Shared fantasies

Boxing Day. A leisurely start to the day. He kissed me in several places and then he pulled the night gown over my head. He returned to his position of laying down with his head resting on two pillows.

He asked me of the morning rule and rather than answer in words I went between his legs and sucked his cock until it was very hard. After a minute or two of that he had me sit up on his chest and he held me tight against him.

I'm not entirely sure I heard every word correctly, for it was quite shocking in its own way, but what I heard was, 'I wish I had a close male friend that I could talk to about this. Imagine being used by someone else in this position.'

I did. I did think about that instantly. I arched my hips such that I was presenting myself to the absent second male; that close friend of my husband.

I felt an instant and intense arousal at the thought. I admit that. I imagined my husband holding me tight, just as he was doing, and at his command another man, perhaps a man I would never see, or a man who understood that he was secondary to a union he could never tear assunder, quietly taking his pleasure in my back hole.

This was more than fantasy. This was a fantasy I was sharing with my husband and we both got off on it. That's when I realized that shared fantasies are hot.

Spirituality within power exchange

My immersion into spiritual practice and my overwhelming attraction to SM practices and power exchange relationships in general collided several years ago such that it is hard for me to separate one from the other. That this might mean something tangible to the reader, I give the following example of how the two worlds mingle in my mind.

In Eckhart Tolle's Stillness Speaks he has a chapter on 'Relationships', and in that chapter he writes,

'When you get attached to objects, when you are using them to enhance your worth in your own eyes and in the eyes of others, concerns about things can easily take over your life. When there is self-identification with things you don't appreciate them for what they are because you are looking for yourself in them. When you appreciate an object for what it is, when you acknowledge its being without mental projection, you cannot not feel grateful for its existence. You may also sense that it is not really inanimate, that it only appears so to the senses. Physicists will confirm that on a molecular level it is indeed a pulsating field. Through selfless appreciation of the realm of things, the world around you will come alive in ways that you cannot even begin to comprehend with the mind.'

When I first read Tolle's words, and when I re-read them as I often do, they immediately resonated with me because of experiences I have had through a power exchange relationship. The world of the doll manifests itself in a very small and contained world and when the conditions are just right all egoic thought and concerns based on the real world drift away. The mind shuts right down and my experience is simply a physical one. I can feel the sensations of the body. I can feel arousal. On the great days, I can feel complete peace.

I can get to this sublime place through wearing a large butt plug which chokes thinking off, or I can get there through wearing a latex mask. They are quite different experiences, one not better than the other, but I've a particular partiality to the former experiences because I can maintain the connection with 'the other' better.

There have been experiences where 'bimbo' permeates me. She is inseparable to that never-changing  'I am' entity. There is no past or no future. There are no worries or thoughts; certainly no attachments to identity or worth or worldy possessions. Bimbo responds to direction, absolutely, but in the most special situations the feeling is light, warm and easy. It is understood that bimbo won't say very much because she has found herself in a world of comfort and grace; ease, peace and beauty.

I remember on one particular early morning she was in the country chatting oh so quietly on her computer. Not that much was being said because her world can often be simply peaceful with few words necessary. She was aware of the sun coming up to light the world; of the darkness making way for some light; the shapes of trees. More than anything she was aware of the stillness of this time and the stillness within her. Ever so quietly she found her attention drawn to the objects around her; a blue and white cup and a jug. She marvelled at the beauty of them as if she had never before seen a cup or a jug; the vibrancy of the colour; the very essence of these objects designed to do specific tasks. A sense of peace and pleasure welled up in her. She was living in this moment. Her cup runneth over.

There are no doubt a variety of ways to reach these peaceful moments in life, yet in my life the way towards them has often been to be led down a path where I may reach them. I have procured these peaceful moments through power exchange; perhaps not the ideal way to navigate a spiritual life, and yet many a monk has sought out help along the way.

I remain attached to people. It's not that I live through them but rather that it is still hard to imagine life without them. To date, I respond very naturally to the submissive role and thus yearn for the sort of dominance in my life where there is understanding of a spiritual life. My personal goal is to get to that spiritual dimension on my own at any time, if need be; to find respite and comfort in the 'I am' entity which never changes and to let all other worldly concerns and worries, identities or pride loosen and shake off. This is the life of the monk, the nun; those who wish to live as Buddha taught.

It cannot be denied that my interest in power exchange relationships began when the material I was reading aroused me to the core. It was entirely sexual. Every word I read at first was an aphrodisiac to my mind ready to take it all on. It didn't take on a spiritual dimension for me, something akin to subspace, until I quite simply experienced that spiritual dimension. This was the true gift. This was the opportunity I am so grateful to have seized with both hands and all my heart.

Getting between a woman and her shoes

In pursuit of gifts for my mother to give to her family, a task I do for her so that she is less anxious about the holiday season, I came across hardtofind.com and on that site I happened to spot a pair of sandals that seemed to fit the bill for me for summer. They are white and tan, casual, with a bit of European flair.

I've been vacillating over them for a few weeks.  On occasion I enquire as to my husband's opinion of something I see online but he's currently working extremely long hours, so I decided to ask the opinion of a male online friend. That is, I sent a link to a picture of the shoe and asked if he liked them. He has a tendency to use one word responses and the word he chose was 'Nope'. I immediately shot back, ' Why don't you like them?' He explained that the shoe had a wedge and hence he didn't like the shoe. 'No wedges,' he said. (see what I mean about the responses?)

I had to absorb this information. I rather like espadrilles. You see countless pairs on the feet of women in France and Spain and they have always conjured for me that continental feel. Of course, as I thought about it some more, it made sense that he didn't like female shoes with a wedge shape. He likes all things hyper- feminine and whilst I would argue that my espadrilles can look quite feminine, they don't have the ultra-feminine look that he admires.

Just now, this morning, as flat chat as I am, I couldn't help myself. I simply had to do a review of my shoes. Sure, probably most of my shoes would absolutely pass the 'no wedges' test, but several of them would not. Almost unknowingly I had bought over the past years several shoes and sandals with a wedge.

I can only say that there must be an awful lot of wedge style shoes about that it seemed okay to me, or perhaps I was trying to tend towards a more casual style. I've so often been accused of being 'elegant', as if I am a bit too dressed up for the modern age and I think this might have influenced me to choose wedge style shoes at times for fear of being too dressed up in other styles.

For the first half day after this conversation, this friend of mine who is so inclined to make statements as if he is Moses on the hill issuing an edict, had me really irritated. Just because he didn't go for shoes with a wedge for girls shouldn't influence me! But, here's the truth. He had me rethinking the way I wear shoes and the way I put together outfits. Was I dressing to please some sense of how I should dress according to the overall public sensibility who surely don't really give a damn about my choices, or was I dressing to please myself?

I am most authentically myself not only in dresses and skirts but also in a style that resonates with me - good quality items of a relatively dateless style and feminine footwear. When I truly assessed the situation beautiful shoes are gathering dust in my wardrobe whilst I swan about mostly in casual footwear, attempting the 'dressed down' look. (And, by the way, it's not a money thing. The 'dressed down' look can be just as, if not more, expensive than the more 'dressed up' look.)

Here's part B of the truth too. I actually love it when a man steps up and says what he likes. I am way more comfortable with an edict than no edict. I'd almost love to be able to report that I don't care what he thinks about wedges. The facts are that I know myself so much better than that. You know what I am going to say, don't you? Yep. I won't be buying those shoes at hardtofind., nor any other wedge shaped shoes from now on. (Damn, but I am so easily lead!)

Getting our groove back

If you make it through your child rearing years still liking and loving your spouse, there is an opportunity to create something new from the union. With more time to be alone, whether in the house or outside of it, conversations ensue that hopefully enable you to see over the horizon where intimacy and mutual understanding is at the forefront.

