Tumblr account

Thank you to the several people who have sent messages of support. I will respond to you as soon as I am able. I am perfectly fine but real life has become very busy right now and I need to attend to a number of issues before I can return to writing here. I will do so as soon as I am able to carve out some time for this.

In the meantime, if it would please you, you might like to take a look at my tumblr account: http://bimbocindi.tumblr.com/.  You will find a link to the account under 'Blogs I Read'.

I call it Carefree Cindi now because the account these days relates to my reduced bimbo/doll state which I adore, but also to thoughts and images that arouse the fully grown woman that I am. I am updating there quite regularly. It's quick and it gives me little boosts through out my days to get in touch with that side of me and provides me with carefree moments.

Back asap.

A little break

I'm sorry to be such a mixed up kid at the moment but I think I have to officially take a little break from writing in this journal. I could, of course, just not write here and not make that announcement but it helps me to make this official and thus put a line under this period of time.

I'm sure I'll be back. I just need some time to myself away from this space at this time.

Things happen for a reason. This too shall pass. Life is good.

Be well. Be happy. Enjoy your days.

The male mind

The second last time I was in full-time employment I was a personal assistant to a rather well-known and influential man about town who was twice my age. My boss was an intriguing character. Although I worked for him at a time when he had a most conservative career, he'd reinvented himself. In his earlier life he was a film producer who traveled the world getting funding for projects, determining locations, visiting film sets and so forth. Over the years, he told me many stories of his exploits.

From the very first day he was quite open with me. He understood that it was a waste of time to try to keep secrets around his personal assistant and so he did not keep secrets.

"Feel free to open any mail...unless you can smell perfume, and I'll open those."

He was not afraid to reveal himself to me, although he recognized that there were some perils to this strategy. He once said to me that I, and his previous secretaries (I used the word 'secretary' but he would say that he didn't like me downplaying my role and that I was his 'personal assistant') were the only people to see him 'warts and all'.

I became aware of various personal bits of information. He'd been married before, his wife had been married before. His wife had been in a spot of bother in her past. He'd had affairs. It all became part of my knowledge bank very quickly and to this day I've kept that information to myself, although he is long dead now.

I think the hardest day was when I realized that the set of books he had  me order from overseas at huge expense was for his own home. I had a rather strong sense of scruples and that bothered me, a lot, because I felt I was party to theft, but I kept my upset to myself.

Of course, as a personal assistant, you see people getting screwed over. You see the taking over of small companies and people's lives going down the drain. You see dirty deeds as well as you see great acts of kindness and loyalty; tremendous generosity. You see the whole man.

When I was leaving to have my first child, the Advertising Executive from the Advertising Agency with whom I had almost daily contact wanted to take me to dinner. Finally, after a bottle of wine he revealed his true feelings about my boss.

He can be a Statesman on some days and other days he can act like a petulant child.

I simply nodded in agreement. It was a perfectly true statement. There was no getting around that.

He was a most refined man. He had his suits hand made and he wore incredibly crisp white shirts with lovely sharp ties. He was scrupulously clean and he had a wonderful sense of style which he imparted to me. I guess you would say he was a minimalist. He certainly was not one for clutter and he enjoyed a soft palette in his furnishings. He was very partial to the painter, John Brack, and I too came to have great admiration for his work. All of the paintings he bought for the organization were not only very fine paintings but great investments.

He had a talent for making money, a very shrewd and apt businessman and yet his heart was in the remotest part of New Zealand from whence he came; at heart a very simple man and completely self made with an abiding sense of love for his mother.

He didn't like women to be over done in their dress. He didn't like too much makeup and he'd complain so bitterly when I wore lipstick that I stopped doing it around him. It was passe, he would say. He liked me to wear creme and white clothing, mostly. He didn't approve of black garments at all. I never wore pants to work but I think that was my choice. Perhaps he said something about not liking pants to me one day, but I don't specifically recall it.

What I want to make clear is that he was refined; genteel, with a terribly strong sense of the fitness of things, (with  minor aberrations along the way). The moment he returned from a luncheon he would dictate a 'thank you' note that had to be hand delivered to the host immediately. His manners were immaculate and he only once or twice swore in front of me and then immediately apologized.

Women were respected in his organization and we were, I believe, the first major organization to offer child care in this state. Women were the backbone of the organization and he wanted their lives to be happy and secure. He wanted the babies to have happy homes.

That said, he had a deviant side to be sure. One day he said to me,

Every now and then a man wants to be with a dirty girl; someone quite slutty. You can't live with a girl like that day by day but every now and then a man wants that experience.

