Farewell

I have had a great deal of fun writing this journal. It’s been an extraordinary journey exploring my sexuality and I would not have missed it for the world. However, all good things must come to an end and I believe it is the right time for me to end the journal and move onto other pursuits. I will be closing the journal to all readers very soon but I didn’t want to leave without thanking you for your support and indulgence.

It has been lovely to be part of this online community of like-minded people.  I wish you all good health and happiness. Farewell.

Good working order

cindi follows quite a lot of people on tumblr and let's face it, all of those people are naughty and put up very suggestive and sometimes, downright rude pikkis. There are little one or two second videos that really capture her attention. Recently, her owner walked into the bedroom and there was cindi watching a man thrust into a girl's ass over and over and over again. It didn't bother him initially that cindi was spending her time watching this video. However, he did eventually find it distracted him from the point he wanted to make to cindi and he told her to turn it off. Unfortunately, she didn't have time to save it for her later enjoyment. she just can't understand why someone hasn't reblogged it by now so that she can see it again. Perhaps some things are just too naughty for girls to reblog, she guesses.

cindi came across the above pikki in the last day and she loves it just as much as she loves the rude pikki. She used this same pikki in her private blog just this morning and she said this:

" Dunna let newun tel diffrinli. Bimboz need lotsalotsa luv n tendrness. Dey no der plays. Dey no dat der job 2 obey but wiffowt da warm feelinz n da tuchi, cuddlz n gud tymz, dey nut happi bimboz. N Y wood newun wan netin difrin dan a happi, ditzi, fun luvin bimbo? So, if wan a bimbo in ya lyf, beri portin 2 lookiz afta her wel. Dat da deeel. She getsa da gud tymz n she stey beedien n gif gud servissss. Dat da onli deel bimboz inristd in"

I think cindi is 'spot on' on this score. Whilst there might be some people out there who have a drive to serve and be loyal to someone that is not dependent on receiving a sense of affection and tenderness in return, I can say without a shadow of a doubt I am not one of those people and it's pretty clear from her words that cindi, who after all is a simple minded doll, feels the same way.


Obedience isn't some sort of quality that is built in regardless of how one is treated. Well, perhaps initially it is and perhaps a doll can remain obedient regardless of how she is treated for a time. Eventually, it's not going to work. When she realizes that she doesn't have what she really needs, what this gal is receiving in this pikki, then she's going to start to feel pretty downhearted about that.

When bimboz get sad (or even mad), this is what it is about. I have heard say that a doll isn't entitled to much. She is just an object and she needs to accept whatever treatment comes her way. I don't agree and cindi clearly doesn't agree either. You need to look after your doll. You need to look after your toys because toys can break if you don't. Give them a pinch of praise, a dose of love, a little whisper in their ear and in this way, owners can keep their possessions in good working order.

Journal writing

It is said that a diary is more intimate than a journal because a journal is more public. We have an interesting experience in anonymous online journal writing because theoretically we can say what we want here. But, we don't, do we? At least, I don't. I do say what I feel often but it is tempered by the fact that there are readers of the material.

In a diary that we hide in the back of the lingerie drawer we are much more willing to say exactly what we think. In a diary there is no-one to hurt, no-one to judge and most importantly, if we become embarrassed or worried that we have committed our thoughts to paper, we can cross it out, or tear the page out, or burn the book, if necessary. When writing in on-line journals and publishing those words, we need to be aware we publish them, technically, forever.

When I moved into this house, the previous owner had left a diary. I didn't find it for some time because it was hidden on a shelf, up high and way back. I read the diary (of course I did!) and I was quite shocked at the things she wrote, mostly about her ex-husband and how she felt about him at certain times and her attempts to get back into life as a single woman. The entry I remember best is that her father had bought her a car and when her husband came to the house to collect his art she drove the car to another street so that he wouldn't see it. But, when she returned to the car later that day he had left a note on the windscreen. "Nice car, Linda. Did Daddy buy that for you?"

It was so evident that it had become a rather sordid sort of situation and that whilst she didn't want to be unmarried, she didn't want to be with him either. The writing was straight from the heart and onto the page; full of vulnerability and inner strength to move on; to not be a victim. I felt warmer about this woman after reading it because she presented as a bit of a tough broad when meeting her in person and I realized after reading her private reflections that she was actually a woman who had been hurt and was doing her best to protect herself. The distance she put between herself and us in person was simply a protective layer.