With two opportunities to be alone for the entire weekend in the past month we've played, but more importantly, we've talked about what we want going forward and what that might look like. He was very honest and I appreciated his honesty. He has, after all, been observing me for the past 40 year so when he shares his observations, I listen.

He said that I did best when we had a mutually agreed disciplinary relationship in place. He said that I would be nervous as the week came to a close, which he liked, and that the corporal discipline did me good; made me happy, light and youthful. He said that I would often try to provide reasons why the reckoning couldn't happen now but that it was never a good idea to listen to me; that things were best when I just let go and did as I was told. He said that we'd been together forever and that if I didn't trust him now, I never would. He'd never do anything to intentionally hurt me. Sure, the spanking would hurt but any temporary pain was for my own good, and that was all there was to that.

He said that it had never been the case that I didn't get wet over submitting to his will, and he'd never not got aroused by giving me a spanking. He said that I was wired in this particular way and that was all there was to that. He said that it hadn't always been something he wanted but that I created this 'perversion' in him and he liked that he had been taken to the dark side; was no longer bothered by it.

On both weekends he didn't give me a choice about the disciplinary side of things, nor, now that I think about it, did he offer a reason for the spanking, except to say that I needed it. He likes to insist that I stay in position even when not tied down. He tries to talk me through it, basically by using a deep voice and words that make it clear that things won't get any easier by coming up. Inevitably, however, he resorts to very contained roping where any resistance is simply against the ropes.

I do love the time he puts into securing the ropes, even whilst aware of what will happen next. When the implement comes down on my ass I attempt to refrain from yelling and screaming but more often than not he'll ask if I want something for my mouth and I, gratefully, say, 'yes, please'. It's a relief to be able to bite down on something.

With the ball gag secured yesterday, it was nice to know that I'd make less noise. There is a row of trees between the neighbours and us but something about the positioning of the house on a little hill makes for incredible echoes. I do worry I can be heard all over town! It was something of a disappointment to realize, therefore, that when the edge of a tawse catches your pussy that your scream, even with a big red ball in your mouth, will sound quite blood curdling. Fortunately, it didn't deter him from presenting his challenges.

It was nice to know that he had enjoyed his time swinging. Lost in bimbo non-thought I suddenly found myself having the ball gag removed so that it could be replaced with a hard, demanding cock that wanted to fill the hole instead.

On the way home in the car I asked him, 'Do you want to go back to keeping a black book then?' I thought he'd jump at this. I'd asked specifically; committed. But, I think he had his own ideas, already formulated.

'Maybe one day you'll find that this process has already begun.'

My husband couldn't be more aware of the fact that I like surprises; predicaments. I am hopeless as the one in control and I very much prefer to be led in nearly any situation.

I was delighted when, last Friday, we shopped together, a rare experience for us. The girl had me trying on a garment which she thought fitted well, but when my husband saw me he immediately said it wasn't right and had her bring another style, which was much more flattering. Later, I thanked him for the garment and especially for getting involved in the selection. I revealed to him that the purchases I make myself really don't do much for me. I want to feel the power exchange in so many facets of my life. This, instinctively, is what makes me happy and content. This is what feels authentic.

Mentoring for the Dominant

Those people who identify as having a kinky nature live outside the mainstream of 'normal' sexuality. But, people such as Galen Fous are altering the long held perception that there is a 'normal' and a 'alternative' way of expressing sexuality, concluding that we are born with our sexuality and that's our 'normal' and natural way of sexual expression. I think it's reasonable to assume that as this word spreads we'll begin to see people more comfortable with outwardly identifying, within reason, as a 'dominant' or a 'submissive', or whatever is their sexual identification.

As Fous explains, it makes complete sense to have conversations with a potential lifelong partner about the details of each other's sexuality and fantasy life. That so many of us did not do this, instead hiding our inner thoughts and lives (for obvious reasons that we didn't feel we would be accepted) is what has caused the difficulties. It is quite impossible to have a deep and sustaining relationship with someone when they don't know, and perhaps cannot accept, all that is you.

Still, Fous gives hope to those couples who may not initially appear ideally suited. He cites a client who was having great difficulty accepting his fiance's desire for rough sex and pseudo rape scenes until Fous worked with this man to uncover his latent masculine force and energy.

By the end of their sessions together his client was perfectly comfortable with a whip in his hands and with the overall idea that he was interacting with his beloved entirely with her consent and for their mutual pleasure and joy. They married and invited Fous to the wedding. Those who have access to such a consultative process have a most valuable resource, but he's 10,000 miles away and I certainly know of no such resource where I live.

A few years back, my husband was excitedly expressing his frustration about something that had happened of a business nature. I listened, as I do, and when there seemed a bit of a gap in this monologue I asked him, quite sincerely and seriously, if it would help him to spank me. I distinctly remember his response. He told me not to be ridiculous. I took that to mean that the very thought of spanking his wife to overcome his own frustration was an unthinkable thought, and I accepted the sentiment was quite an alien one for him. I never brought it up again.

But, even back then I had this sense that if he could somehow garner his power, his energy, his passion, his masculinity; his arrogance and his sense of the fitness of things; that I might have the benefit of that aspect of his personality.

Am I making sense?

What I am trying to say is that I am married to this man who takes life on; who takes people on; who believes that he is right and his way is right. Isn't that the sort of man who, if he were shown how to function in a relationship with a submissively minded wife, would thrive in expressing that dominance  both sexually and day to day within the structure of a power exchange relationship?

From observing this man closely for decades it is clear to me that he, like all people, has only so many resources; so much energy. For long periods of time he is perfectly capable of taking that passion, energy, drive and masculine persuasion and dumping it into a business project, thus leaving nearly none for me until the project is complete. I'm not complaining here. I'm just stating a fact.

But, what if  he was shown how to hold onto that drive and power of persuasion at home to exert it over me for our mutual benefit; no longer an 'all this or all that' situation but rather expression of his dominant nature in all facets of his life? What if he had a few strategies to ensure consistency in the dynamic even when he is, by necessity, self-absorbed in business matters for stretches of time?
Like the man Fous worked with I believe that my husband, and many other husbands, have what it takes to satisfy the submissive woman, but they could benefit from a little mentoring.

I once read that it is not the submissive who needs a mentor but the Dominant. I think the sort of work Fous does suggests that this may well be the case.

Flow

It's perspiration even more than inspiration that gets the job done, they say. It's the inability to sit down and say, 'I am doing _____ right now', to focus, that has me berating myself some days. In an effort to motivate myself to adjust my mood I walk, and as I do, inspiration pays me a visit.

I sit and begin to write, a scene that's about, as it turns out, that fickle nature of mine, and others, where moods gyrate back and forth, according to the other person's responses, gestures, tone; appraisal.

Spiritually speaking, this is NOT the way it is supposed to go. The gurus will tell you, 'Don't let him/her bother you. So, he's not as evolved as you, no matter. Notice. Move on. Focus on the breathing. You're the calm, the stone in the river. Let the forces go around you. Nothing bothers a stone.'

Nice. If it always worked like that, wouldn't it be nice?

But, of course, it's not so easy to snuff off other people's moods, responses, non-responses. It's not so easy when one wakes up on the wrong side of the bed. It's imminently useful for creating drama in writing because that's what people do day in and day out: infer, assume, respond inappropriately, agitate, ignore, become absorbed elsewhere; behave less than ideally for the other. People rub one another up the wrong way, often without realizing that happened, and this sends signals up the put. It leads to other courses of action and one mistake might magnify mindless other miscalculations. Before you know it it's a 'Woody Allenesque' farce.

I do wonder some days, do I need a BDSM experience to centre me, exorcise, or do I instead exercise, or sort, or write, to deal with the sense of disorder that mirrors my mood and moves illogically. From where does this appetite come and how the hell can I get fed fast before low blood sugar (metaphorically speaking) does its worst?