Over the years, I've thought about that and I've thought about it more recently again - that dichotomy of thinking - the refined wife that the world gets to see, and the slut. Some men manage to get the two for one deal. Some women can be both.  Many women can't be both and perhaps some men feel that's it okay to go and find a slutty experience so long as they don't bring that knowledge home - so long as no-one is hurt, yes?

Of course some men want it all. They have the wife at home willing to do whatever he wants, but enough is never going to be enough; variety is the spice of life, right?!

I do wonder if there isn't a man alive who isn't secretly in love with Jessica Rabbit or with some buxom bombshell who ooooozes sex appeal; the femme fatale that will always be out of reach. God knows there were plenty of them in Woody Allan's latest offering, To Rome with Love!

Do men secretly wish that they be seduced by such a woman, or do they hope that such a woman will be charmed into being seduced by them; that such a creature of sexual allure will choose them?

My husband has always said, knowing me as he does, that it's the quiet ones you have to watch and I do sometimes wonder if men really know what to lust after. Is that woman who puts so much effort into her perfectly overtly alluring appearance really what she appears to be? I wonder.

Yet, those over sized mammary glands are clearly intoxicating; those great big lips and the big hairdo drive men wild...the Marilyn Monroe whisper; the cheeky smile; the big tease; the untouchable drives them crazy.

There's something about an 'airhead' that men often find so sexual; that gal with the slightly tawdry dress and the bright pink lipstick who can't quite remember where she put her car; whose little head is a bit pickled by that last glass of champagne and who needs some help getting home; that doll who never was terribly good with mechanical things or following maps. I'll never forget my friend, Michael, laughing his head off when I couldn't start my car; thinking it the funniest thing ever that I was so capable with my university work and so bloody useless at anything mechanical. He loved that!

My true dolly state is very private, of course, but when it comes over me I revel in it, I confess. There's no show going on. It's a very particular and distinct part of my personality; there's no shame or embarrassment about it at all. Frankly, it's a relief to let the slut have some air; to bask in her sense of self and her blatant desires; her disinterest in anything else at all but pleasure and the sure knowledge that she must attend to the wants of the man.

Yet, that's not why men love Jessica Rabbit, is it? Jessica Rabbit isn't going to attend to the wants of the man. Jessica Rabbit remains unattainable; seductively,  gorgeously unattainable; on a pedestal; worshipped.

It's all still a bit of a mystery to me; the male mind. And, they say women are complicated!

Connection

I closed the blog to readers for about half a day yesterday. I am sure it sounds a little silly but I was looking for completely neutral time to think. I have to say that overnight I felt a bit disconnected. This writing space of mine is very precious to me at the same time as I think I sometimes abuse the privilege and spill out stuff onto the page that shouldn't go there. It's a spillage of my emotions and I'm never proud of those moments.

At the same time, I think that when you attempt to just be very good the way that I do attempt to be very good and to please others, there does come a time when emotions are going to seep out. As uncomfortable as it was to have some very honest conversations with my husband on the weekend I think it did us both good in the end.

I think we're both very sure, quite certain really, that I do best and thus we do best if we keep to the plan - if we go about life under the sure knowledge that I need to feel some containment. I can do quite a lot by myself but I can't give myself a spanking, for example. I do best when I feel that sense of 'letting go' that comes when I'm spanked rather soundly.

It's a bit unfortunate that I got upset when he was actually giving me some nice attention but I have to say that when I'm in a lot of need, a light spanking isn't going to do the job. I want something longer; something more intense, because I want to submit to the experience; to feel the struggle and to have these words go off in my head - 'you can't do anything about it'; 'you have to bunker down and accept';  'just let go'. It's then that I feel very cared for; very owned; very free and at peace.

I think you can get that experience in various ways. Spanking is one way; a daily demand of a fairly challenging kind, such as anal training is another and dare I mention being told that I can't pleasure myself is another. That's why photographs of chastity belts and rings through the clitoris keeping the lips locked can throw me into a deep state of arousal. Should I see such a photograph I may instinctively wake up squeezing, because the very thought of such containment is so very arousing to me.

On another matter, I'd like to say that it was very sweet of a handful of people to write to me immediately and ask what had happened when they found my blog closed, because they read my blog every day and could they please go on reading. And, when I wrote back to them to say the blog would be back up soon, they wrote to say thank you. I must say that I am impressed to have such very polite readers, reminding me that behind this screen I am actually connecting with people (most of whom remain anonymous, of course) who actually care about my words. Gosh, that's such a lovely thought because my blog and my words are really all about making connections. I'm never happier than when I feel very close to people. That's what it is all about.

Setting the scene

I'm trying to evoke the essence of a power dynamic between a couple for the screen. I'm trying to explain how at first the man has the power in the relationship but that when he has a setback the balance of power moves to her. Whilst at first it was fun to have him all to herself the gloss of that wears off. She's not happy and neither is he.