I've kept diaries where I have poured my heart out and later I burned them because if I died and my children found them, (as I found Linda's diary) I would have left them with the impression that I had been terribly sad. Yes, I was sad when I wrote them but I am not now and have only been sad for a  very short time in my life, so why burden them (or anyone) with the knowledge that for a short time I was sad, angry, confused, embittered. I turned them into ashes because that is where they were meant to go.

I keep notebooks filled with ideas and thoughts but they aren't about me. If I am nutting out a very confusing relationship I write down how I feel or what was said in order to try to make sense of my reactions to a certain event or conversation.

 I've kept (and keep) notes about my kinky life. Whilst cindi was always there, so to speak, adapting her into my life was never going to be straightforward and I've got endless notes about that as I endeavored to embrace her simple sense of a happy life into my life. To do this meant that 'the girl' with endless thoughts and ideas needed to make space for cindi and that required a process of 'letting go' that I worked on daily for a few years. My notebooks about those years are about the processes I used to attain that sense of peace and purpose.

Looking back, I had no idea where I was going - simply that I was on my way. My notebook simply entitled '2010' begins with the words:

Lessons

- you have an owner

- you are owned

it is the role of the FT (fuck toy) to be alluring and enticing

FT needs reminders of its role, status and purpose e.g. nails, writing on body, piercings, tattoos, dress code, wearing pluggi (ON switch)
FT must be dumdum - not too much thinki


That was the first page; my entrance into a world of transformation that altered my days; my thinking; my way of living and way of life. Need I add that this notebook is utterly precious to me?

I have written so many words about all this but still the words flow. It is not just a desire to express myself. I don't really seek to be understood but I do seek to understand. I put so much energy and time into this process. I embraced it with my heart and soul. I remember asking one day (and I didn't ask a lot), "But why do I want this?" I genuinely didn't know why I was so adamant to experience this process and to see it through to the end. And the person that I was speaking with said, "Because you seek the Divine".

Within all this writing is a desire to tap into something that I don't really understand. It's a passion that isn't logical. There is something that drives me onward.

This afternoon after school I mentioned to my son that I happened to check into my Face book and I saw his U tube video and liked it. That began a conversation (or rather, I listened to him and nodded) of over an hour's length as he explained the process he had undertaken and what every little decision he had made along the way meant to him. He was animated. He was as passionate as any human being can be about a subject. He is, quite simply, driven to express himself through animation, film, drawing and even editing. He was meant to do this. I totally get that.

And I am meant to write about my transformation until I have all the answers.

Cheap as Chips

Like many people, the start of the weekend provides an opportunity for us to play. For the meantime, there is no getting up early to watch a darling boy play soccer and there is time to luxuriate in bed all morning, if we choose to do so.

"What do you feel like?" my husband asked.

"I don't know," I replied, as animated as a one of those soldiers that stand outside Buckingham Palace on parade.

Of course, he anticipated that. It is a rare day when I can instigate anything. I wait for something to happen, like a damsel in distress.

Just as I was close to giving up on him taking a stand, he grabbed a handful of my hair that strongly encouraged me to move my body on the bed sideways. He let go long enough to stand right in front of my face and with words that assured me there was no negotiation to be had he told me to open my mouth around his cock. Needless to say, I did that. A quick glance told me that he had taken the folded up rope he had made previously. He thought it quite clever of him at the time to create an implement with the rope and this is what he had in his hand.

"It's been a while since you've had a flogging," he said as he whipped the strands of rope on my cheeks, "And, don't let go. You just keep sucking away while I whip you."

I loved this. The scene has strong remnants of one of my all time favourite pikkis and I realized that my hunch had been right. The blows on the backside encouraged a girl to keep sucking and not let go...until one particularly vicious whack had me let go enough to emit a loud noise. Even so, it was just an instant and my mouth searched for the relief of his cock on which to suck again. In my fantasies about this pikki I have often imagined the man telling her the dire consequences should she let go for the briefest moments. I actually remembered that yesterday and realizing that I had let go, immediately began to suck again, fearful of what may befall me (which speaks to the powers of my imagination since my husband was too busy enjoying turning my bottom other colours to comment, if he noticed).

"Are you going to do as you're told. Are you going to suck my cock every morning when you wake, even if I am still asleep?"

"Bwwess," I muttered through the (cock) gag.

"Are you? Are you sure?" he asked again as he brought the rope down again.

"Bwwweeess, bwwwwwwessssssss"

When all was done, when he had his way with me (don't you love that expression!?) he asked me if I would like to go back to sleep. I nodded. "And, would you like something in that mouthcunt? A cocki gag? A ball gag?" "A cocki gag, please." "Very well."