I think this is what happens to submissives sometimes, and to Dominants as well; an overwhelming desire to use the other for support and to scratch the itch. Maybe that's what I needed today, ideally,  for the desire needed to be fed in some way. It is, in a sense, second best, but that hunger led to resuming a project that has laid dormant waiting for the seed of inspiration to be met with perspiration; in other words, focus. It's 'flow', flow that must calm the mind and soothe the soul, one way or the other.

Enduring kinky thoughts

I took a survey for Galen Fous which asked questions about my kinks and fantasies; when they started and what they looked like. This prompted me to think about the sort of archetypes, thoughts and images I might have been inspired by in early childhood, for my fantasies began at a very age. I had kinky thoughts as early as four or five years old. I masturbated to them most days.

That period of my life is now over 50 years ago so it’s hard to remember much detail, but I distinctly remember bath time. As my bath was running I would often bend over. To anyone who might walk in it seemed I liked to touch my toes, but what I was doing was imagining being told to bend over for a spanking. I also remember touching myself to orgasm as a very young child. When I went to bed and the lights were turned off, this seemed the ideal ‘cover’ for my fantasy life where I could masturbate to certain images and experience the pleasure of the arousal and the climax of my body. Falling to sleep was then certain and I’m sure that I sometimes fell asleep during the process. It was my relaxation time; my time to think my own nasty thoughts.

I can distinctly remember a day in primary school (elementary school) when it occurred to me that if it was possible to read minds, I was in big trouble. Could I be letting off signals of the thoughts going through my mind? I determined that day to be vigilant about ensuring that I kept my dirty secret safely guarded.

I recall becoming aroused when there would be some sort of discipline in a story. It could be in a school setting or in a home setting. I’d know on what page it had occurred in a novel and I’d return to that page over and over. If it happened in a movie or in a show I was watching I’d hold my breath as if struck dumb by a kink filled meteor. I’d take those images to bed with me that night, and all the nights after that to re-enact.

I never made myself the perpetrator of the action, but rather the person who needed to be disciplined. I’d struggle sometimes, as I do now, to come up with a real offence, since I made it my business as a young child to stay out of trouble and not to bother anybody too much. Yet, I was immediately and profoundly aroused when in my fantasies I was lectured, sent to the Master’s office,  placed in a corner to think about my behaviour, made to write lines, put over someone’s knee and spanked.

I needed to find in my mind suitable people who would naturally behave sternly and firmly. I needed to find people quite different to my parents who would not have dreamed of behaving this way. I needed to locate for these guilty pleasures images of people who were particular; particular about rules and keeping a girl in her place. I suspect I came up with the sort of people I saw in movies, men who wore suits and looked formal and strict; men who saw it as their business to keep young girls in check, for their own good. Sloppy attire, eating sweets behind closed doors, being late to class or smudging the ink were all behaviours that could be stamped out with a good, hard bare bottom spanking, and they didn’t hesitate to make these behaviour adjustments.

I didn’t confine my disciplinarians just to males. I had a soft spot in my kinky mind for the nasty House Mistress of a boarding school who would call girls into her study after school for such behaviours as not making the bed well enough, for not passing room inspection or for bringing mud into the boarding house, having not wiped their shoes at the door. Later, she was the one who gave enemas, and who delighted in informing of a whipping that would take place on Saturday morning. She’s the sort of woman who took private delight in a girl festering and squirming for a few days just thinking about what was to come; when the girl would get her ‘just desserts’.

I also explored the situation of being in a friend’s home and her father being a stern disciplinarian. Of course, to keep the matter sorted my parents would have told her parents to treat me as if I was their own child and this led to both my friend and I being spanked whenever it was deemed a necessary correction.

Later, naturally enough, I added all sorts of concepts and scenarios to my fantasies. There would be stern lovers and husbands; there would be trips to institutions where a girl was transformed into the ideal wife. I left the more innocent world of spanking to a world where roles were far less well defined. One minute a ‘Master’ would be thrashing me and the next he’d have me over a table and feast on my holes. Hold on! Aren’t I at a school where they can’t do that? Apparently, they could do anything they wanted with me. I let my fantasy take me where it wanted to go and that often led to bondage, to anal play, to use by multiple men; to being pierced and wearing heavy rings; to more whipping than I think I could possibly ever manage in real life. I was an ‘owned girl’ and the only rule now was to obey and accept.

Today, if I need a quick fantasy, or even if I don’t and one just fleets across my mind, it is of me waiting; waiting to be disciplined; shamed, lectured, beaten and/or used. If the fantasy is particularly fleeting, there might simply be a leather strap or a cane hurtling through the air on the way to a waiting bare backside. If you’d been watching me you might see me look slightly startled as I brace myself for the awaiting pain, and pleasure in the thought.

I am today not terribly different to that little girl who grew into a big girl at secondary school and a woman at University and later in the work place and home. I try not to bother anyone and to get along under my own steam. I do my work. I am responsible, reasonably quiet living; take great joy in many small things; sometimes struggle to overcome obsessive thoughts and worries; to keep my world in some sort of order.

Getting back to the survey, I don’t think I was overly burdened with archetypes of femininity or how a girl should behave (more on that next time) except to say that I was probably a good child in an effort to not be disciplined or lectured; to not be any trouble to anyone. My parents worked very hard and were largely unavailable to me so it made sense to get on with things on my own and not to cause them trouble. Also, I didn't want to be in trouble. It wasn't at all comfortable for me to be corrected.

It’s interesting that my fantasies were and are about scenarios that I try to avoid. If I do something naughty, even now, I’m not looking to get caught and be dealt with. Guilt might mean I must confess and that will probably lead to consequences. The consequences may well lead to sexual arousal somewhere down the track but I hate consequences. I hate trouble and I especially loathe getting into trouble. I am fearful waiting to hear my fate and I’m mad as hell when it is meted out.

I absolutely love attention. Since a dominant must pay attention – to the bad as well as the good – then those consequences are part of the deal that I accept. He might be meting out disciple, but if he’s doing that then he’s paying attention, which after all is, even when being undertaken by the meanest of Masters responsible for my fantasy education (of even the most debauched kind) a form of affection and care.

Did the lights just go on? I was a lonely child, responsible for myself from a very early age. There was virtually no discipline, no rules, because there didn’t need to be. As a young child I created my own rules; to do my work, to not to be a burden to anyone. So, what could be more sensible than create scenarios in my mind where I lived in an entirely different world where there were rules; where people did pay attention to me; and where thus I was subject to discipline? And, over time, why not add in sexual components; more lovely, passionate, pleasurable attention!

I am not exaggerating in the least when I say that I have fantasies every day of my life. Nor am I exaggerating when I say that my hunger for expression of my sexuality is with me as a constant companion. I can taper it down at the edges with absorption into tasks, busyness, reading, writing, cooking, walking, talking and living life. But, my dears, it never ever goes away. Without a doubt I’m your classic perverted attention sponge.

The Bends: Going down, coming up too fast

The best way I know how to explain my state of mind is that when a certain amount of time goes by of dealing with day to day life, the ups and the downs, I can sense within myself the need for something intense; something 'connecting'; enabling; settling; pacifying.

Only migraine sufferers would understand this, but the white light so prevalent this Spring can make  my days most challenging. I want to keep going and to achieve; to be helpful, cheerful, bright. However, all the positivism in the world does not stop my head from feeling foggy and dim.

If at all possible I take to my bed and let sleep take me over, but the weariness is still there when I wake. The yawning begins as if, like Rip Van Winkle, no amount of slumber is ever quite enough. It bores and bothers me. The weather of this city and its effect on me makes me wonder if there isn't some other place to live, where the sky has made up its mind and wouldn't dream of producing a thick layer of dirty cotton wool to hang over my head.