He recognizes that things are amiss between them and within him and he decides that he can't wait for the doctors to get him off his lithium or to reduce the dose. So, he takes matters into his own hands and plays with the dosage himself.

It works. His libido is back; big time, and more than that, he's asked his girl what she wants, she's told him and now he is pushing the point.

Suddenly, she has information that he's not going to stop when she demands it, necessarily. He's going to take over, force her to admit what she really wants and do what he wants after that. There's that between them now, even if it never happens again. The power has shifted back.

The sex is great. They're both ravenous. It's happening in every room, on every surface; multiple times a day.

He is struggling to stay on top of his condition without the full dosage.  The change in dosage is causing him to finish people's sentences. He's becoming just a little bit manic. But, hey, the sex is great and that's what is important. They're marvelously happy.

They marry and already on the honeymoon there's an incident and the facts must be faced. He's mentally ill, needs his full dose and depression kicks in.

She wants them to get on with their lives. That's what young people do, right - get on with their lives?  She wants a nice apartment in New York City, even if he can't afford it; even if her parents mostly pay.

He starts to feel more like the wife than the husband, he tells her. It's not going to work. And, so he finds the courage to end it - to leave her and allow them both the freedom to move on with their lives in their own ways.

You might say that this story is about all sorts of things but I see it through the lens of power and what the illness does to the subtle balance of that power; what the relationship can't withstand; what it might have withstood if the girl had been willing to hand over more power to a man who had a condition that had to be managed; that left him with limited arousal, but who was a natural leader with perhaps permanent incapacity to lead.

She wanted the healthy and virile husband but felt forced to provide some forward momentum when he was stuck. In fact, she wanted the life she had anticipated whilst he came to understand that his life wasn't going to go that way; he wasn't going to measure up in her eyes, or in his eyes, either. He needed to find a new way to live and that meant going solo.

What I am finding is that I don't have a lot of words to describe this when we are talking about a screen script. I've got to say, by using dialogue and setting up scenes, how that power exchange between them ebbs and flows and why it is so imperative to the success or failure of the relationship. I'm really reaching into the pits of my limited talents to achieve this...

Coming home

So here I am in my pretty pink dress, lace cardigan, heeled sandals, gold and pearl jewellery. I've been to a lovely lunch and chatted away amicably with many people, listened to lovely music, had some pleasant wine and food. It was all very, very nice.

And, what did I do when I came home?

Well, I sat at my desk and opened up my tumblr account and found this pikki, which immediately relaxed me; which immediately made me feel comfortable; complete; which allowed me to commune with myself.

These are the cold, hard facts. To be reduced is to feel like I have come home.

Control

In the past several days I've been observing my husband; watching him and thinking about him; looking for patterns; when he is most and least comfortable; what pleases him; what makes him anxious; what frustrates him.

I thought about his life as a whole. We were born in the same year and I found myself thinking about my childhood in comparison with his childhood. He grew up on a farm and he said to me as recently as this weekend how much he loved his young childhood, especially before he went away to school. He loved everything about it, really. He loved the machinery and the motor bikes; the herding of cattle and sheep; being with his father to do a chore outside or with his mother in the kitchen while they made scones or cakes or whatever was on the menu for that day.

My husband had a firm foot in both arenas of the farm. He is, at heart, an outdoor boy who revels in the countryside but at the same time, he loved his mother very, very dearly and his time with her was very precious to him. She took the children to horse shows on the weekends and we still have to this day the wad of ribbons that they won there. I think his father was demanding on a young lad who probably needed to take his time developing. As bright as he is, with a MBA from a prestigious learning institution, his early years at school were not particularly happy.

He lost his mother far too early in life to cancer and from there the issues only grew. He was forced to deal with a stepmother immediately; a lovely woman but no substitute for his mother, and very quickly he had step brothers and sisters who demanded the attention of their parents. He was forced to grow up very quickly and accept responsibility for himself, which he did.

We met at university; in college, where we were both boarding. He claims that I seemed a bit arrogant but I think he quickly realized that it wasn't arrogance; it was shyness and introversion. Anyway, he seemed different to the other boys I had ever met and I liked that he was assertive and that he could make plans for us as well as settle me down if I was upset or insecure.

From the absolute very beginning of our relationship he worried about the farm, his father, his marriage, their children and what would become of them and when, in final year, he decided on a career, he chose a path that would enable him, all going well, to make good money. He took responsibility for them very seriously and long after we married and had children of our own he continued to worry, to consult with them and to support them.

We were both very open with one another that we wanted a family. Having only one sibling two children seemed right to me but my husband wanted four children and that is, in fact, (surprise, surprise!) what happened.

