I had never knelt for him. I had never knelt for anyone. I wasn’t about to start now. Perhaps again oxygen deprivation, perhaps something more was finally clicking, but my hands removed his from my body, and the collar from my neck in the blink of an eye. I over hand threw the collar directly at him and watched it bounce off his startled face. Imagine that…a little strength in me after all! I picked up my pile of clothes and walked out naked, dressing in the essentials as I walked down his staircase. There were no tears in the car. There was no dry heaving. That came when I got home, curled on my furry bathmat, unable to even move with the exception of the sobs wracking my body.
Sobbing because I wasn’t enough. Pretty fucked up right? When the mental game in our lifestyle turns playing on submissive’s want to please, it becomes a dangerous game indeed. It’s a hard question, which hurts more, the mental/emotional? The physical? Certainly most would say one is more visual than the other. Others who have seen a sub in a trigger response from abuse might argue that those can be pretty darn visual too. Those who have held someone in panic or waited for someone who has detached to come back to reality would certain say there can be some visuals that are more powerful than a bruise or welt. A bruise or welt fades with time, and is gone. The spirit with which it was placed though, can last infinitely longer.
The spirit with which we dance through this lifestyle demands certain rules. The rules are fluid though, and can vary greatly from person to person, and more dramatically from couple to couple.
So now that I’m back here, learning this life so differently, what are the rules? What are my rules, what do I want, what am I looking for? I have no fucking idea. I only know this much. My rules. MY way. I think that’s as good a place to start as any.
We have really only been in the local scene for several months. I’m amazed at the strength of relationships and attachments I find myself building. I have never been someone who “attached” to people, especially other women. Guys were easier as friends because they required so little of me emotionally. Only months into this “lifestyle” I find myself building confidences that I absolutely trust and respect. This lifestyle almost demands it. It’s hard to build friendships, to discuss and share the depth of emotion surrounding us, to play together, learn together and grow together without building bonds beyond those that would be obligatory and basic. I know there are many who try, and likely succeed in making this NOT about emotion, or connection, but I’m thrilled to realize that isn’t for me. I went that route, the difference when I’m open to real friendship and trust is like the difference between a tomato out the garden and a grocery store tomato in January…One barely reminiscent of the other, and lacking whole lot of complexity and flavor.
I think it must be a hard fight, a real choice to participate in this lifestyle without depth. I know I came in not sure I could trust. Hurt, scared, confused. I came in sure it would take years to build any trust in anyone. But try as I might, I couldn’t hold on to that. The lifestyle gently took me by the hand, and showed me if I wanted to truly grow, I HAD to trust. I couldn’t trust superficially. When you ask someone to show you what a choke feels like, you have to be sure you trust them. You can’t always take permission back in time. You can’t always watch your own back; especially if that’s the place you are being bitten. Even if you don’t WANT to need it, you sometimes need someone next to you to pat your hair after a hard drop…because you can’t always pat your own hair and calm yourself in the ways you want to. I’m so grateful that this time around, I met the people who could grab that trust when offered and staple it back to my leg while I moaned in all the right ways. I’m so grateful I have found friends who hurt, hug, cuddle, and show me that giggles in response to pain, are about as normal as wanting pain anyway, so why not giggle as loud as possible? Friends who want my reactions, my emotions, and even gasp the drama of my past. Someone once discussed with me how drama gets a bad rap. There is certainly unnecessary drama, but there is also GOOD drama. Drama brought by all the intricacies of all our minds, emotions and feeling. Interactions between people naturally create drama to be dealt with. It’s not all bad; it means we care for each other, about each other. When a friend says, “I won’t let you fail”…what better drama is there than that? I will take that drama with a bowl of popcorn and a cozy blanket to wrap myself in anytime.
