Thought

I had a thought: If I put my ear up to a woman's cunt (oh hell) clam, will I hear the ocean?

Hands

I recently saw a photograph of a man holding a woman, and I was struck by the sight of his hands. He had beautiful hands, hands that I would call, for lack of a better word; masculine. They were hands that I wanted to hold, even though I probably never will. And I would go away from the picture, work on school work, check into various things, but I would always find myself being drawn back to the photo with the mans hands. I know men with similar hands, gorgeous, strong, masculine hands, and I can't help but feel lucky.

Hands are important. They are one of our primary senses, way to feel and explore the tangible world around us. They are how we do, well, everything; we cook and clean with them, we write and build and study with them, we use them when we eat, when we use the bathroom, when we bath, while we are doing just about anything productive (or unproductive) we use our hands. So I have taught myself use hands as a way to measure people. I gaze at their hands, quietly weighing them, making notes of callouses and scars, discolorations and other marks. I take in the strength that hands have; strong hands are very sexy to me; I find large palms and long thick fingers are very attractive on men. Although I don't think I've ever come across a pair of hands I didn't like.

In high school I loved looking at my chemistry teacher's hands, long tapered fingers with pale white nails beautiful broad palms. I love playing with Jefferson's hands, they are gorgeous to me; I love studying the soft underside of his fingers, tracing the lines on his palms, brushing my fingertips against his nails, feeling his strong bones flex in his hands. I find it strangely soothing and comforting to do this. There is also a man who attends Jefferson's orgies, I'm not sure if he has a blog name, but one night he picked me up and carried me back to the bedroom, and I swooned; I almost never get picked up or carried anywhere. Hands are important; they are also used to hold various forms of cargo, be it human or otherwise, even if you don't go anywhere.

A little over a year ago I went over to Boymeat's place help him clean his apartment, and one thing lead to another, and he asked me if I trusted him. I looked at him quietly for a long moment, and I looked at his hands, turning them over to gaze at the backs of his hands and his palms, he said it was the strangest thing, almost clinical, that no one had ever done that before, but he let me satisfy my odd curiousity and in return I gave him my trust. I went home that night with bruised-black thighs and a cane mark on my leg so bad that my eyes teared and my mind blanked momentarily every time something brushed against it; it was awesome.

Or a few weeks ago when Jefferson beat me up and I got scared and grabbed his hand, and would not let go until I managed to pull him down on top of me. That's another really really good thing hands are good for; holding other people's hands.

I'm sure I'm rambling at this point, and you're sick of reading this, or maybe you're wondering what I think of women's hands, honestly, I look at other things when I'm attracted to a woman, like her build, I find big girls sexy, and smaller hands are important to me on women because every so often I get it into my head that I can handle being fisted. But I digress.

I find hands, and arms for that matter, incredibly sexy. They hold us at night when we sleep, they give hugs and hold our children, they cook meals and write books and help people evolve and grow. They carry out the work that we formulate in our minds. And that's important, and as I struggle to find the words to draw this entry to a conclusion, I look down at my hands, typing my words on the keyboard, attempting to convey a message that I don't quite have words for. And think on the honesty of the work that they've done over the years; tending horses, working with children, feeding and changing and playing with my nephew, taking care of my baby cousins, quilting and embroidering, cooking and cleaning. And I can't help but smile.

On a completely unrelated note. . .

This really has nothing to do with anything, but I'm on my moontime, and don't feel I need any other excuse than that, sooo yeah. . .

I have had 2 Elvis sightings lately. I think he works or lives near my school, because I see him periodically when I'm walking to school or to the bank (which is right around the corner from my school). Elvis hasn't changed much; big sunglasses, black shirt, jeans, boots, kinda fat, thick black hair. You know; Elvis. And I both times I really wanted to say something to him, but I resisted, and afterwards I would always call Aimee or Terra to speculate. My mother is convinced he works for the Newark airport, delivering baggage to airplanes.

And here I was all these years thinking he was dead.

Panties

I got to the street fair at about 1 o'clock. I was running on the rumor that my friend Terra would be there, volunteering at the TES table. So I wandered down through the myriad of people, looking at the signs hanging from tables until I found the one I was looking for. Terra was there with some other people. She squealed and ran around to the table to jump on me. We walked up and down the street, and periodically I made out with people and got punched in the chest.

