The Gift

"This will never end 'cause I want more
More, give me more, give me more
This will never end 'cause I want more
More, give me more, give me more
If I had a heart, I could love you
If I had a voice, I would sing
After the night, when I wake up
I'll see what tomorrow brings"

- Fever Ray

A friend who knows me really well told me I have a superpower. My superpower? I can eroticize almost anything. *Almost*. The movement from "I don't like that" to "What the fuck are you talking about" to "Hmmm" to curiosity, to decision making is a familiar one to me. It's true that I've done this over and over again in my life. I think it's a coping mechanism, and a way to accomplish goals that don't fit anywhere else in my life. 

Recently my owner decided that in his presence I will no longer wear pants. No pants, no shorts, and my hair will always be down. This may sound like some romantic thing, but honestly he doesn't care if it's a burlap sack or my hair is gross and unwashed, it's very close to arbitrary. He likes me available when I'm with him, even if it's symbolic. And he thinks my hair is prettier down. It's a pain in the neck, and now my wardrobe needs some revamping because I just don't do laundry enough to accommodate this change. 

But it also had some unexpected effects. It changed my identity. 

I've never been a super girly girl - I mean, I like the trappings. The fancy shampoos and multiple pairs of shoes, and I like clothes and makeup and pretty things. But my voice can get husky, I tend to lope when I walk instead of saunter, and (up until now) was most comfortable in jeans and a t shirt. This change has had the unexpected effect of making me feel more feminine presenting than I ever have. I don't hate it, it's not so far from how I see myself that I'm uncomfortable - it's not like the sissification kink, it's not that. It's that the way I have presented myself in public in the past has been very - armored. Protected. Partly by choice, and partly because that's often how women *need* to go out into the world. Now, I feel more vulnerable, more careful about my body, and more *examined* than I'm used to in public. 

That's not the only thing he's made me eroticize recently. The other thing he's made me eroticize didn't happen in a vacuum. It's a fantasy I've had stuffed in a deep dark box for a very long time (I'm not the only one who pictures those things that way, am I?) that I was unwilling to examine, for very good reasons. I am not fond of this, this, *thing*, and I'm still having a hard time accepting it. But in general, it's too late - he dragged it out into the open and made me look at it and admit it and is waiting for me to accept it, like an writhing, snaky, blackened, smoking gift. 

*art "glory hole sculpture" by Terry Cullern

the angry 60 inch slave

"Six inches forward

and five inches back

I got a

I got an angry inch..."

- Hedwig and the Angry Inch

My owner does not play angry. Will not. That's healthy. I have a bad temper. Well, I have in the past, I'm not even sure whether it's considered bad now, because I've taken a lot of steps to make that not the case. But the word "temper" seems to imply that there are ups and downs, and isn't negative in it's explanation, it just *is*. 

I have a relationship with anger that sometimes gets the best of me - maybe that's the best way to phrase it. I never learned the skill of how to extract yourself from your own anger, so learning that as an adult obviously has it's challenges. But like many things, we sometimes eroticize and fetishize the things that are negative in our lives in a herculean effort to make them fit into our selves, and for me, anger is one of them. 

That makes it sound like I want him to be angry at me, and actually that's the opposite of what I want. I desperately do NOT want him to be angry at me. I'm not even sure that's a submissive thing, that's just a love thing. But I have met couples that seem to aim for anger and distrust as part of their couple dynamic, and that's definitely not what I want. The submissive part of me wants to always be a good girl, never a bad girl, and get pats on the head and ass for affection. But I'm human, and perfection is not an option, and given my personal history, I expected (and maybe wanted? unclear) an angry, hot headed, loose cannon reaction. Sometimes I want him to let loose his frustration and rage - it reminds me of Laura Antoniou's "grudge slave" concept. 

Last night, the most impactful, emotional, and real part of it was at the very end. I had done a *pretty good* job of following the orders I was given. Not perfectly, but I really did do my best. It wasn't good enough, and he slapped my face. Hard. I've mentioned that face slapping is definitely an edge play thing, and we had discussed exactly that. I told him that if he ever did it, I'd know exactly what it meant. I did know what it meant right then - that the risk of a handprint on my face for the public to see, it was important that *right now* I know that I was His property. Not a slave, not a submissive, a thing that had not performed as expected.  He wasn't angry, he was corrective. 

I needed that. 

Fuck Material

"Hi slut, i want to rent you from your guy and fuck your brains out. Do you think he will allow"

(My most recent friend request on Fetlife)

It's an interesting question. Will he allow?

Probably not. But not for the reasons you think. It mostly has to do with grammar, location, (this dude's from Belgium. I am not located anywhere near Belgium.), but most has to do with making assumptions. 