I came back to this lifestyle after almost 10 years away from it. So hurt the first time, emotionally and physically, I thought there was no safe way to be part of it for me. I am SO happy to be back. It’s not an easy process…feeling like that “broken” one. Carefully disclosing pieces of my history to those I play with, caught somewhere between fearing rejection from them for being too “complicated” and wishing I was strong enough to REALLY feel that if they can’t handle me they don’t deserve me. But here I am, trusting people. Who’d a thought? And here I am, thanking the ones who showed me I can, trying to show others THEY can. I never intended to be a role model, and I don’t want that now, but what I do want is to just show that for me, it’s time to end the quiet. So thank you to those who have showed me I can share this. I love you all.
I’ll call him R. Not cause I’m afraid of him anymore or want to protect him or myself…just because his name doesn’t really matter. His name doesn’t matter anymore than mine does. This story plays out all over our community in any number of ways, everyday. Some different than mine, some the similar, all of them though, woefully kept quiet. Till one day someone says, I was abused, misused, mistreated and then others…too many others…say, yeah, me too. So here is my version.
This is my story of misuse. It might cause others to trigger or recall their own stories of abuse, and misuse. I welcome anyone who wants to talk to me about what they have been through or where they have been. But please read forward with care if you are likely to trigger on stories of abuse.
R came highly recommended. He wasn’t someone I randomly picked out of a pool of Dom’s. I thought I was so smart. I got to know a couple who worked in a local group. Told them my situation, told them I wanted to learn, that this was something in me, a part of me, and I wanted to explore it. They nodded and yes’d me, and told me how smart I was for looking for a teacher, not some young stud who would be all about the sexual side of BDSM. They said for a girl in her early 20’s, I was wise beyond my years. I had heard that my whole damn life and too easily believed them, and their own wisdom in recommending a Dom who was 40 years my senior. They listed his experience and accomplishments and how long he had been in the lifestyle. They were significant to my starry eyed, idealistic and yes, a bit romantic young self. I was told and it was reinforced how lucky I was he was willing to take a sub who was so young and inexperienced. Lucky me. So very lucky
R and I carefully negotiated a contract. I was allowed to lay out anything that was a hard limit. However since I knew nothing, what could I really lay out? I had almost zero knowledge of the depths of BDSM. I laid out that I’d rather there was no sex, and that I didn’t want to be “covered” in bruises. Naïve? Hell yes, but so be it. Those were my conditions, and we set forth on our merry way to explore my limits and likes as he said.
He started slow. (sarcasm, get use to it) I think it was 3 sessions in (so the second week) before he broke out a bamboo cane and worked me shoulder to knee with it for 30-45 minutes. I recall vividly what it was like to drive home with my clothing sticking to the ooze that caning creates. Not blood. But that ooze of blisters created and immediately opened. It dried to my sweater and pants and required me to peel them gently away from skin while I ran a shower. I remember standing there, looking at the shower, not sure what the hell to do. Clearly I needed a shower, but I was miserable and not at all sure I had the mental capacity left in me to decide even if a hot or a cold shower would hurt less. I went with luke warm. It hurt like a mother fucker. According to R, mental capacity was what separated a submissive from a student. A submissive had the actual mental capacity to take and process pain without feedback to the Dom. In simpler terms, keep the whining and crying to yourself. If you want to be “real” shut the hell up. Your verbal response is not required and in fact, strongly discouraged. Well in that shower, my mental capacity was clearly elsewhere. I remember how weak I felt as my crying echoed off the tiny bathroom walls. It was a scene that would replay itself over the coming 4 months, twice a week, like clockwork. So much for no “all over” bruising right?
Communication guidelines were established early. Basically R spent part of his day, twice a week working with me. That was a significant time commitment on his part. A further time commitment to then communicate on those sessions was not something he could regularly tolerate. He requested that any little piddly suggestions I had, like hey I asked at one point that you not bruise me head to toe, were communicated to him via e-mail. He would get to those when he had the time and felt up to it. I would wait patiently for his responses, such as, bruising as a result of tools, did not really fall under bruising. If I did not want bruising from tools, I should have listed those tools as a hard limit in my contract. I had not said canes were a hard limit, therefore the bruising as a result of a cane, was not a limit either. Hmm. Okay. I knew no better. He said canes couldn’t be used without bruising so it was only “logical” that if I accepted caning, I also accepted the heavy bruising they imparted.