The day was unbearably hot. I went dressed in a slutty blue cotton shirt and a long green skirt. I wore a purple lace bra and pink gingham panties with cherries hanging off the front.

So I spent the day communing with friends I hadn't seen in ages. At one point Terra and another woman hiked up my skirt, exposing my panties and neither would let me put my skirt down. Terra wanted someone to take my cherries, just walk up to me, snip them off my panties, and walk away. Finally I took a stand and pulled my skirt down. The day was spent hanging out in the shade of the TES booth, hanging out at the boot blacking area, and flirting and laughing with a multitude of people. I got flogged at one point, and eventually went onto find myself licking the sweat off of my tops chest and belly.

All in all, it was an awesome day.

But the day had it's drawbacks. I sweated and moistened my panties. Needless to say I was incredibly uncomfortable by the time I left the fair. When I got to Penn Station to catch my train I found myself with a few minutes to run into the bathroom and remove my underwear. So I slipped into a stall and removed the offending garment, sticking it into my purse. I still remember how liberated I felt to be free of those disgusting, fluid soaked panties.

So I went and got on my train, and opened my bag to pull out my book for the trip home, without zipping my bag up all the way; not noticing that my underwear was right on top. I sat there, waiting for the train to pull out of the station and whisk me away home, when a much older man (I figured him to be in his 70s) went to sit in the seat next to me where my bag was sitting. I looked up at him from my book and he stood there, looking back at me suggestively. I turned back to my book, ignoring the man, oblivious to the fact that my underwear was sitting there for all the world to see. It was then that I happened to notice that my underwear was showing out of the corner of my eye. And instead of making excuses for myself, instead of putting it away, I continued to ignore the very obvious presence of my panties sitting there. And the man, after a very long time, walked away. I heaved a sigh and tucked my panties away deeper into my bag and stuck my nose back into the pages of my book.

Pure and simple

I lost my virginity at 15 to the most submissive man I have ever met. It was during the pre-college art program at SVA. He and I had had this tension between us for about a week. He was the first man I had ever found truly attractive, with long dark hair, and dark mysterious eyes. I still wonder about him sometimes, wonder if he found what he was looking for in life. I barely knew him, but it was easy to fool around with him because I knew that my heart wouldn't be broken when he left.

We were staying the college dorms SVA used during the school year (it was summertime). The rooms were little more than shoe boxes, some rooms had bath tubs, others didn't. The building had once been a grand hotel in the 1920s, then it was a whore house in the 50s and 60s, and then SVA finally bought it to use as its dorms in the 1970s.

We laid on his bed in his shoe box of a room; I held him to my chest. It was raining lightly outside, and I mentioned something about having sex while it was raining. He quietly got up, got a condom, and turned out the lights, we went down on each other for a few minutes and then he rolled on the rubber and slid up inside me. I thought it would hurt, but oddly, it didn't. I remember laughing as I rode him in the darkened room while the rain fell outside. Neither of us came. I didn't experience the pain that many women feel in their first time, there was no blood. The simplicity of it made it easier for me to sleep alone that night.

Afterwards we lay in his bed for a long time holding each other and talking for what seemed like hours. Eventually friends of ours came and knocked on the door, collecting us for dinner.

No means no

I never classified the assault placed on me as 'rape' until about a year ago. It's such a loaded ugly word. Rape. I find it hard to believe that I would be raped. After all, I go out of my way to move worms off the sidewalk into the grass, I talk to homeless people on the street, and I enjoy spending time with the elderly. Why would anyone want to rape me? I'm a good person who did nothing to deserve it. So I disregarded my now ex-boyfriend/dominant's assault on my ass as rape until I relayed the story to a friend of mine who replied: "Dude, that's rape."

I often asked myself "Well, I'm submissive, and I was submissive to him, so even though he disregarded the fact that I said no but didn't press the matter because I was afraid of him, it's still not rape, because that was my role." Right? Wrong. I said no, but him being larger and stronger than myself forced my face into the pillows while he forced himself into my ass. My being submissive does not equate me being less than human, and therefore denied certain inalienable rights. This was the unfortunate event that made it clear to me that he did not get that memo.

My opinion was not asked during the course of that relationship, I had no rights or privledges. I was not even awarded the common courtesy of asking to consent to blanket consent, something I never would have done given the choice. None of the fetishes that I enjoy today flourished then, even though I did them on a regular basis.