We grew up in an era where two parents going out to work was a choice that not everybody made. When we had our first child there was precious little spare cash, but when push came to shove, I couldn't leave my son. I tried Early Childhood Learning Centers, of course, but it was all so hopeless. He'd cry when I'd leave and I told my boss that I couldn't do it. He wasn't a fan of mothers of young children working, and we agreed it wasn't worth it; not for the money; not for the stress and guilt.

Another child was on the way soon after that, we moved overseas, another child came along, we moved back home and then the last was born here. If I had wanted to go out to work (and some days I truly did!) I couldn't. There was so much work and so many people who needed to be attended to. It was best, we felt, for him to attend to creating money while I attended to keeping us all happy, well and thriving.

There's absolutely no doubt that he shouldered the responsibilities of creating wealth. A large family is a very expensive proposition these days and he wanted them to have the education we had; at private schools; the best. It doesn't come cheap, especially not in the past decade.

Added to his responsibilities, towards his extended family and to us, came a deep need to prove himself. When things happen early on and a doubt is seeded in the mind, there is a need to prove yourself and my husband yearned for success for more reasons than procuring cash. He's not an indulged person and nor does he need that much. He does need to be immersed in exciting ventures and ideas and he needs success as an indicator to his family and himself that he has overcome the battles.

My husband often talks about being passionate; that to achieve you need to have passion; to immerse yourself in something with a never-say-die approach. He believes that obstacles can be overcome and even if you aren't good at something that shouldn't stop you. He believes that people should do things not necessarily because they enjoy them but because they need to be done. He has a strong work ethic and when engaged, my husband puts 100% of himself into the task.

I confess what my husband is passionate about often leaves me cold. I can be frustrated at a decision by the Government but he almost takes it personally. One night last week, we happened, the children and I, to raise our protest at language being used by other political leaders to describe the Prime Minister and therein ensued a debate so lively that I shudder to think what the sweet mathematics tutor in the next room thought of our behaviour. He is passionate about life; he has strong opinions, to the point where I said to our our oldest son as he and I  washed up, "No more politics now. That's out as a topic of family conversation!" and he agreed.

With this much sense of responsibility; this much passion for life, science, medicine, politics; what have you; of wanting to achieve and have success;  I wonder if I must accept that my husband, whilst loving me dearly, doesn't need to find and express his passion in me.

Of course, he sometimes does. There are cycles and he returns to me, but the thought of topping me regularly, or organizing me or giving me rules or even playing with me regularly is, I think, another responsibility that is one too much in his life, and in his head.

It is important to remember where we started. When we started our lives together, he was much the same as he is now. He hasn't changed. Nor, have I changed. It was lonely for me from the outset. I always knew that something was missing, that my needs weren't being met, but I didn't know how to put them into words that he understood. He would praise me to others, explaining how I had my own interests and how we didn't encroach on one another. He seemed so content with the arrangement whereas I was just confused.

Well, eventually, as you may know by now, I explained myself in its entirety to him and he certainly enjoyed the path that I took him on and on occasions, when the cycle comes around, he still does. But, he'll never be one to give me rules or ensure that rules are followed or aid my submissive nature that way. He can give me wonderful experiences but he can't give me that owned feeling, day by day.

Now, I have lost much sleep over this dilemma because as I allowed my submissive nature air and expressed my needs, over which I have little control, the desire for more and more control grew. For me, it's not something that I can express from time to time and thrive. My nature is with me around the clock. I needed to think very carefully about what to do; I needed some resolution of the dilemma in my mind.

Let me say, without a shadow of a doubt, leaving my marriage is out of the question. We are life partners and neither of us has any wish to bring to a close a partnership that has been a happy and fulfilling one.

Nor can I accept that I be put in the situation of asking each and every time I feel the need for some act of Dominance from him. I can't see how that is a functional suggestion and believe me, I have tried to take it on. In my opinion, either his desire to provide some form of control is there or it is not and if it is not, I see no point in manipulating that lack of desire or asking him to artificially turn it on on my behalf.

Rather, it seems to me, it is better to accept my husband with the nature that God and circumstances gave him and to trust that the wheel will turn; that we will again, as we have thousands of times before, have experiences that feed my submissive soul.

In an ideal world, given what I know now about myself, yes, of course, I'd be with a man who relishes controlling me, but few of us live in an ideal world and I can't waste my life wishing for something that I can't have. Nor, can I have any assurance that this outcome isn't what it was always meant to be. How can I know for sure that if I had waited long enough to marry to know my true self that I hadn't fallen into the hands of someone who ultimately did me harm? How can I know that this is not the path that was intended for me in this life?

Along the way, I learned strategies that aid me, day by day, enormously. The bimbo mindset, the anal training, the communion with my self all soothe my soul. I still have moments of divine peace and fulfillment. I still am happily married. I enjoy my life. I have wonderful friends. I'm lucky that way.