R was really fond of caning. I would guess over the course of our 4 month “relationship” he broke on average of one cane a week over my back side. Not every session…only every other! The sound and feel of a cane pulled so far back it whips and snaps against you is not one you typically take silently…but of course I did…cause I was real damn it. (Sarcasm, are you use to it yet?) I also learned quickly tears, even silent ones, caused him to lash out in disappointment at me. R expressed disappointment by pushing me indifferent ways, so I could prove my submission. Pushing me in ways I had no idea I should have been listing as hard limits, because I didn’t know anything about them when we wrote the contract. Each of these pushes that I later expressed discomfort in (by e-mail of course) were quickly rebuffed as “not listed in the contract”…
Things I failed, as a brand new subbie, to list in my contact included fun things like blood play…or blood “art” as R liked to call it. Blood art started shortly after R moved me from standing on the floor, arms tied above my head to a rafter, to standing on two stools arms tied above my head to a rafter. The second or third time in this position, R had been gradually tying the rope that held my hands to the rafter looser and looser. It meant I had a little play back and forth as he hit me. I had to have some balance, but, because I was actually tied, a weeble could wobble, but it wouldn’t fall down. It would however, move about quite a bit, making sure it stayed on the stools. Moving targets are, I would guess, harder to hit. Frustrating for poor R I guess. It made him hit harder, and consequently, me to whimper, just a tiny bit. When I heard the small click of him laying the cane on his desk behind me, I knew an “opportunity to be real” was coming, and I was grateful I had not eaten before or the sense of anxiousness washing over me would surely have left me with an empty stomach anyway. I looked down to see a sheet of poster board slide between my two stools and as he circled to stand in front of me, he didn’t even look up. He held tiny nail scissors in his hand and perfunctorily clipped 6 downward V’s in me. Two on my right inner thigh, two on my left inner thigh, and then pausing just for a second as my knees gave out and I hung by my wrists, he pulled my labia tight and clipped one V on each side. To this day, I have no idea how long I would hang, unable for my knees to support me each time he did this. Mentally, this wasn’t even the hardest thing he did, but it wrecked me. Blood drops hitting a sheet of stiff, laminated poster board in a small room were like hail on a tin roof to me. He would sometimes just sit behind me, silent. He would sometimes just sit in front of me, and shift the poster board with his foot after each series of drips. He would intermittently wipe me with alcohol to prolong the period of time before they would clot. I forgot to say, no blood play. I don’t forget that anymore.
One thing I didn’t forget though was sex. Remember that? I said it. It was listed as “no penetration” in the contract. He worded it so sterile and proper-like. What I didn’t know was all the ways I could make a contract that states so little, basically “null”. I would say about 2 months into our sessions, he began drawing on me. That can be hot right? I guess it could be. What isn’t as hot is when he starts a session by circling, highlighting, commenting and critiquing each part of your body, the way they are lacking, they ways they fall short, what they should look like, and how sad it is that I was created how I was. Not hot at all. Sorta shitty actually. It also meant that each area he wrote on, was covered in non-washable marker and that provided areas for him to concentrate on with whips, straps and canes. They were like emotional and physical bull-eyes. Each swat, sting and welt to my breasts a reminder of all the ways they were imperfect. Each bruise and mark to my thighs a reinforcement of his negativity. Hours later, a final souvenir as I attempted to removed marker under layers of sensitive bruising and welts so I could try to forget his cutting words. Words can hurt. We all know that. I would guess it was the second time he drew on me, he casually lifted an arm, stopping to hold the cap to a bright red marker in front of my mouth and said, “Hold it”. I held it. He told me to. About 10 minutes later, I felt his finger tips enter me slowly anally and then were quickly followed by the marker itself. I spit the marker cap from my mouth, tears sprang to my eyes, and I pushed to try to remove the marker. He held in place, clearly ready for that move. I sputtered unintelligible sounds and noises, trying to get out verbally the line he had crossed for me emotionally and physically. He held the marker in and swatted me across the small of my back with a thick cane 3 or 4 times telling me to shut up. I did, but he worked the small of my back with the cane anyway. My back swelled and turned purple and it was actually hard to get urine out for nearly a week. When I could, it was often pink. When I told him, he said it was me being dramatic. I had no idea till then that feeling emotional impacted your ability to urinate…he taught me so much.