It's a natural human response, to make an assumption about someone else based on your own history, the impression you have of them, their behavior and actions. It's how we get along in life, how we form our own created families and relationships as adults. We call it social context, and friendships and families are based on it. There's this new modern complication (or maybe it's not that modern, we just didn't talk about it as a society as much) of created families rather than biological ("family of origin") ones, and those require, I think, even more emotional investment. That's part of how assumption works, it's a psychological tool humans use. 

Who am I to him? There are so many descriptors. I title myself "slave", but that's kind of a fantasy term, since legally there's no way to follow through on that. I'm a wife, a deputy, a "helpmeet" (I kind of love this one), an object, a warm hole or three, and sometimes a pain in the ass. 

We ran into another gentleman who was very interested in playing with me. Not particularly interested in playing with my owner, and the gentleman in question made a lot of assumptions about *how* we play, and what our dynamic is. How we function together, what turns us on (and off) and that, more than anything else, was the reason it was a no go. 

Making assumptions about people is a tool to use as we get closer to each other, we use it for safety purposes and for empathy, and closeness. It's also a dangerous edge tool, because making the wrong assumptions push you further apart. 

Dig Deeper

 

Dig deeper. Dig deeper, my fingers wrapped around what's left, and clinging the thought of what happens next. 

I told my therapist the other day that I never, ever want to be a person who is scared of doing Things. I want to be a person who is not afraid of doing the Things, Big Things, Scary Things. I am disgusted by hesitation, even though I see it all the time in myself. What is it that is exactly that scary? There is nothing life or financial security threatening. Is it the fear of abandonment (no) the fear of replacement (no) the fear of preference (no, not anymore)? 

It is the fear of expectations not met, of disappointment. I'm committing. Or, rather, I'm re-committing - I never stopped, I just got muted. Dig in, gimme my shovel. 

Belonging

"i tried to downplay it

with a bet about us

you said that

you'd take it

as long as as i could

i could not erase it..."

     -tori amos, 

It's a violation. I've already said as many no's as I can manage, but the pressure on my throat from the leash is preventing more than mostly squeaks. "No" is not a safeword, someone might say, but that's mostly irrelevant I'm thinking as this is happening because I don't actually have a safeword. My brain starts to go down the rabbit hole of what people will think when I write that but the relentless pounding in my asshole brings me back to part where I'm here again, with you, and you will not stop because of some sputtering from my mouth. Somewhere is the thought the reminder that anal sex is not supposed to hurt I read that somewhere and it made sense but I don't want it to not hurt I want it to hurt so much that it becomes nonsense. Another pull on the leash brings my head and back up taut and you're using it like a cowboy rides a pinpricked bull as I'm bucking trying to get away from the violation you're giving me. I asked for this. I know I did, even if I never said it. 

But asking doesn't mean I'll get it, or that I'll get anything. I know that, you've told me enough times that it's not up to me, none of it. You told me that the only people I will ever fuck again are people that you tell me to fuck. And that I will do it with an open eager mouth and a wet cunt. My agency is gone, my decision making sacrificed. "Authority transfer relationship" sounds correct and technical and is a polite way of saying I will never be independent again. I asked for this, even if I never said it. 

You relax your grip long enough to tell me quietly, in my ear: "This is what you are to me. Right here. This is who you are. Don't you ever fucking forget it." 

Reconnection

"But oh, what a beautiful thing when you sing

Hear all them bells ringing out in the street

Hammer strikes the metal and makes me believe

'Cause if I don't believe in love

Then I don't believe in you

And I do"

- Ryan Adams

I'm pushed down into the couch. The couch we discussed, measured, purchased and moved in. It sits in the living room, near my mother's rug and well watered plants. A coffee table we disagree about whether or not it's the right choice for this room. There wasn't enough room on the floor between the couch and the table, so part of me is thinking about how I won that discussion and why I am on the couch at all. 

I want to talk about face slapping. 

It's a kink, lots of people have it. It's degrading, it's humiliating, it's painful. It potentially tells the word things you don't always want them to know, or at least you don't want them to ask about. It hasn't been a really big part of my kink, because the world didn't need to know that part of me. It was important to keep it away from the outside world because reasons. Those reasons are fewer now and maybe I just don't give as much of a shit. 

But I still don't like it. That's inaccurate. I don't like it, but I have an appreciation for it that I didn't before. The fact that I don't like it but it is quick, it is easy, and it is also those other things, make it valuable. It tells me that I am not, that I am below, that I am locked down, owned, and not autonomous.

It means something. In a world when most things are meaningless, arbitrary, erotic for unknown reasons, it means something. And the small twisted part of me is waiting for you to use it. 

Ah, Polly.

"Sometimes when you lose your way to me

I think you don't care at all

If you don't get here soon

I'll tear that clock down from the wall"

- Billy Bragg

You surprised me, Polly. I've been riding this rollercoaster for weeks, and I've made a lot of assumptions. Some of which are incorrect. Some aren't. 

I'm still learning where the lines are, because they have been redrawn. Do you have lines? Where are they? Not where I thought they were.