He put the gag in, pulled the covers up and off I drifted into the soundest of sleeps. Apparently, he made me porridge but said he didn't have the heart to wake me to eat it, so content did I seem in my slumber.

Eventually, I awoke and not too much later he returned to me. "Would the girl like to be released?" I nodded yes but could have happily lay there all day. It felt a bit odd to have the gag removed from my mouth but life did call to be lived, I suppose.

This morning, as soon as I awoke my mind returned to the scene and I immediately did my duty.

"Ohhhhh," he said, pleasantly surprised.

And, later as I lay on his chest, hands under my chin, "A flogging does you so much good, doesn't it?"

"Yes...yes, it does," I agreed, smirking.

That's all it does take to make me happy, actually. I'm rather cheap.

Resting the mind and body

Yesterday was one of those days that was crammed full of activity. I got my son off the school, whizzed about the house to straighten it up, drove to my mother in another city a little over an hour away, spent five hours with her doing various tasks and conversing, drove home again, put on some washing and sorted the kitchen for dinner, drove to the market to get a few ingredients, cooked the meal, washed up, returned to the laundry and after that, stretched out on my bed with my laptop to do my Discussion post work for my studies until almost midnight. It has been 25 years since I was a student and each time I start a new subject of this Masters I go through a similar sense of feeling disoriented, out of my depth and feeling like it was a mistake to even pretend that  I am capable of this standard. (The feeling goes away a couple of weeks into the subject but while it lasts, it is darn uncomfortable.)

Once I had my shower and got into bed, on a rather hot evening here, my mind instantly went to thoughts that I knew would calm me and soothe me; my relaxation for the day. All vestiges of a functioning woman were gone. I was living with an unknown man. I am not sure of what he meant to me in my life. Perhaps it was a sort of arranged marriage, or perhaps I had been sent there for training, or perhaps we had both been living together and in this way for years and years. I don't dwell on that sort of detail all that often.

There are rituals to my day at that place and it was time for bed. I put on a beautifully patterned green cotton dressing gown (the one I have been admiring in a store here with imports from India, Bali, Bangladesh) and I knocked on the man's door. He called to me to "enter" and I stood inside the door and said, "I am ready for bed, Sir." He said to return to the bedroom and he'd be there shortly; that I could assume the position and wait for him.

I returned to the bedroom (don't know if we shared it or not) and I took off the dressing gown and was now naked. There is a wooden bench in the corner of that room and when you lean over it, the bottom is perfectly positioned for spanking. It is designed so that you place your feet apart on either side of two wooden legs and there is a bar in front that you can grip onto with your hands. The man can tie ankles and wrists should he wish. So, I bend over it and wait.

He comes to me in a few minutes and inspects me. He likes to stretch me and rub me and I like all those lovely soft feelings and try to stay in that moment because I know that what follows is a completely different sensation. Tonight, he takes out a paddle and he continues to paddle away until my bottom reaches the sort of colour he considers suitable; until the sounds that emit from my mouth assure him that I have received enough swats. He has told me on numerous occasions that a daily swatting is what I need and I don't argue about this with him (or about anything actually).

"There's a good girl, he says, because I've stayed very still and I have, with one exception, managed to keep my bottom up high for him to strike.

Without making any sort of a big deal about it, for this does happen every night, he takes a rather large anal plug from the cupboard in the bathroom and returns to me with it, along with lube and wipes and he places the plug inside me. He talks gently to me about how much I need this; about how I will soon feel complete and ready for sleep. When the plug takes over,  and he hears my little grunt he encourages me to squeeze on the plug and welcome it home and I do. I love this moment.

He bids me to stand and he kisses me and rubs me about my shoulders and back; tells me how proud of me he is; what a sweet "child" I am. And then  he escorts me to the bed, tucks me in, pulls the sheets high up to my chin and tells me to go straight to sleep. He gives me a light kiss on the lips and then he turns out the light and closes the door.

For a few moments I lay there in the bed alone; aware of my state; my objective state. My mind is peaceful; serene; empty. My body is filled; a hole is in use and I drift off to sleep in a perfect state of bliss.

She is me

Reflective this morning,
remembering a time when cindi ruled these pages.

"Which is more real?" I was once asked
 I ask myself that question right now.

At times, I want to kill her off
like a character in a novel that has to go.

Owner says I'm being silly -
that there is nothing I can do to erase cindi.

She was always there.
She is still here.
She  will be here as long as I live because
She is me.