Girls with glasses

The truth is I have occupied the end chair of my dining room table for the best part of four days. My assignment is hard work and I've had to do that to reach critical mass.

I've submitted what was due so far just now (this post is my reward) but an hour ago my husband put his head around the corner and said, "So, how are you doing?" I sighed and slid my reading glasses up on my head. I proceeded to explain that there was so much learning to be had in this body of work I didn't want to short change myself and do it quickly.

He listened and then he said,

"You look hot! You look so scholarly and so cute in those glasses."

I smiled. I needed a compliment about then.

Of course, it won't come as a surprise, I don't think, that I do take little breaks during my learning and writing periods. Thank God for tumblr and all the naughty people I follow who allow my brain to rest and recover from all those convoluted ideas!

I went looking for a photograph of a girl with glasses and one of the 'bimbos' I follow had this delightful pikki to share. Who said glasses weren't sexy?

Deep Self

The academic/writing work I've been doing asks that I consider what motivates someone to make certain choices and most importantly, what motivates them to choose a certain person to be their wife or husband. It suggests that we are drawn to someone for reasons that we may not be able to articulate; that we go along almost hostage to our deeper thoughts. Our attraction to that person is made up of parts that we don't entirely understand.

In the writing I am studying the man is obsessed with a girl; a girl that is obsessed with another man. It's a love triangle. In fact, the man obsessed with the girl does have his way with her, when the man with whom she is obsessed has an epiphany and realizes that he must walk away from her. His troubles are such that in order to create the least collateral damage, he needs to go solo.

The man, after all that obsessing understands finally that he and the girl were never meant to be together; that she isn't moving towards him but rather moving away from her husband. In effect, no one of them was right for the other and it's time for all of them to move on.

Having spent the best part of the weekend reading the source material I found myself, surprisingly, most struck by the third wheel in the story; the man who wants the girl that he can't have. A tortured soul due to his obsession, it is only when he is still enough for long enough to allow communion with his Deep Self that he can see reality clearly. Within him was the truth all along but only late in the story can he see all the players for what they are; for what he is, too. Finally, he can lay the matter to rest and move on with his life.

It's the poignant story of longing; of soulful longing of that which was never meant to be ours.  Whilst we leave the characters at this point, something tells us that they will be all right; that their darkest days may well be behind them.

It makes me wonder if one of the most courageous things we can do is to reach into our Deep Self, to recognize ourselves for just who we are; what we think; what we obsess about and to go the extra step of revealing that inner world to our partners. Can we truly say that we are united, body and soul, if we keep that understanding to ourselves? Perhaps, we hold back from revealing ourselves in depth to a husband or wife because we suspect that there are parts of us that are not at all likable; selfish; demanding; hungry; wanton; greedy.

Is it better, we may wonder, to hold a little of that detail back and to accept the other just as they are; to count our blessings; to be grateful. Do we, in fact, through marriage, ask too much of the other; to accept us for all our failings and we, in turn, accept our other for his or hers? This is the tango of life and devotion to one another is a noble and wonderful act, in spite of some possible incompatibility; some part of the soul that may remain in reserve, unrequited.

" No man is an island, entire of itself; every man is a piece of the continent, a part of the main," wrote John Donne, yet it is true there is a part of us that is nearly always alone;  perhaps should be alone.

I think this is exactly why I write. There is something about the essence of me that I don't really want to take alone to my grave.

Bimboism

It came to my attention over the past several days that I am not the only bimbo on tumblr. As far as I know I'm the only bimbo that doesn't speak like a girl (but rather bimbo speeki) but who knows?! There may be dozens of us for all that I know. I'm not the least bit savvy about tumblr and I keep a very low profile.

I've received only a handful of questions since I have been on tumblr. One man wrote something that even bimbocindi found pretty gross and I simply deleted it and  he unfollowed me. That was a win:win situation in my book. I have done nothing to encourage followers in any way. If people find me, they find me, but I've thought of it as  a rather private (I know, how silly is that!?) space to conduct my own particular version of my kink.

This morning there was a question in bimbocindi's mailbox asking her what she liked about being a bimbo. I've a fairly well honed antenna for changes in the air and I wasn't entirely surprised by this question. I'd already given it some thought in anticipation of such an event and I wrote as honestly and respectfully as I could as to what bimboism meant to me.

Cindi has been bimbocindi from the outset but I must admit I've never entirely embraced the whole bimbo concept on a physical level. If you're talking about the mind - the acquiescence, the empty head, the sexual entity wanting a lot of use, the desire to please, the willingness to try new things, the slutty thoughts - I'm right there.