I'm not one to write in anger, but after keeping my silence for almost two years, I feel that I'm allowed to write about my anger towards what was done to me. I strive to be strong, to take what happens to me in stride, but even the best of us get stopped in our tracks, completely floored by certain events or circumstances. Some people grieve, some people get angry.

I got angry. But my anger came later, much later, when there was nothing left to gain from it. It never occurred to me to grieve for myself.

It was months before I worked up the courage to leave him, and it didn't happen right after what I have come to term as The Incident. It was four months after that that I finally broke free. I never reported him to the authorities. The physical evidence of what was done to me has been washed away.

I, for the most part, have healed. I enjoy power exchanges today, I greatly enjoy service and, since that relationship, I have never encountered the problems that I did then. I have fetishes that I did not have then, and I allow myself to play with some people with a certain amount of abandon. I'm in service now, and very very happy with what we are doing. I am also due to graduate in March. In short, I'm a person who is being given a second chance. I'm furious at the man who did that to me, but I don't allow my anger to bleed over into the other parts of my life, because my life is too good right now to let that man take it all away from me again.

I do, however, get angry at the people who get all uppity about topics like rape. We did not invite it. We are not accountable for what happened to us. How can we be? By it's very definition it's impossible. How can anyone say those things when from 1992-1995 20,000 to 70,000 women a year were being taken to 6 DIFFERENT RAPE CAMPS in Bosnia as a systematic tactic of war. That every 15 minutes a woman in South Africa will be raped, and that those are the only ones that are reported. This is to say nothing of that fact that every 2 and 1/2 minutes someone is being sexually assaulted in the US. Don't tell me that I asked for it to happen when I laid there underneath that terrifying sweaty man and begged to die. And if you tell it to my face, then be prepared to tell it to those women in Bosnia, Yugoslavia, and Croatia. Be prepared to tell it to all the women, and yes, men who were victims of horrible hate crimes and terrible circumstances.

Seeing the right people, wearing conservative clothes, all of those things do not protect us from being raped. I am no virgin by any means, I know that there are naked pictures of me floating around out in the world, I know that there is one 'home video' out there starring me and an old ex. Yes; I fuck and play with different people, but that does not automatically mean that my right as a human being to say 'no' should be taken away because I'm a woman who is comfortable in her skin.

Virgins are just as likely to get raped as whores are. No matter what our sexual status, we are still daughters and sons, mothers and fathers and brothers and sisters, and friends and somewhere along the line, that concept that the offended belonged to someone went missing. And my heart bleeds, not just for myself, but for every one who was forced into a situation against their will. Because the wounds are not always reparable, and scars can be ugly.

Almost two years later, and I still get tears in my eyes at how furious I am at what was done to me. I have nothing but admiration at the people who have the courage to write about their experiences. I am in awe at what College Callgirl wrote, and her courage should be commended for putting herself out there like that. I also felt very much in agreement with Calico's righteous anger. Living in fear, powerlessness and pain is a horrible thing, but to blame ourselves, to let these crimes against us go unspoken is just not cool. Those of us who are survivors of sexual assault and/or rape did nothing to deserve it, we are not worthless. It doesn't matter who raped us; boyfriends, girlfriends, acquaintances, clients, employers, random strangers, doesn't change the fact that they violated us and made us feel small in that terrible way that makes you feel like you are going to vanish and no one will notice.

Rape and assault are rape and assault, no matter what the circumstances, and we cannot make excuses for those people any more. It's just not acceptable. I don't know how else to put it. Rape, assault, abuse, they are just not acceptable. Don't tell us that it didn't happen, that we 'imagined' it, because to me that just perpetuates the myth that rape and assault are okay. And it's not. It's just not acceptable. No means no.

Mind vs. Body and the ever present Edge

I have a strange relationship with face slapping.

Simon learned that if he cuffed me lightly on the cheek, I would start to bottom out.

Jefferson learned that if he slapped me full across the face I tried to fight back.

It's generally an activity that I like to avoid. My reactions are completely unpredictable. So why, all of a sudden, do I just want to be slapped heavily across the face? I guess because I find it hot. And, at the same time, violating and more than a little humiliating.