 
 

Stereotypes

In my reading I came across the following:

"...in a woman, the shadow can be the embodiment of her anger and righteous indignation, that are so often seen as unbecoming a lady in this patriarchal society. Unfortunately for a woman, anger and righteous indignation are also the feelings from which empowerment and healthy self-preservation are derived. When demoted to the position of shadow, these feelings become the enemy within, where they rule from the unconscious through fear, neurosis and self-destructive behavior. These lead to alienation and self-loathing.

In a man, the shadow can be the embodiment of his sensitivity and humility, which are often viewed as weaknesses among men in this patriarchal society. Unfortunately for a man, sensitivity and humility are also the qualities required for him to establish and maintain intimacy and connectedness with another human being. When designated to the dungeons of the unconscious as shadow prisoners, these feelings become insecurity and false pride that rule the conscious mind through fear, neurosis and aggressive behavior. These lead to isolation and depression."

I present the comments to you for consideration. I will only say that they resonated with me and made me question the value of containing my responses. Naturally, being polite, acting respectfully and expressing ourselves in ways that encourage similar responses in others is a good way.

However, there is a place for anger; a place for people to express their true and raw emotion. In the same way, no man should feel he needs to hide the sensitive and humble side of himself. How else can he express to a woman that he is hurt or feeling vulnerable?

These sorts of gender stereotypes are not helpful. Anyway, I believe in a good odd 'dust up'. Nothing clears the air better than people getting it all out on the table and sorting through the erroneous assumptions and figuring out what is causing the misinterpretations. That is entirely healthy. We really can't afford to take ourselves so seriously.

His limits

I am currently reading book reviews and I came across these lines about a protagonist in a novel -

"...a girl who permits herself no extremes of temperament, who accords herself no right to self-assertion - Toibin exercises sustained subtlety and touching respect."

It struck me that I have been that girl. I've attempted to have no extremes of temperament. Fearful of upsetting the other, I've held onto my emotions and attempted to express my feelings when I could, if the opportunity ever came up.

I've accepted my fate, just as did Eilis. There was no dash from the harbor for her; no refusal to go where she was told. She got on that boat and she did her best to live life in a new country.

She does well, ultimately. She makes roots in a new life in America only to learn that life demands she return 'home' to Ireland. But,where is 'home' now?

Eilis returned to Tony in Brooklyn. I course she did. Women go where their man doth go.  If Tony's life was in Brooklyn then so her life was in Brooklyn. It was what led me to the United State myself.

It is the natural instinct of (most) women to find a man; her lover; her protector; that person who will take care of her. Romance books are all about that fact and there must surely be a reason why this genre is the most popular of all genres. Women read about what they truly want, no matter their life choices.

A woman can do a great deal for her man; fulfil his needs and wants; be his slutty fuck toy. However, she must always feel that he respects her. Without respect and warmth, she begins to lose self-respect and ultimately if her man will not be the one to save her, she must save herself.

His limits are so much more important than her limits. He must always keep her emotionally safe; ensure her that what she does is appreciated and that she never needs to feel foolish when she surrenders to him. This is his role in the arrangement; his duty; his responsibility - to keep her whole; to ensure there is no emotional harm.

Relating

A relationship with a person of the opposite sex is a tricky thing. If nothing else, there are those cycles of coming together and growing apart, only to come together again. A girl doesn't know when he may feel the need to distance himself again; to tire of her and her needs and feel the need to go 'walkabout'. Yet another walkabout...

In a similar way, some friendships go through rocky times. I've a long standing friendship with someone. I don't think he quite understands me and I certainly don't entirely understand him. And, this is after sharing a great many intimacies; many more intimacies than hardly anyone else knows. He wanted to know me; me in all the shades of me and that's a very precious thing. But, we had a stupid, dumb falling out one time and there was quite a lot of time before we really spoke to one another in a real way.

I remember him saying (how could I ever forget!?) "I have so missed you, Vesta." And, I said, "Why didn't you say so silly?" And, he said, "It is all in the timing." Well, I don't think that's quite right. If he had said that at any other time, my heart would have melted, for sure.

The thing is we all tip toe around one another and maybe especially so we 'control freaks' and 'giving up control freaks'. "Does he want to talk to me anymore?" "Maybe I am just a burden to him..." "Maybe he only wants what he wants and isn't interested in me at all." These are the thoughts that run through our heads.

On both ends of the stick we are incredibly vulnerable souls, neither sure of the other. He worries that he may be seen to be giving up any control or we worry about interjecting on what seems to be his funk.