You might garner that I'm not myself and need some cheering, but perhaps not really understand nor appreciate the reasons why this would be so. You might think that a visit to a wonderful exhibition at the City's Gallery would pick me up, and you'd be right. The opportunity to feast on beauty does wonders for the spirits, but home again, and there it is again; that miserable murky white/grey crud called 'cloud' which makes my head spin to the point of feeling unbalanced and unsettled all over again.

There is nothing else to do but take such a girl to her bedroom, undress her and put her miserable head into a tight, black latex covering. Relief is to be found in the abyss; the dark nothingness below the surface of the rubber; the slow breathing of the Objekt; the mindset that she is just a thing, a toy with which to play.

Objects, chairs for example, don't complain, and nor do slutti fucktoyz. You can spank their pussies really rather hard and they will barely register the ruckus. The pinching of the nipples that a girl might have something to say about is purely play to a fucktoy, an enticement.

When such a fucktoy puts her hands to the top of her smooth, shiny, rubberhead, she wonders, 'but where did the fucktoy's head go?' for the brains have been banished. It's part of the great 'nothingness' now; peace.Yet, sensations surprise the toy. If she could speak she'd say the only 'thought' on her mind.

'Fuck the bimbo. Fuck the bimbo. Fuck the bimbo.'

It would be tempting to 'take' the bimbo, wallow in the Objekt; thrust away, cum. But, an opportunity would be missed to blend with the bimbo; watch the Objekt transform. Think of Dana becoming Zuull in The Ghost Busters and you are right on the money. Why not interact with the entity? Why miss the show?

As luck would have it, it was at this moment of the proceedings when there was a knock on the bedroom door. Deep in the Objekt head, all tied up, plundered, news came of the catastrophic event, a friend's death. The girl was needed immediately.

I can confirm in a very real way that it takes time to come back to reality; to resume one's footing in a vast, forever moving and random world; it takes time and space.

BDSM and a peaceful mind

Spiritual leaders will tell you that 'more' is our challenge. If we are poor, we want more. If we are rich, we want more. We work towards something, achieve it, feel a sense of pride that very soon flickers out. Shouldn't we be moving onto something else, we ask?

I am profoundly guilty of this state of mind. My mind is such that is always in search for the next thing to do, or achieve. I can feel the restlessness, the confused mind; the trying to put things in their rightful place. Don't I have an appointment card at the bottom of a handbag? Now, which handbag was that? Maybe, I have double booked myself. How can I know when I haven't written all the dates in my diary, I ask myself, berating myself as I go. I don't really need anyone else to come down hard on me, since I do an excellent job of flogging myself. If only I was perfect. If only I was more motivated, more organised, more...

Sometimes, I ask, 'What have you actually achieved today? Anything??' That's delusional thinking of course since I can't sit still much at all, nor really ever feel satisfied with my output. I'm usually confident that, if more efficient, I could have achieved so much more.

There is no question, from anybodies perspective, that I could, indeed, achieve more. Time is spent on tumblr. Time is spent reading articles on Buddhism, or talking to friends, or trying to  settle my mind as to what on earth it is that I really should be doing before the day comes to an end. I am a disorganized, organized sort of person. I get there in the end, but I have to push myself to get there. Seriously, quite honestly, I'd rather not think, and that's nothing new. I have been aware of this fact always. I'm dreamy. It is what it is.

Doing my writing course worked from the point of view that there were outside forces insisting that I do my work. Of course, nobody insists that you get Distinctions and High Distinctions. This is self enforced and comes from egoic thought, but there it is. If I was putting my name to it, it had be of high quality.

In the process of assisting my son make a film I chatted with a wonderful psychologist who, whilst waiting for the lighting to be 'perfect' (Oh gosh yes, I passed on these genes...) told me many stories about past patients (all anonymous, of course). He told me he had one woman submit a paper for her post graduate degree that barely passed with a push. Under no circumstances was she to submit a paper that earned more than a P. She had got it into her head, he explained, that she was a failure in  spite of all that she had achieved. She was a failure if she didn't get a HD, and if her baby cried in the night, well, more evidence that she was a failure at parenthood too. So, he nipped it in the bud by taking her as close to failure as he dared and showing her that she would survive the 'ordeal'.

The story was terribly, painfully close to home, although I never let on. Of course. But, it did occur to me that if I were ever to put my trust in psychology again (highly unlikely), this was my man. It helped that he had a brilliant sense of humor and that the irony was that he was as uptight about his own son's VCE year (final year of school) as any of his clients. He said to me that "we have so much to do over the holidays", and then we shared a knowing look. Yep. He was a perfectionist, anal retentive too. Over-achievers are painstakingly boring and predictable, and there are so many of them around! (It takes one to know one.)


I've mentioned before that I meditate in a group, though Tuesday was my first group meditation in two months, far too long between cushion time for me. My meditation leader is a fabulous woman who has become a good friend. I'm suffering jealousy right now because she is in New Zealand at a retreat that I dearly wish I was at, but I chose Japan with my husband instead, and that was the right decision. Still. It's hard right now. I wish I was there.

Anyway, as spiritually evolved as she is, she gets tense. She worries. So, I asked her what to do in those situations. What does she do in those situations?

'You must go to your cushion,' she says. 'It is the best place for you. The feelings will pass. Clarity will come once you sit and let go.'

I have had many fleeting thoughts, not always 'caught', about BDSM,  about dominance, being similar to a spiritual life. The Top, as I have experienced it, insists, absolutely insists on control, and with that categorical control, provides the sort of space where thoughts can be let go. Whether that it is through pain, or pleasure, or some of both, he empties the head of obsessive thoughts and worries and provides a space where the submissive can surrender to life; find the true essence of oneself, free of concerns about what to achieve in the material world.

Eckhart Tolle, whom I recommend to you as an easily understood spiritual leader, said in a short UTube clip that "every moment offers you the choice between conditioned reactions or conscious Presence". The goal is to bring some space into the stream of thought, and that is what happens when beaten, when bound, when contained, when reduced.

Once, in the very early days of my investigations into domination I read of a man who had a big chair in the corner of a room and when his girl was fraught, over anxious or overwhelmed, he told her to sit there and not to dare to move unless he gave her permission. She would sit there, angry, smoke rising through her nostrils and up into the air, but as time went by the negative energy began to dissipate and she began to think clearly. Then, they could talk it through, calmly and with clarity.

I've had better meditations than last Tuesday but none more still and pain free. I sit with my knees folded under me and, maybe it was all the walking we did in Japan, but it was perfectly comfortable to do this for the entire hour. My meditation leader once said to us that sometimes it pays to go to the pain, not hide from it. She counsels people with cancer and it is a strategy they use, not to fear the pain but to consciously experience it and come to the resolution that it is a do-able pain. I did this and discovered that I was more or less pain-free. I maintained my focus in my body very well indeed, stayed with my breath, returned to my body when thoughts came; refused to give in to the thinking mind; banished it. It takes practice. The words 'coming home to the body' resonate with me now.

This is part of the whole understanding that in meditation we 'come home to the body'. Focus is put on the breath, or perhaps the feet. Focus is taken away from the thoughts, or at least we acknowledge the awareness that thought has happened, again, and now we return to the body, to the open spaced Consciousness where we just exist; that space between thoughts. One way to achieve this is to focus on the process of breathing, not to engage in it but to watch it. The body will inhale when it is ready; will exhale when it is ready. And, in between the inhalation and the exhalation there is a space. It's thrillingly quiet and calm in that space.

In some ways, the smarter you are, the more challenging life can be. Why sit in the car and chill when you could put on a CD and learn another language? Don't think for half an hour? Are you mad? Some super brainy surgeons feel this way. But, I need to submit for more reasons than one. I need a strong dominant because I need to feel that authority to achieve what I can't achieve on my own. If you read some of the forums on Fetlife about 'Mental BDSM' you'll see that I am not at all alone. Streams of people want very much to engage in non-thought activities because instinctively they know that this is what is good for them; that endless worry and thought isn't getting them where they want to go in life; in their lives inside their heads where we all reside.