Clearly a sternly worded E-MAIL was in order here…and he got one. His brief response was that I had rendered the no penetration clause “null and void” by allowing oral penetration of an object in session. It was my choice. It was then his to exploit…and he did.
I’m sure with just the brief view of the highlights; many can fill in the low lights of this relationship. There was no aftercare. Not “poor” aftercare, there was just none. He would let me down from the tied position, and tell me to sit. I would sit on the stool and he would spend some time giving me feedback. Feedback consisted of him listing everything I did flat our wrong, the multitude of things I did poorly, many things I just “couldn’t seem to learn” and always a few dozen, you still disappointment me by doing “X” statement. He would often just need a break to sit at his desk for a few minutes to ponder if I was even worth his time. He would verbally discuss with himself out loud if it was worth his time to have me come back again, because I was such a slow learner, and making no attempt at real submission to him. I was a fake; I clearly did not even want to try to be “real”. But in the end it was always him being clear that he wasn’t a quitter and he would keep trying. Then a quick, “Dress and go. I’ll see you Thursday,” and I was allowed to leave. My walk down the staircase leaving his office was always the same. Shaky, one stair at a time, with the tears starting about ½ way down. Hysterics and dry heaving by the time I reached the car. Sit there…in his parking lot for about 30 minutes till I gathered the resolve to head home and care for myself. Always, start a shower and then a slow, very painful strip out of my clothing. Survey the damage front and back. Enter the shower carefully with spray adjusted to hit areas that were not open or heavily bruised so the stream of water could gently stream over the worst areas…cleaning them, but not adding insult to injury. Insults to injury were the areas I had to use a rough sponge on to remove the damn marker. Those were bad. After the shower, and tending anything open, I would immediately sit at my computer and begin my follow up e-mail. I learned quickly that it could wait till morning, when I could think straight, he would think it not important enough to address at all. Never mind that most evenings after a session I would have preferred to curl into a ball and cry and come down…there wasn’t time for that. There was time for tending the aftermath, an e-mail, filling ice packs and then some Nyquil to get me to sleep.
This was my introduction to this lifestyle. There was no care. There was no trust. There was little consent beyond my showing up over and over. For R, consent was when he opened the door and I was there. There was no growth for me as a person, or in my kink. Our sessions were not about me. At all. There was almost no respect for me as a person, physically, mentally or emotionally. In retrospect, that is starkly obvious.
How did it end? It ended with bronchitis. Yes. Bronchitis. Standing on two stools, barely able to breathe, being beaten with, of course, a cane. His collar, which I had never asked for, or agreed to, but which was strapped around my neck anyway, wrapped around my neck, making it harder to breathe it seemed. The room closing in and me being dizzy and asking for a break. Him, ignoring me. It continued with me starting to cry and hyper ventilating. Him, continuing to hit me harder and harder, completely ignoring my panic. He snapped the cane he was working with and then crossed to his desk and picked up a pair of scissors, and inserted them vaginally, and started massaging my clit while I was crying. In a moment of complete clarity, seeming brought on by lack of oxygen, I said, Red. It was in the contract.
He ignored me.
I said, Red.
He ignored me.
I said, Red.