Men do have funks, you know: dominant men. Don't let them tell you anything different. They feel they can't reveal their insecurities for fear we will think less of them or that their insecurities will derail us. And, they do. The honest answer is that their insecurities will derail us a little because we seem to need them to read the map; to know where we are going and how we will get there. It isn't that we are so useless at sorting out problems as that we don't read  life maps so well as them. We are not really sure and even though they are not always sure either, at least they are better at being 'not sure' than us.

I remember being told in my 20s that I needed a man to tell me where we were going and how we would go about getting there and that was a good analysis of me. It isn't that I couldn't sort that out myself if I needed to - maybe better at times than he could (whoever he was) but I do best as the support system.

As the support system, when he isn't functioning well as the leader...well, it feels scattered and I feel scattered. If I seem scattered, then that throws him off his game. It isn't my place or my role to criticize (or even comment such that it is interpreted as a criticism) and now we both feel out of sorts.

It is a fine, fine thing we do; a delicate mission.

"Woman needs man and man must have his mate..."

There are the issues of control, to be sure, but at the heart of these engagements is a sense of vulnerability; role, place, support; the fitness of things.

I remember these words from someone I knew: "You fuck them and fuck them and love them and love them and they turn on you."

This was his interpretation of her words to him, whatever they were.

We want to be heard but words are so often misinterpreted. A momentary bout of frustration becomes in the other's mind, the status quo; proof of her dissatisfaction. Is that was it was? Or, a momentary bout of frustration?

We are all so delicate...

What we do is no different to what people have been doing since we evolved from the apes. We inter-relate. We get it wrong. We distance ourselves. Sometimes, we come together again. Sometimes, we don't.

If age has taught me anything it has taught me that I don't want to squander opportunities to understand and know another person completely. These opportunities are rare. They must not be squandered. But, it is not easy to understand some people. Trust me. Some people are much more complicated than me.

This is life. We do what we do.

I burrow down deeper to understand those who seem to make every effort to refuse to be understood, fearful that in doing so I give up all semblance of dignity. If only I could read minds; understand the motivations of men better. Perhaps the future is in the tea leaves after all.

The self in writing

Consider this definition of autoethnography: Autoethnography is a form or method of social research that explores the researcher's personal experience and connects this autobiographical story to wider cultural, political, and social meanings and understandings.

We write here in web journals exploring our own minds, actions and behaviours. This allows other people to read our words on a day to day basis and we are, of course, at risk of becoming the leading lady (or man) in a soap opera of our own creation.

What makes the writing valid is not just authenticity (assuming we shoot for telling 'the truth') but some sort of overall 'truth' - some sort of consideration of other people.

Quite naturally, it seems, the individual writer sitting at her kitchen table in Toronto, or at his desk in Chicago or under a gum tree next to a billabong in Australia sets up an account and begins to write about his or her life, his or her thoughts and impressions. In no time, someone comments; someone links one journal to another and in a matter of weeks (or less), the individual is part of a wider community of like-minded people.

Over time, we probably all ask the same questions: 'Why am I writing here?' 'Am I writing here now for me or them? 'Am I writing here still to attain some validation for my thoughts from them? And, if they don't validate my thoughts, what then?'

Are these our stories or merely data for stories? Collectively, are we merely a group of deviants or a group of people whose inner lives are rich; whose alter egos demand a voice; whose inner desires to live in a way that seems authentic to them (but deviant to most of the community) have driven them to find a voice.

It occurred to me this past week that the people connected with a certain blog were the most astounding characters for a story. Yet, I only felt that when I actually knew the back story of their lives and even then, I was using my imagination to fill in what I didn't still know.These glimpses of our lives are really just a small part of the story of our lives and to the casual observer we must seem deviant indeed. In fact, we are good people going about living our lives lawfully, ethically; taking care of our families, our loved ones and helping little old ladies across the street.

In this era, social networking has encouraged an enormous amount of emphasis on the self, as opposed to people in a collective way. Yet, I'd argue that amongst all this introspection and outpouring of the ego there remains an effort to connect with others. It reminds me of the early days of the radio when radio enthusiasts sat in their garages and waited in the still of the night to hook up with someone, anyone out there in the void.

Our desire to connect with the other is vast and refuses to be quieted. In my writings here, there is a two edged ambition: the opportunity to express my 'self' in a way I cannot do in real life hardly at all and a desire to connect with like minded souls. The desire to connect is less to do with self validation as it is to gain sustenance from those folk who can offer me energy. Reading a submissive woman's words is always interesting but I confess I long for the dominant man's introspection. I long to read words quite unlike my own; the polar opposite, in fact. I seek to understand and thus I write and read.