Of course, in the 'Real' material world we all engage in activities and pursuits. We all have a purpose of some kind. At the same time, Tolle reminds us that as well as this we share a life purpose - to find that which is our essence, that which has no form. Nothing really is more important than that, especially given that there is really only one Consciousness of which we are all a part. The more people at peace, the better, for our material world is a mirror image of what our inside world looks like. It is much too noisy. I think we can agree on that.

Mindfucking as Art

I might read something, something on a site such as Fetlife.

Something about a guy mindfucking a girl; something about a guy getting so far inside a girl's head with words that her body orgasms without him ever touching her body, save a finger running an invisible line from her breast to her throat; a tweak of a nipple.

I might read of her reaction, a deep breath exhaled. His words, 'That's right. Let go. You belong to me now.'

I don't know how long I have been reading. I have heard no sounds specifically, nor registered any other thoughts. Not only am I 'in the moment' but I am deep inside that place where my most latent inclinations fester and churn. Nothing but those deep desires that dwell in that silent chamber matter.

The author of that mindfucking scene knows women like me well. You don't need to touch us to turn us on. You just have to dig deep into that part of the brain that longs to be seduced and toyed with; to be completely owned.

You just need to act like you're God and we're a disciple, because, right now, you, in fact, are our God and we subscribe to your religion. You have the power to make the world stop. You have the power to initiate mindblowing responses with a few syllables, with silence, with patience, with surprise.

Mindfuck a girl and she's putty in your hands. It's up to you to scuplt something of everlasting beauty.

Whatever you want

It's been different since we went on vacation. My husband referred to it this morning as a 'circuit breaker'. He's been more demanding, which I love, and in turn I feel more myself, calm and at peace.

He says that I am happiest, and most fun to live with when I am reduced to the smallest possible entity; that the satisfaction that comes from that for me is life enriching; puts a huge smile on my face and allows me to glow with a sense of inner happiness.

It's true. I love to feel my place; to be a help-mate and to float along under the radar; with some responsibilities, naturally, but not making any big decisions. That's not my role.

There are rules and expectations. It must be this way. Truthfully, the dog and I have a slightly troubled relationship because we are so alike. We thrive when we receive plenty of attention, but when we know the pecking order too. We aim to look cute so that we receive love in spades and we are never happiest than when in close touch with the Owner. It's our nature to be so, and that's all there is to that, hence, as much as I love her, we are competitors. That's the truth.

Right now, I adore my life. I adore the feelings of togetherness, of solidarity to the one cause, and of feeling so comfortable in my skin. Surrendering seems so easy at times like this. Whatever you want. It really is so trouble at all.

An anti-BDSM story?

There was such a build up to going on vacation - the plans, things to be sorted, the finishing up of my M.A. - but now that we have returned and things have been put away, there's a pleasant freedom to my days that I have not known before. Hayfever symptoms have sometimes forced me to nap during the day, and I've kept to a schedule, of course - meal making, daily exercise, and so on - but I have been able, over the last week or so, to have some latitude in my day which is very pleasant indeed.

Being early for an appointment with a new nail salon in the city, I ventured into an 'All books $10' store and bought three books, one of which was Nicki Gemmell's I Take You. I began to read the story even whilst waiting for my train. I wondered why I felt no erotic pleasure in the scene where Connie, the heroine, is 'padlocked' in front of a group of strangers when it soon became clear that Gemmell wanted this reaction from her readers; had engineered this reaction.

The story is set up that she and her invalid husband conspire to a M/s situation where she has sex with other men, as it takes Connie's husband's fancy, but I was never convinced of the desire in this arrangement on her part. Sure, it was better than nothing, a life of abstinence, but Connie was never attracted to Cliff, not really. It was all a trade off for an insanely decadent lifestyle with a man who had no real idea of happiness in its pure form. Rather than be turned on by the 'erotic' offering, I was quite turned off. (I was aroused on another level. My body was aroused as it turns out, but my mind was not, making it all the more confusing to me that I can be physically aroused when emotionally I am not aroused at all. Masochistically, perhaps?)

Connie doesn't need any more 'Type A' banker types in her life and those familiar with Lady Chatterley's Lover would predict that Connie is deeply attracted to the gardener who recognizes instantly what she needs; a real, honest-to-goodness earthy, hairy man.

They make love in the garden. They dance about naked amongst the trees and celebrate all that makes us who we are: the fluids, the holes, the sweat, the pubic hair. Anything mildly associated with BDSM is shun from the scene (although on second thought, anal sex is very much a part of their love making and I do recall some slaps on the ass. This guy is no wallflower...). Mel makes Connie promise she will never allow a man to do these things to her again, to scar her labia with piercings, and they both revel in her natural state when her pubic hair grows back. He loves to cover her with dirt.

Much is made of the weather. England suggests to the reader a place where a natural response is stifled, but Australia, a possible destination for Mel and Connie, suggests openness and of course, a fresh start. It's a place, for the writer and her characters, to feel unrepressed; where they won't be judged, "where nature presses close" and where she sleeps soundly, "for her man strong beside her is like a cool trickle of water upon her soul".

Connie has decreed that she won't let a man dictate her life again, at the same time as she understands that her happiness emanates from the fact that she now lives with a man who wants her just as she is, a free spirit; earthy; sexual; no longer judged in an Australia that embraces all people and gives everyone 'a fair go' (well, that's not exactly correct but nearly everyone lives harmoniously in our multicultural society).

I'm a little confused about the message of the book. Is it really an anti BDSM book, or is it a book that notes how hollow a partnership can be with a person who is rude, callous, introspective, and wanting to control merely for his own jubes? Is it a cautionary tale for any woman, perhaps, who sells her soul for an easy lifestyle loaded with money but short on love and tenderness?

For me, it was one more reminder that what we do we must do honestly; that there is no connection at all unless love is truly felt and shared. Perhaps Connie couldn't experience Mel until she experienced life with Cliff. Maybe, that was part of her journey to find out what truly mattered to her. At least, I choose not to think about it as one more anti-BDSM book, much like 50 Shades of Grey in that sense. There will always be people who hurt and make use of other people. Without love, no relationship has much substance. I think that is all that is going on here.

Following along

Holidaying in a foreign country gave my husband and I the opportunity to immerse ourselves in a bubble of bliss. We very quickly and painlessly established a comfortable dynamic whereby he instigated a plan and I followed along with that plan.

The decision to go to Japan was a joint decision. I asked if he might like an adventure, to explore Japan, and he quickly indicated he would like that. We discussed parts of Japan we'd like to get to know better and then I made the arrangements. Once there, he did the reading about that locale and determined where we would go and what we would do. This enabled me to have the experience of being led through the day and I thrived on this arrangement.

There were three small experiences where this arrangement was put to the test and the rules laid down emphatically. In the first experience we were at a Buddhist garden just outside the Bamboo Forest of Kyoto when I lost track of my husband. He was there one minute and gone the next. In a 'bimbo' mindset practically all the time on this holiday - a huge blast for me - I got it into my head that he had popped into the toilet that was close by, so I did too, only to find on emerging that he still wasn't visible. I moved on in an effort to catch up, which, of course, was the mistake. In fact, the garden was bigger than I anticipated and instead of making my way back to the Entry gate where I thought he'd go, I found myself at the Exit gate. I then decided to make my way around the garden again until I reached the point where we had started but time was going by and anxiety was building.

I spotted him by the big pond eventually, exactly where I had lost sight of him, and seeing that he was mad with me, made the next mistake of trying to explain what I was trying to achieve, instead of expressing my apology for the whole episode. I was meant to stay close, and if lost, to stay still. Very simple.

I did express my regret, of course, but not fast enough or with adequate expression of a sense of sorrow at the disruption to the day. A 'telling off' ensued. After several minutes where he chose to walk faster than me, me tagging along at a suitable distance, I asked if I could hold his hand.