Yet, I am still (and always have been) challenged by the bimbo facade - the physical nature of bimboism. I happen to have medium to full sized breasts that are still perky. I'm not reacting to some sense of insecurity that my breasts are small when I say that breast enlargement is something that I have never considered. Yet, I'm completely in favor of a woman doing that which makes her feel her best.

A niece of mine had her breast size reduced to be more in line with the rest of her body and I felt happy for her that a problem in her mind was being attended to. If a woman wants very large breasts and seeks to achieve that outcome or to adjust the shape of her breasts in any way, I say, go for it. However, in my mind the size of one's breasts has nothing to do with my sense of being a 'bimbo'.

I totally respect people's choices and I know that some husbands/boyfriends encourage their gal/bimbo to make such changes to their body. That is fine so long as they both  want that because, in my mind, a particular shape and size of breasts doesn't negate one's ability to play the role of sexual object to a man.

Of course, some men like some things a great deal. I used to smile when I was pregnant because it was clear that some men really get off on the look of a pregnant woman or a woman breast feeding. If the man who loves you and owns you wants something in particular, for example, for you to be thinner or to have a more defined waist, or more well toned legs or to wear something slutty in the bedroom or to have some silicone injected into your lips - whatever - this is a very private negotiation between the two of you.

Every woman walking this earth has her own little insecurities and it's vitally important for a man to be sure to have his woman know that he loves her just the way she is but that he'd like her to consider doing this and that. A woman with a submissive nature wants to please and she'll try very hard to put her insecurities aside and aim to make herself a better version of herself to please her man.

I can't say that I encourage a woman to make physical adjustments to her body unless the man in her life requesting those changes is completely committed to her. One man's desire to have a woman's arm tattooed with his name within a heart, for example, may be the next man's turn off. So, these decisions can't be made on the tear. You have to have your wits about you before you go about making permanent physical transformations. You really do  have to use your big girl head!

I think that bimboism can be whatever you want it to be. The word carries a lot of connotations and it's a delicate subject. For me, it has been about letting go, primarily; accepting my sexuality and embracing my appetite for sex.

So, I won't ever be getting a breast change. I won't ever wear some very slutty number in public. I really think these things are impossible for me. Stockings and garters under my skirt make me feel very sexy. Taking a great deal of care to look attractive makes me feel sexy. Looking like a tart does not. You see, there's the bias right there! But, I can't help it. My sexuality is a private thing. I'm a private person.

I'm aware that some men try to break down this sort of female thinking in the bedroom by debasing or degrading a woman. In the darkest recesses of my mind, degradation is a total turn on and we've used it with some good effect. I've written over my own body, naughty statements, and my husband was instantly aroused. I do, alas, find a lot of very naughty things a very big turn on. But, the classic bimbo look...I consistently am challenged by it; consistently find myself turning away. The above photograph, in my mind, is entirely bimbo; beautiful and bimbo at the same time. That's my version of bimbo: a very female version. There's the rub; there's the hurdle to jump.

Ditzy

The inner me wants to get down and dirty - to have some fun - but the sensible me says that it is waaaaaay overtime that I sat down for the whole day and got going on a major assignment. I've woken to do just that but am already distracted.

So, here's a cute pikki. I've had a bit of fun on tumblr and now it's time to do my work!

Namaste

Relax...

Release...

Let go...

Thoughts on insecurity

As per usual, I am immersed in doing something that I have never done before and learning material that is quite new to me. My head is filled with the business of making movies and plays and the essential elements of a successful and compelling story. I am in the process of considering character arcs in a story and the essential components of a heroine. It's all exciting and extraordinarily interesting but also profoundly challenging because I committed myself at the instigation of this writing course not to go down the path of academic mumbo-jumbo but to always find inspiration from real life; from my life. And, they like that. They like the way I apply it to my life and what I know from having walked this earth for 5 decades plus.

One of the essential components of a heroine is that she learns something which is why I had to think long and hard about my heroine in my adaptation. She seems so much at the end as she was at the beginning that we have to really analyze where she came from and how far she got; what she has learned about herself or anything else.

This evaluation led me to thinking about me and my blog and the "journey" I have been on. What have I learned? I am not looking to claim the title of 'heroine'. Rather, one thing often leads to another in my mind.

When I began the blog I had little control over my thought processes and emotions. I reacted. These days, I still react to external forces but I analyze those reactions. I ask myself why I reacted as I did and I force myself to be honest with myself. Inevitably this sort of discussion with myself leads to some thoughts about my insecurities. We all have them. If you are currently saying to yourself that you don't have any insecurities then you are lying to yourself because we really do all have insecurities of one nature or another.