It's one of those things. Like if I'm told to do something or say something that I have trouble with, especially during sex, my mind will grow wary and I'll start to question why you are making me do this, whereas my cunt will tighten like a vice and I'll practically see stars I'm so turned on. And what I hate the most about it is that my physical response is so obvious. I want to be this prim lady-like creature who is perfect in every way, when in truth I shave my legs, I get PMS, and I usually say the wrong things in social situations.

So I try to put on my poker face, because I want the pleasure I derive from being humiliated to be ignored, but at same time I can't help but hope that I'll be called on it. In those moments I am all too aware of my nose scrunching, or my eyes closing for a moment in recognition of the flood between my legs. A reaction I often hope that will pass unnoticed, and when it does, I can't help but feel a twinge of disappointment.

I hate myself for loving this so much.

I love myself for loving this so much.

I used to hate being humiliated. I found it degrading, hell, I still find it degrading. I am inclined to whack people who try, and most I will stop before they get too far. I can count the number of people who are allowed to do this to me on one hand. Humiliation is an edge for me, and it's not one I am inclined to venture too closely to very often. But when I do, I love it.

It takes a certain finesse to do it properly, get up in my face, pull my hair back, and in that quiet, intense, aggressive, dominant tone of voice that I have to come look for in so many of my scenes, I am verbally run through. And then it becomes a sort of kinky ping pong. Beat me up, call me a pig, cane me purple, tell me if I'm not a good girl for daddy I'll be raped, punch my chest, slap me across the face, kick my cunt, threaten to leave me tied up and naked on the neighbors doormat. Lather, rinse, repeat. You get the idea. 

So why the sudden desire for dancing on this edge of mine?

Pure and simple need. Yes. I need to play at least once every 2 months, it helps keep me balanced. It's one of the few things I am willing to admit to being completely selfish in. I play for others, certainly, I want to make the fantasies of whomever I am with come true. But primarily, I play for myself. I play for the endorphin rush, I play for the fact that I can see my gods in that headspace, and that I can laugh and talk the talk of the innocent. I play because it makes me feel beautiful and sexy and whole. I play because it turns me on both physically and mentally. I play because I like it. I am submissive and masochist, hear me roar.

But the question lingers, why the edge?

Well, sometimes I just need to know that I can. I like having my limits pushed, I like going to newer and greater heights in my play. And the last time I had a limit pushed was when I helped demo in Boymeat's electricity class back in January. I still have the mark, and it was awesome. I'm one of those people who finds having her limits pushed both frightening and incrediblly funny and interesting.

For me play is like life; it's a grand adventure to be had. And with a few minor exceptions (death and permanent maiming, for instance), I wanna try it all. So I'll be slapped across the face, and made to endure various cruelties and undergo all sorts of interesting and different experiences, and some will be edges, and others won't. But all in all it'll be just awesome, because that's what life is, an awesome amazing gift that should be protected and cherished and honored.

Dominatrix

Does anyone remember the 'Spice Girls'? Or is it just me? Okay, well, whenever I think of dominatrixes I think of Posh Spice. There is a scene in 'Spice World' where she is wearing a silver dress and she points her finger at the camera and meows.

It is an image that is forever burned into my brain.

It was the image that came to mind as I climbed seven flights of stairs in my stockinged feet for a job interview at a small leather studio in Midtown Manhatten for a pro-domme position. In a desperate attempt to get money, I had applied for a job that I did not (and do not) feel I was/am tempermentally suited for. I have no desire to beat anyone up, I can't picture myself standing over some naked person calling them a 'dirty pig'. It's just not in my nature. Besides, I am perfectly content to continue being the dirty pig. But that does not change the fact that I need money to get through the next few months.

So I put on my respectable skirt and low heels and a borrowed shirt from Aimee, and I went and flirted and cajoled my way into the studio owner's heart. I was perfectly prepared to take this job after 45 minutes of laughing and talking. He showed me around the studio, and when it came time to leave, I told him I would call him the next week and let him know about the job.

The next day I went to the doctor and discovered that I had several problems with my foot, one of them being altered bone growth. Two of the bones in my foot grow closer together than they should. It's not a big deal, I just can't wear heels all the time, which is what this job requires. After all, a proper pro-domme cannot wear her slippers in a session no matter how much she wants or needs to.

And thus, my career as a dominatrix ended before it even started. Ah well, back to the drawing board.