'Not yet,' he said.

More expressions of regret were made on my part. We reached another place he had planned to visit. The Japanese lady came and got us when we began to embark on a tour of the garden without having our tea first (rules are rules in the Japanese mindset), and it was over tea that the ice was broken such that when I pointed out a beautiful book of the garden, he bought it for me.

The experience of losing sight of him, and his upset about it all, had me keeping extra close to him from there on. I stuck like glue to him in fact until at least a week later when I lost sight of him at 'The Great Buddha' in Nara. There was a relatively light crowd when we arrived and we were hanging out at the entrance, entranced at the scale of the statue. I walked three steps towards an example of the gold etching on the statue, when a mob of people on various tours arrived together. My husband walked straight past me without realizing it and for a good ten minutes I stood at that spot awaiting his return.

I wasn't concerned about being in trouble. I was just concerned full stop. My commonsense told me that we'd meet up in just a minute or two, but I could feel my body's response at the anxiety of being separated and all I wanted was his presence. When he returned to me, he was only mildly cross, but  somehow over the course of the holiday I'd become deeply attached to him and didn't like at all that something could have happened to him.

In the third experience, we had just exited a subway car in downtown Tokyo when he said to me, 'I had to turn around to make sure you had followed me off the train'. I replied, 'I'm watching you and you're watching me'.  It prompted him to say, 'If that had happened and you were still on the train, I'd make my way back to the hotel and wait for you.' I nodded, but something about my response registered a query in his mind.

'You've got money, right?'
'Not a note. Not a coin,' I replied.
'You mean, you haven't ever had money on the trip?'
'Nope'
'But, why didn't you ask for money?'
'Because I didn't want money. I've loved not having money.'

He looked at me, as if the reality of his wife's mindset had quite suddenly fully registered in his brain.

'You really do want an Owner, don't you? You really want me to make the decisions.'
'I do.'

He wanted to know if I had touched a note at all.

'Do you remember when I asked if I may have the notebook at the monk's stall in Koyasan, and if he could write the message of the Healing Buddha in it? The note book was 1400 yen and the message 400 yen, and you handed me a 2000 yen note to buy it? Well, that was the one time I handled a note and I remember the feeling in my hand, this note of currency, this real world, big girl note. But, as I handed it over and told the monk what I wanted, I felt very small indeed, more like a very little girl. He put in my hand a 200 yen coin as my change, and I handed it back to you. Do you remember?'

'I do remember. I remember thinking it an odd thing to do. I remember wondering why you didn't put the coin in your purse.'

'Because I didn't want one single coin in my purse. I wanted to stay in my bubble of bliss, completely reliant on you.'

The next day we visited Roppongi Hills, nowadays an upmarket part of Tokyo where the smart set hang out and purchase exquisite goods.

'Is there something that cindi would like? (He always called me 'cindi' on this holiday and I so appreciated that.) cindi should point it out to Owner if she sees something...perhaps a cocktail ring, or something else?'

But, honestly, I had what I wanted. The opportunity to melt into this dynamic with him was all I wanted, save for a few inexpensive souvenirs of these wonderful three weeks together; a little bowl or plate here and there was more than enough for cindi.

Often, he'd consult me on a purchase, but my response was nearly always the same, 'It is up to you.' One time he said to me, 'You can have  input. If you don't tell me what you are thinking, then you have to accept my decision.' I took the point, but the overarching point was that 'bimbo' was more than happy to accept his decisions. This is when bimbo is the most present and the most content, being her (it) self.

We're home now. We talked about keeping the happiness going, but he quite rightly pointed out that reality was likely to pull us back into the real world of business and endeavor at times. Perhaps, I suggested, we could go together to see a film on 'cheap ass Tuesdays', to keep the pleasure of life flowing. He agreed, we could.

I find myself asking what procedure could be put into place whereby this sense of being led might continue in my life. I can honestly say I get little pleasure in a purchase made unilaterally for myself. Should I, perhaps, engage him in conversation about a possible purchase, or show him the purchase with the tags attached, to ensure he likes what I have bought myself?

I'm incredibly happy and content and I just hope it can last. My true nature has been able to be expressed for a goodly amount of time and the last thing I want is to lose the wonderful gains we have achieved on a holiday I will never forget.

What stirs emotion

I am sitting here in a Japanese machiya reading stories set in Ireland, marvelling at Colm Toibin's ability to write stories that lead the reader to emotions otherwise well hidden from consciousness. As he would say himself, it is a kind of poetry, and I have come to feel that this sort of writing is the most admirable of all. As one of his characters thinks, I agree that I am not at all a person of science but rather that words are what move and excite me - the power of words and what they can do - illicit emotion.

We strive for close connections in our lives and Toibin's writings often speak to our need for our mothers to have wanted us, to enjoy being with us and to approve of us. Yet as he also points out, there is this long stretch of time left for mothers to do their best work in their middle years and beyond. Sometimes, all that came before is preparation for this period of life with more contemplative pleasures.

I sit here most days and tap out a message to the children and once in a while one of them feels duty bound to dash off a response back. You put the time in early and it pays off - they are happy you are happy and let's get back to living life!

It's a funny thing but I feel a great deal of comfort within myself right now in this foreign land, totally comfortable with the notion that I am made up of a mixture of unique characteristics, of ways of moving and completing tasks; of memories and feelings; desires. I am moved deeply by a Zen garden, by a Buddhist chant. I take great pleasure in purifying myself by the washing of my hands outside a Temple.

And yet, when I read Toibin my heart sings in a very special way for it is an Irish heart,  this heart. I am sure of this. One day, perhaps not until I  am old and alone - but one day - I shall go there and confirm this.

Just another animal

The demands of work can sometimes mean that there is little energy, focus and time for sexual desire and fulfilment. It's just a fact of life. Even then, I take refuge in my thoughts, and hands. A feeling of sexual need will come over me. As soon as I have privacy, I will go somewhere alone with my thoughts and be that entity/girl subject to the whims and control of those in charge of her. I release the sexual tension that had me bound tight. It is always a relief, a break, a pick-me-up, to imagine these scenes in my head where I simply do as told, no questions asked; just do it.

Last night, as my reward for a day spent getting through chores, I read Jack's latest story. I delighted in the young story girl realizing that the thought of doing what the story man said "instantly made some some sort of strange sense to her".  Loved the sentiment. Loved the alliteration. My minutes on Jack's tumblr also made me realize that he's a good friend of  theruleset . It delights me to know this, since I love Jack's stories and I love reading theruleset's words, and the photographs and videos he puts up.

I first came to know of theruleset when I saw a documentary about him. I'm not sure why exactly but I love to know that there are people out there living their lives so freely and abundantly - a cluster of good and intimate friends - but also living their lives intelligently and with due care. If you read his words, you will know what I mean. What he does, he does with careful thought. It reminds me of my old friend, Abel, in the U.K. who was so very kind to me when I visited and invited me to a gathering of his kinky friends, somewhat similar I imagine to Jack's and theruleset's little tribe of kinky mates that hang about Brooklyn.

It occurred to me that it would be quite lovely to have this in my own life in some way; not quite the same, since my husband doesn't want that, but to know at least one other couple who explores their kinky nature and with whom we could have dinner, or a glass of wine perhaps; share thoughts. If the thoughts led to some exploration...maybe the other husband likes to bind, or the other wife likes to be covered in latex like me...it would be exciting to share that desire and knowledge; those experiences. I'm yet to be convinced there are couples like that in my neck of the woods, but who knows!

This morning, there was something about the light, the fresh new Spring day, that had my thoughts turn to the bimbo side of me. I linked onto a site where I could luxuriate in watching women covered head to toe in latex and I could feel myself melt into that mindset. The house would be still for a few minutes more and I lay down very still like a statue and imagined the bliss of that covering; all wrapped up.