It may (or may not) surprise you that what I do in this power exchange space that I have etched into my life can uplift me, exceeding all my expectations, and on some not so good (but happily rare) days, it can leave me confused. One of the delights of the blog for me is that I can check back and read what I wrote in heady moments and say, "Ahhhhh yes, that's right. I revel in this, don't I?! You are just having an insecure moment. Hang tight and it will pass." It always does. I am still here because I love what I do and I love what it has brought to my inner world, to my peace of mind and to my marriage.

Yet, I do have insecure days on all levels. I woke this morning completely insecure for no particularly good reason. For some reason today was the day when I was aware of my age; aware that I am no spring chicken any more; infertile, my youth has gone. Now, I don't have that feeling very often. I am graced with good health and an imagination and state of mind that keeps me young. However, when I woke this morning it was like a revelation: you are getting on, my psyche said to itself.

Moments like this, as transitory as they are, lead me to wonder why anyone would bother with me. It's a bit like walking down the street and the young men don't notice you, only your daughter. It was a revelatory moment like that; an unimpressive, unlikeable feeling of being sorry for oneself.

I was at the Market this morning and as I walked along the vendors I thought, 'But, where has the time gone? How can it be that my baby is about to turn 28? Aren't I only about 28?' For I often think that; that I am still young when the reality is something quite different.

Of course, the feeling goes. I remind myself that I have had a blessed life in many ways and that we all must age. We all must grow; learn; experience vulnerability; experience the fear of abandonment; grow old.

"Do you still love me?" I ask my husband, as I have asked him so often before. I don't know I am about to say it. It just slips out. These days he refuses to answer. The answer is so...obvious. Actions speak louder than words. Love is a doing word; a verb. I am loved. I know that. I really do. This insecurity too shall pass.

Ownership

It's early in the morning. I tried to do some academic reading but my heart and concentration weren't in it and I wandered about kinky blogs and the like for a while. My head was all 'dolly'; not at all 'girl', so in the end I picked up the leads and the dogs and I headed out for a walk. It's a brisk, dull morning here but the wind has died down and it's very quiet; hardly any people out and about. A woman engaged me in conversation for a few minutes and three men and I passed one another. They all said "good morning" and were perfectly harmless but women here are a big on edge after a fatal kidnapping recently. These sorts of incidents shouldn't allow women to feel afraid, but for a while, until the memory fades, they do. We are vulnerable and that's all there is to that.

A couple of days ago, my husband engaged me in very gentle sex; lots of caressing and rubbing, hair brushing; all very nice. Yet, I must confess my heart wasn't in it. I wanted to be handled; handled roughly actually. I didn't complain but he knows me well enough to know when something is wrong and for a few minutes he left the room. I was feeling a bit sorry for myself; restless; needing something more.

He returned to the bedroom and when he did he changed direction one hundred and eighty degrees. He was firm; demanding; even rough. He reached for his cane. Well, it isn't really a cane. It's a piece of dried vine that is thick, not entirely straight. It hurts a lot; even a medium tap stings. I was too surprised to do, or say, anything about it.  He manhandled me, pulling me over the bed and he demanded that I stay bent over. He struck my bottom several times. I knew my son wasn't too far away and I tried not to squeal but that cane (for want of a better word) won't allow silence and I squawked out my protest.

"Pout it right out at me," he insisted. "I want to see your holes."

And, rather intimidated by his intense voice and the choice of words, together with the fact that he was beating my bottom, I did exactly as he said and stayed in precisely the position he had put me.

When he'd had enough of that, he pulled me by the hair over to the door frame that leads into the walk-in cupboard and he smacked my ass with his hand and told me to put my hands on my head and my nose to the wood and to stay there.

"Don't you dare move!"

I didn't.

He pushed and pulled at me in various ways, in both mind and body, until I was a little teary and eventually he said he was allowing me a few minutes alone and he left.

I had a little cry. But, it soon dawned on me that the assault on my sensibilities was extremely pleasing. I liked it.

Since then, there have been other encounters. Yesterday morning, I had just got into the shower when he walked in and said to "Get out. I want to use you." I got out and dried myself and when I walked into the bedroom he simply positioned me, entered me and had his way with me.

I liked that too.

He can see that I am happier.

Last night, I told him that I'd received an email from a friend to attend a charity event with her next Wednesday evening.

"Do you want to ask permission?" he said.

We looked at one another, and with a frisson between us, because I don't normally ask permission but rather advise in advance, I said,

"May I have permission to go with Janey to the event on Wednesday?"

"Yes, you may go."

"Thank you."

All of this doesn't come entirely naturally to him at all, but when he can be like this for me it really does make my heart sing. It's that feeling of ownership; of belonging, that is so important to me.

The Truth

I can feel the sexuality oozing out of every pore of my skin. My psyche has tapped into the little girl I once was, waiting for life to happen; waiting for some man to claim me; waiting for adventures that I could only understand on some very visceral level; waiting for my life to begin; for the real me to come to the surface and breathe.