He ignored me, but did remove the scissors. He then proceeded to bite me. Clamping down, over and over, the length of each arm, and leg in 4-6 neat rows per limb. Wrist to shoulder, ankle to hip bone. My entire torso, often tearing his teeth back and forth. I completely shut down and mentally left. I have no idea how long he did that. I have no idea how many times he bit me. I know at some point I felt him shaking me roughly, and then untying my hands. I know that evening I fell from the stools, and felt acutely aware of the way the floor vibrated as he walked away from me. I felt my bundle of clothing hit me in face as I lay on the floor. With strength from somewhere we all store a little bit extra I think, I stood, dropping my clothes to the floor in a pile, and with one hand, started to unbuckle the collar around my neck. He stepped forward, grabbing a handful of my hair and pulled me close to him, and then put one hand on my shoulder and tried to push me down to a kneel while growling at me to be a real sub for ONCE. I had never knelt for him. I had never knelt for anyone. I wasn’t about to start now. Perhaps again oxygen deprivation, perhaps something more was finally clicking, but my hands removed his from my body, and the collar from my neck in the blink of an eye. I over hand threw the collar directly at him and watched it bounce off his startled face. Imagine that…a little strength in me after all! I picked up my pile of clothes and walked out naked, dressing in the essentials as I walked down his staircase. There were no tears in the car. There was no dry heaving. That came when I got home, curled on my furry bathmat, unable to even move with the exception of the sobs wracking my body.
Sobbing because I wasn’t enough. Pretty fucked up right? When the mental game in our lifestyle turns playing on submissive’s want to please, it becomes a dangerous game indeed. It’s a hard question, which hurts more, the mental/emotional? The physical? Certainly most would say one is more visual than the other. Others who have seen a sub in a trigger response from abuse might argue that those can be pretty darn visual too. Those who have held someone in panic or waited for someone who has detached to come back to reality would certain say there can be some visuals that are more powerful than a bruise or welt. A bruise or welt fades with time, and is gone. The spirit with which it was placed though, can last infinitely longer.
The spirit with which we dance through this lifestyle demands certain rules. The rules are fluid though, and can vary greatly from person to person, and more dramatically from couple to couple.
So now that I’m back here, learning this life so differently, what are the rules? What are my rules, what do I want, what am I looking for? I have no fucking idea. I only know this much. My rules. MY way. I think that’s as good a place to start as any.
Sunday, October 16, 2011
I can GIGGLE!
Okay, most people know how to laugh, giggle, smirk and smile. I can do all that in a vanilla setting, just like everyone else. What I couldn't ever have imagined was giggly, laughter while in a scene. When it first crept from my mouth, I remember my heart almost stopping. His response was so immediate and positive though, I did it again...and again.
Laughter during an endorphin rush is something I've heard of, but this was just plain old giggling from being tickled. Neither of which had I ever experienced, but both of which were incredibly fun. Letting go...enough to giggle. Very cool.
Imagine that, at 33, I've learned a new way to enjoy laughter.
Laughter during an endorphin rush is something I've heard of, but this was just plain old giggling from being tickled. Neither of which had I ever experienced, but both of which were incredibly fun. Letting go...enough to giggle. Very cool.
Imagine that, at 33, I've learned a new way to enjoy laughter.
Thursday, September 15, 2011
Staples!
Went to a play party over the weekend, and for the most part the Hubby and I just relaxed. Then I heard they had staples, and I was on the hunt for someone who would do them. I've been coveting a staple corset up the backs of my legs since I first saw one. Wasn't sure how it would feel, or if I'd like the sensation, but I was GOING to try it out.
Turns out the actual stapling, at least on the calf, is pretty painless...a little pinchy, but less than a bee sting even. I got them laced with purple and it was beautiful. Loved them...loved walking in them and the way they make you so aware of how your skin slides when you move.
The best part was actually when they came out and the area was cleaned with an alcohol wipe though. That kind of sting, is awesome.
So, another thing checked of my "to try" list. That list is getting short...I need to add more stuff to it.
Turns out the actual stapling, at least on the calf, is pretty painless...a little pinchy, but less than a bee sting even. I got them laced with purple and it was beautiful. Loved them...loved walking in them and the way they make you so aware of how your skin slides when you move.
The best part was actually when they came out and the area was cleaned with an alcohol wipe though. That kind of sting, is awesome.
So, another thing checked of my "to try" list. That list is getting short...I need to add more stuff to it.
Tuesday, August 2, 2011
I am "holy fuck" sore...
So we went to the play party on Sunday. I had e-mailed and spoken with both the host, and with another member of the group I met at the munch. Both assured me it was low stress and fun, and no one had to play. I knew I wouldn't play.