Sometimes, I reject the notion of 'use'; the dolly concept where I'm played with according to whim. Don't get me wrong, I absolutely love that concept, but sometimes I do think to myself, 'You know what I want today? I want you to make love to me: woo me, entice me, make me feel oh sooooo good, and then fuck me blind until I am screaming my head off in pleasure' That sort of use! In other words, let's be clear about this, sometimes, the sort of use I want leads directly to my pleasure and that's my focus.

And there we have it, a busy woman, running around in circles right now making sure that all those in her life are well attended to, but the kink never dies. Claire Underwood is quite right. In the end, we are animals.

Double, double toil and trouble

I'm late to 'The House of Cards' party but I can now say that I have watched all three seasons quite obsessively. There was one night when my husband and I watched three episodes back to back and when Claire walked out on Francis (or at least that is what she said) my husband spoke of her not as a character but as a living, breathing person, appalled at her quest to gain control.

There's no denying that she couldn't possibly have done something more dramatic than to withdraw her services at that particular moment of Francis's career, but here's the thing that also absolutely can't be denied. Francis had to pay for that absurd little spectacle he put on for Claire the night before (at the end of Season 3), telling her to smile and look happy and he didn't care if she vomited in her own time. Was he really expecting Claire to report for duty the next day as if he hadn't said something so despicable? That is simply not the Claire he knows.

Of course, I began to think, to research, to dwell on these characters and it suddenly became clear that we were indeed talking about characters very similar to those in Macbeth. A really good script writer will give you little clues along the way, moments when your mind registers something as unusual, and I sensed that the way that Claire was using her hands in the first two seasons meant something significant.  It was quietly 'witch' like.('double, double toil and trouble')

Claire was urging Francis on constantly, not asking questions about people in their lives who just happened to fall foul to life's circumstances; fixated on power and prestige. Clearly, only Francis could give her those things. Only Francis understood how she ticked. Remember the line in Season 3 which went something like this: 'If you are doubting yourself, I can't indulge that'? He can't talk to Claire and that leads him to church, although that does him no good either.

It's a 'Lady Macbeth' meltdown, Claire leaving Francis. I don't think there is any doubt about that, and this leads Francis,  it would seem, to play out his dirty work in Season 4 alone, with the assistance of Doug, who coldly murdered Rachel, the love of his life, of course.

It's fascinating to realize that sex plays very little part in their lives. When Francis as President has a mini meltdown himself Claire revives him with sex, but it seems a means to an end, don't you think? She needs him functional. And, his sex with Zoe the reporter; that was quite sickening. When she asks what he gets out of it, he is happy to say it is power. Sex for him is about power and control.

It's with Adam in New York that we see a more sensual side of Claire, but even this sensuality was obtained as a response to Francis denying her something, or saying something out of turn. Knowing this about her, it was quite daft to egg her on the way he did with the 'vomit on your own time' comment. He had more than enough evidence to suggest that he should be proud of her and scared of her. How profound to see this character, with such a dark side, responding so naturally and lightly to the school children as she reads to them. Or, how tender is the moment when Claire, Francis and the chauffeur become a three some! Can we take anyone at face value?

At times I have thought the Claire character so immensely satisfying to follow because she is unpredictable, but is she that unpredictable really? She has made herself quite clear. She wants to be an equal with Francis in spite of the fact that, as he points out, there is only one chair in the Oval Office. She wants her own power, to be gainfully employed, even if that means she is not the best person to do the job. She wants Francis' ear, and for them to make decisions together.

She doesn't want people to look at her as a beautiful woman only; to have to smile when she isn't happy, as her mother insisted she do, although she has been doing this for Francis all his adult life. Co-dependency with Francis was fine until co-dependency in the White House format no longer worked for her. It worked just fine for Francis (well, he wished that Claire was less cold towards him...) but it didn't work for Claire at all.

In power exchange relationships co-dependency needs to work for both (all) people. If there is one who gives much more often and one who takes much more often, best to check in from time to time   and ensure that that arrangement is still working for everyone involved. Reality dictates that we do alter and change over time and there is no reason why adjustments cannot be made within a relationship to suit those changes, provided both partners are clear as to their needs.

There is a certain slight tension between a couple I think; a hopefully healthy and erotic tension; a tension that has one partner checking the tension on the rope that binds them, perhaps asking for a little slack, or a little tighter pull; perhaps checking that the other is still holding on firmly and that balance is maintained. What you don't want to occur is that one lets go of the rope entirely as Claire appears to have done. That's the sort of outcome the witches prophesized when they told Macbeth he was destined to be King; when he became so 'bloody minded' in his pursuits; the sort of outcome that spelled out the demise of both Macbeth and Lady Macbeth.

Unconditional love

If one wanders about a site like tumblr enough, criss-crossing from one account to the next, one might come across material which on the surface is quite offensive to one's sensibilities. I'm never quite sure if a man is having a great deal of fun setting up a site making claims about a woman's purpose being merely to satisfy his appetites, or if he genuinely means it, but I do know that I can't 'follow' that sort of thing; can't endorse it publicly.

This is a slightly annoying situation because the facts are that I enjoy reading through and looking at the pictures on those sites. Without 'following' those sites I invariably lose track of them, which is such a pity. I am instinctively incredibly aroused by them, even when my intellectual mind tells me that they are offensive. In fact, nothing turns me on quite as fast as these photographs and statements, which confuses even me at times.

Getting into that 'fucktoy' state of mind is liberating for me because it gives me access to my slutty side without having to worry about the possible repercussions of those sites and mindsets in the real world; without having to worry about anyone being hurt by them. I can savour thoughts of being treated in this way myself; a mindless toy, always ready for use.

In the same way that I am not always the 'fucktoy', most men who want a fucktoy in their lives don't want to behave like a 'doll owner' all the time, and this is what separates fact and fiction. Appetites are stronger sometimes than others and attention is sometimes drawn away to other goals and responsibilities. Life carries on. Still, under the surface these predilections remain and can be drawn upon effortlessly when the circumstances of life are in line.

Most men understand that even women inclined to 'fucktoy' sensibilities are multi-dimensional beings who carry their share of responsibilities, duties, worries and preoccupations. I'd not be at all surprised to discover that the authors of these 'feminism is what is wrong with the world' sites are actually sensible men who instinctively know that they are turning women like me on in droves. (Even so, I can't follow them. Sigh.)

Perhaps it's the training, which from the outset ensured that I never used words like 'Master' or 'slave', but I just don't like these honorifics at all. It strikes me as quite false to use them, because if the relationship is such that one knows one's role and status, there's absolutely no need for this sort of thing. If it is a turn on, then, of course, fine, but I've not found it to turn me on at all.What is a turn on for me is the fact that it is understood that I need to forego my womanhood in order to rescue 'the slut' and the mindless sex toy who enjoys debasement. It's all a bit silly to suggest that I need direction in all aspects of my life when I simply do not need that direction. I'm already goal-driven. I need help to be goal-less.

When we become a doll, or a slave, or whatever language you want to use for the state of grace when we give ourselves to another to transform according to their will, it's a form of acceptance - acceptance of ourselves in whatever state or appearance; a deep love shared. We take off any masks we have been wearing for others out there and we reveal ourselves as to what is at our core.

It's interesting to me that sometimes as parents we are asked to perform the same kind of 'magic' for our children, to love them unconditionally and to accept them for who they are. Unfortunately, parents so often, perhaps just subliminally, lace their love with some conditions as to performance, and I think this is where it can get confusing for children. There are standards of behaviour, of course, but we are all who we are, at our core, and this must be recognized, acknowledged, and accepted by those people who have borne us. Life is so much easier this way.

As soon as we can reveal ourselves to someone, a lover (as in the person who loves us), we begin to relax and to feel at home with ourselves. This is exactly what a child requires of a parent. We are who we are and who we are is deserving of love by those with whom we have the closest bond. It is all about love. Always.