How do I feel? Ravenous. I am frightened and seduced by The Dark Lord of my imagination. I crave to do his bidding; I lust to be directed to do lascivious things; to go down, down, down to the darkest recesses of his (and my) mind.

To smell the flowers in my garden, to sit and watch the wind throw about the pollen is enchanting but at the same time as I marvel at nature and thrive on beauty I seek degradation; wallow in lust; crave direction and endure correction; give myself up and with my utmost approval seek to be taken down.

This is the doll; my sexuality; my life blood; my oxygen; my sanctity and my saving grace. This is me.

Sensibilities

I've read all sorts of posts and information about limits (I actually refer to 'sensibilities') over the years but somehow I never thought it applied to me. I'd never been put into a situation where I needed to think about it too much.

I have now finished reading 50 Shades of Grey and there are many scenes devoted to Ana and Grey discussing a contract - what she was prepared to do and what she wasn't prepared to do. I suppose that must happen but in my experience I find that being open to new experiences works best. I often experience some internal resistance (not necessarily expressed) at some new idea but over the next seconds, minutes, hours or days the thought plays on my mind and I find myself wanting that new experience. Obviously, I have no way of knowing if this is a typical submissive response but it is certainly mine. Introduce me to it, let it simmer away in my mind, suggest it again, and by then I'm pretty receptive.

I do feel that if someone is giving you something precious - their time, their energy, their expertise, their affection, love and so on - that you want to give them back something precious. On a non-BDSM level, last year my husband was wonderful in allowing me time in little Italian towns where we did what I love to do - to soak up the atmosphere and wander the little lanes and take our time.

So, when we got to Rome I understood that I needed to give back. I spent six hours looking at ruins and then immediately thereafter two hours in the Colosseum. This was his day, to spend as he wished. Yet, I have to admit, I, eventually, had pushed myself too far. When he didn't want to stop off at a Church for a service on the walk home (I was desperate for a quiet space and time) I lost the plot and said something sarcastic and in typical form he got mad at me for doing so.

I had simply pushed myself too far. In all his pleasure of being in Rome he had refused to take in that the day had been grueling for me. He was having too much fun to notice that and I was spending too much time being stoic to think of another plan. In fact, we've now agreed that next overseas holiday I might go to a yoga class or a church service while he visits an ancient site on occasion. We've agreed to accommodate one another's needs.

My submissive tendencies, my desire to please, to follow and to accommodate have always been with me and I find it painful not to please. In other words, it's hard to say "no". However, I do know internally when I am being pushed too far because I get a physiological response that tells me that there is trouble brewing. The sensations are so strong that it is very hard to ignore them and if I want to give in to the other person and give them what they want, I have to walk over, stomp down, all those signals that are telling me that it will end badly.

Of course, I am human and certainly not always right and so I must make account for that truth. Maybe, the other person is right and I just need to let go and try. Maybe it will be all right if I can just let go of the fear and the worry I feel that I can't do this or that. I know that at times my husband has wanted to do something intense and I've gone with the flow only to discover that my need to talk first was just too demanding and I've had to say, "I can't do this right now. Right now, I need to talk to you." Guys talk together, about women needing to talk, and as frustrating as it must be at times, he knows and the guys he talks to know that when a woman says this, it's best not to fight it. Let them verbalize; allay their fears and they are good to go.

A woman with strong submissive tendencies who has great respect for her Dominant won't find it at all easy to express the fact that she has doubts about what he wants her to achieve and saying "no" hurts her. She never wants to say "no". I loathe it. Yet, I think it is vital that she express her insecurities and not try to just be brave. If she goes ahead, against all the signals of her mind and body telling her that she is in peril, or that no good will come of this, I think she will weaken the relationship. The hurt she holds onto inside herself will result in damage.

I am open to the fact that this may be simply a stumbling stock and that the Dominant may wish to pursue his goals for her. Resistance can, of course, be overcome. However, for it to be successful, I think all the cards have to be on the table as to the potential pitfalls. And, when the situation becomes difficult and the submissive has great difficulty he must be there for her - to assure her he's happy that she tried at least, that he isn't upset, that all is still well. This is vitally important because when a woman is asked to walk where she never thought she ever would or could, the Dominant must hold her hand tight and be prepared for tears because the outcome is far from certain.

My feeling is that the relationship between Top and submissive is a deeply personal one. Some friendships are deeply personal. The closeness that two people can develop is quite extraordinary. It can be profoundly special; each one unique and to be treasured. When one experiences this sort of closeness on this Earth it must be nurtured and protected. It must be acknowledged for what it is: a rare gift. For such people we go the extra mile. It's all about give and take; about wanting to please and nurturing the other. Anything is possible.