I knew that right till I was tied to a deck chair and people were hitting me with evil sticks...then I was starting think maybe I'd play...just a bit.
I loved it. The pain was bright and fresh, fun and alive. Enjoying pain is such a strange thing to consider mentally, but when it's happening, it's not really something I'm thinking about. I'm just there and it's there, and so we dance together. Fabulousness!
Other things I learned?
1) Apparently silent pain processing is sort of strange. This is a left over from my last experience and not really something I had even considered. It's ALL I know, so it's what I do. I think in all honesty, it really weirded some people out. That's something to tuck away and figure out later I guess. If fact the only moments where I was uncomfortable were the moments I vocalized with pain. I was waiting for a negative response. None came, but it's something that's 'there' for me emotionally, so I'll have to work on that. I'd love to just be able to say, Ow, or Ouch...maybe in time.
2) Rope...it might be more interesting than I thought. I really pictured myself as a "rope as a means to an end" sort of person. Use it to tie me, use it to hold me still. I never thought it could be used to illicit a response from me other than one of confinement. Rope moves and vibrates in a way I wasn't expecting. It gave me goosebumps. I love goosebumps more than anything :)
3) Stingy pain. I love it. I love the careful inhale and exhale as it explodes. I love the way it makes my brain shut the hell up. It's like an instant mute button. I had stingy pain before, and thuddy and everything else, but in a new environment, I'm really able to see what I like, what it does to me, and how I react. It's kind of neat, experiencing this when it's at least sort of 'about me'...
4) Trust...these are people I'm going to grow to trust. They are careful and thoughtful, and do wonderful things for my outlook on how this journey might go.
5) Bruises the next day can be fun instead of painful, regret filled reminders. I like poking at them...the Hubby likes seeing them.
6) Sjamboks fucking hurt and so do some bites...I knew I liked some biting, but some of them throb and hurt more later than when they happen. Sjamboks leave amazing precise marks...but with some deep hurty. Neat stuff.
I knew that right till I was tied to a deck chair and people were hitting me with evil sticks...then I was starting think maybe I'd play...just a bit.
I loved it. The pain was bright and fresh, fun and alive. Enjoying pain is such a strange thing to consider mentally, but when it's happening, it's not really something I'm thinking about. I'm just there and it's there, and so we dance together. Fabulousness!
Other things I learned?
1) Apparently silent pain processing is sort of strange. This is a left over from my last experience and not really something I had even considered. It's ALL I know, so it's what I do. I think in all honesty, it really weirded some people out. That's something to tuck away and figure out later I guess. If fact the only moments where I was uncomfortable were the moments I vocalized with pain. I was waiting for a negative response. None came, but it's something that's 'there' for me emotionally, so I'll have to work on that. I'd love to just be able to say, Ow, or Ouch...maybe in time.
2) Rope...it might be more interesting than I thought. I really pictured myself as a "rope as a means to an end" sort of person. Use it to tie me, use it to hold me still. I never thought it could be used to illicit a response from me other than one of confinement. Rope moves and vibrates in a way I wasn't expecting. It gave me goosebumps. I love goosebumps more than anything :)
3) Stingy pain. I love it. I love the careful inhale and exhale as it explodes. I love the way it makes my brain shut the hell up. It's like an instant mute button. I had stingy pain before, and thuddy and everything else, but in a new environment, I'm really able to see what I like, what it does to me, and how I react. It's kind of neat, experiencing this when it's at least sort of 'about me'...
4) Trust...these are people I'm going to grow to trust. They are careful and thoughtful, and do wonderful things for my outlook on how this journey might go.
5) Bruises the next day can be fun instead of painful, regret filled reminders. I like poking at them...the Hubby likes seeing them.
6) Sjamboks fucking hurt and so do some bites...I knew I liked some biting, but some of them throb and hurt more later than when they happen. Sjamboks leave amazing precise marks...but with some deep hurty. Neat stuff.
Wednesday, July 27, 2011
Apparently, they didn't hate me...
Today we got an invite to a play party.
hmmm...
I'm a fucking mess. A nervous ball of energy, anticipation and sheer anxiousness roll through my insides each time I try to think of it. I'm sure I'll screw up, stick out, be...wrong.
But I want to try. I've stuffed all this so far down for so long, it's starting to swell inside me. I have this amazing hubby beside me who isn't just supporting me, he's exploring on his own.
It looks like "here we go" time...but all I can figure out is that I'm terrified he'll find his way, and then find I'm not enough. That all the things I was told so long ago, were the truth and not phrases said to just manipulate and belittle. That when I left this lifestyle, it was because I couldn't do it, not because I had done it wrong. I want so much to try this again and get it right this time, but I feel like I'm at a starting line and I'm afraid to move. But now we're moving, like it or not...
Ready. Set. Go.
hmmm...
I'm a fucking mess. A nervous ball of energy, anticipation and sheer anxiousness roll through my insides each time I try to think of it. I'm sure I'll screw up, stick out, be...wrong.
But I want to try. I've stuffed all this so far down for so long, it's starting to swell inside me. I have this amazing hubby beside me who isn't just supporting me, he's exploring on his own.
It looks like "here we go" time...but all I can figure out is that I'm terrified he'll find his way, and then find I'm not enough. That all the things I was told so long ago, were the truth and not phrases said to just manipulate and belittle. That when I left this lifestyle, it was because I couldn't do it, not because I had done it wrong. I want so much to try this again and get it right this time, but I feel like I'm at a starting line and I'm afraid to move. But now we're moving, like it or not...
Ready. Set. Go.
Saturday, July 16, 2011
My first Munch
So the Hubby has been attending munches and events in the local scene for a month or so now, and seems to be making friends and enjoying himself. I kept telling him that when he showed up as a single guy, and said he was married and his wife was okay with all this, it would raise a flag or two. That eventually I would have to crawl out of my socially awkward shell, and meet some people to affirm his story. Last night was that night. I think I changed outfits 8 times, and still ended up hating what I was wearing. I'm totally not used to this new body yet. But I did it. I'm sure I was extremely quiet and shy and looked like I was about to pass out most of the night, but I did it. Little do these people know what the Hubby has unleashed on them should they choose to get to know me.
In the end...I'm pretty sure they didn't hate me, and I think I'd like to go back.
In the end...I'm pretty sure they didn't hate me, and I think I'd like to go back.
Sunday, May 15, 2011
Finding my full experience
It's not about the pain, or the sex, or the feel of my hair entwined in someone's hand. It's about what that does to me. What it provokes in me and provides for me. Physically. Mentally. Emotionally. Then how I deal with that, process it. Last time around, I had to deal with it alone, I put my own pieces back together. I figured out my own puzzle, my own strengths, weaknesses. Now I want to know how far I can go. This time...I want to grow.
Thursday, April 14, 2011
In the beginning...
The hubby and I are at the beginning of some kind of crazy, insane adventure. I've always been kinky. I think if my first boyfriend ever read this and knew it was me, he would say, "I knew it!" course he was so vanilla when I went down on the guy he would visibly tighten his butt cheeks and whisper how he promised not to tell anyone...*snort*
The Hubby and I are starting this journey, after 6 years of marriage. We have two children with one "on the way". We're adopting a little girl from Africa right now too. He knew before we married that I was kinky and wasn't willing to explore it at that time. My only real exploration of it was 9 or so years ago and was really not the exact experience I was looking for. I'm hopefully that this time I can go more slowly in ways more respectful of my limits.
I have no idea what the Hubby is hoping for out of this yet. I just know he's willing to try, and I love him more than ever for that.
The Hubby and I are starting this journey, after 6 years of marriage. We have two children with one "on the way". We're adopting a little girl from Africa right now too. He knew before we married that I was kinky and wasn't willing to explore it at that time. My only real exploration of it was 9 or so years ago and was really not the exact experience I was looking for. I'm hopefully that this time I can go more slowly in ways more respectful of my limits.
I have no idea what the Hubby is hoping for out of this yet. I just know he's willing to try, and I love him more than ever for that.
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