When will the Eveready Bunny's battery wear out?

I was chatting with a dominant friend yesterday and he offered his opinion that 'bimbo' needed longer claws.

 'Did he not like the length of her claws?'

'They need to be longer to keep the girl away', he said.

I didn't, and I don't, argue with the sentiment, but it did make me smile when I noticed later that he'd spent a couple of minutes reading this blog at the same time as we'd be chatting. I mean, honestly, bimbo hasn't been on these pages for several entries now. Personally, I hate that. He does too and so do you, probably.

It's not about being happy, or unhappy. It's a transition thing. For a few years now, I've been undertaking a tertiary qualification that has absorbed my mental energies. Then, I finished it. Hooray!

I got a message from a friend who'd already finished the same degree.

'Look after yourself. I fell into complete exhaustion after I finished and got a serious flu condition...didn't surface for months.'

Oh no, not me! I instinctively approached the 'dilemma' of the completion in a different way. Sure, I was tired, but I was going to beat the transition feeling, which is a rather unsettling feeling I have to tell you, by knocking myself out. I threw myself into planning a trip, reading copious extraneous material, long novels that I didn't enjoy, listening to endless podcasts. I was cramming my head with every idea available to me. Think. Think. Don't stop thinking!

Why?

Good question. My best efforts to psychoanalyze myself suggest that I had lost some element of my identity. I could no longer say I was doing an MA. I'd finished. Along came the inevitable questions. 'When is the book coming out?' 'When are we going to see that film you've been writing?' Oh goodness. I had to justify my existence with new material. I dare not rest (I haven't slept much in the past in two weeks) because there was so much to do! I was already so far behind.

Behind, you say? By whose standards? I don't know. All I knew was that I was well behind the eight ball by somebody's standards and I dare not rest until things were done, stories were written, trips were planned, people were visited, and the house looked immaculate.

Hurry. Hurry.

The reality of being me is that I am not suited to endless frenetic activity, nor to getting away from my bimbo roots. I function so much better when my head has had its brains sucked out; when my purpose in life is reduced to something so much smaller than all that. At the very least, I need plenty of 'bimbo' time in my life.

Thus, the call for longer claws. Keep the girl away, you see. Bring back bimbo.

Somewhere, sometime, someone must have told the girl that she needed to achieve real world things. So, she does achieve real world things. But, rather than luxuriate in that achievement for more than two minutes she feels an immediate internal pressure to achieve something more. On and on she goes, like an Eveready Bunny who has been left on and must run about non-stop until the battery runs out.

There comes a moment when she feels...exhausted, and just not herself.

'What's wrong?' she wonders.

Ah yes, it finally dawns on her, 'bimbo is missing in action', and that's always such a confusing, odd sort of situation to be in; unnatural.

That's when she accepts the situation for what she is. That's when she accepts her lack of self.

Finally, she can relax. Such a relief for bimbo to be back.

How can I help?

I've been reading various reviews from The New York Times this morning. I've been listening to interviews on the radio. I've been trying to finish a novel All the Light We Cannot See. I've also spent a day at a Writer's Festival. It's quite fascinating to see the ideas contained in this stimuli merge, not necessarily forming one clear and complete idea, but rather reminding me what delicate creatures we are at the same time as how resilient we are; how capable we are of healing from past blows.

Richard Glover, a radio presenter here in Australia has written a memoir and as I listened to him being interviewed about the book he has written I am reminded that  without proper parenting we truly are at risk. Richard's mother clearly lived in a fantasy of her own making and his father became a hopeless alcoholic. They probably tried in their own way to be good parents but at age 15 his mother had run off with his English teacher and his father left for a time too leaving him in the house alone. As one of his friends remarked, 'Richard didn't run away from home but rather home ran away from him'. This instability in his life led to all sorts of issues, but I think writing it all down has helped him to be philosophical: If you can't get the love you need from those you'd assume would provide love, stop beating your head against a brick wall and find it elsewhere. He did.

An earlier radio interview related to Merryl Streep's most recent movie Ricki and the The Flash with a couple of local aging rock chicks remarking that they didn't feel the movie had much of a believable plot - why go work across the country leaving your family behind if it isn't creating a decent income?  Both women had managed to have their singing career and a family, though with the help of husbands and their own mothers to lighten the motherly burden.

I read a comment about motherly guilt made by Streep in an interview about the film and I have to admit I did wonder to myself, 'What if there was no motherly guilt about leaving your children? Is that an outcome we want? Does a lack of a sense of responsibility to the children we bear lead to good things?

Anne Enright writes:

When desire is in the air, motherhood becomes problematic. This despite the fact that sex causes motherhood. It is a fact worth stating sometimes that sex, in itself, cannot turn you into a whore, no matter what the nuns told you then or pornography tells you now, but it really can turn you into a mother. After which, of course, you are never allowed to have sex again.

And then a little later she writes:

And when the child grows up, and when the child becomes a writer — a male writer, ­usually — such sins will be endlessly rehearsed. Because, in the fantasized perfection (or the experienced perfection) of the ­mother-baby bond, each is entirely fulfilled by the other. There can be no one else.

It does give pause to wonder if Anne Summers was onto something when she wrote all those years ago that women could either be Damned Whores or God's Police. (I heard Summers in interview a few days ago since it is 40 years since she wrote that book, her doctorate in fact.)

Recently I was talking to a Russian psychiatrist, now retired, who shared his opinion with me after a lifetime of caring for troubled children that 'not all people are meant to be parents'. (He is a prone to making heartfelt understatements.)

To be a parent is to be prepared to sacrifice bits of yourself, at least for  a time. If you can't make some room in your life for the care and responsibility of another human being, then it's not the right time to be a parent. It may never be the right time in your life.

It's more profound than even that: You can aim to be the perfect parent but you won't ever be the perfect parent. Personally, I encourage the children to air their grievances. I heard a biographer talk yesterday who said that it was his job to reveal and that a secret was more toxic than a revelation. I found myself agreeing with him.

Rod Jones wrote The Mothers, a story in part about a young girl who was forced to give up her baby for adoption when she fell pregnant at a young age, and all the repercussion around that one decision. In his book, the adopted child never blended with his adopted parents despite their best efforts to love him and care for him. Of course, many people have very different experiences with their adopted parents.

I read recently of a woman writer who cared for her dying parents and nearly stopped reading altogether. She read a little of  many stories but could finish nothing, as if endings were too difficult for her. Nine months after their deaths when she did start reading again she read 'coming of age' stories, as if she had to somehow come to terms with beginnings again before she could go on with her life.

In an interview Lorri Moore talked about "creating ruptures" as a writer; interrogating ways people observe and talk to each other, "where unbearable and lovely humanity dribbles through".

Hugh Mackay says that a happy life is made up of selflessness; forgiveness.

All these people saying something similar in their own way, something that Clarie Underwood of all people used to say to Francis often:

How can I help?

Legacy

I've watched The Godfather many times. Not only did I have a thing for Al Pacino but I was drawn to the story in a way that went well beyond the superficial story of the Corleone family and their Mafia control.

Many years after seeing it for the first time I listened to Ted Stanton talk about how he wrote Toy Story and I finally realized why The Godfather pulled me in. Ted explained that every movie has a message (It might be 'love is complicated' or it might be 'love is not complicated', for example) and every protoganist wants something. The film is built around that message and those wants. So, Michael, long after his father died, wanted to please him. Break down the whole movie and that's what you've got; a son's desire for his father to be proud and content.

I don't personally particularly relate to that message since it isn't an issue that has confronted me. I was, if not the favoured child, the good child. I didn't feel that I needed to make anyone proud. It's not really a concept that entered my mind much. I was too busy trying to accept myself, if that makes sense; that parcel of characteristics and eccentricities that make up who I am, to be too worried about what other people thought, even my parents. I was sometimes plagued by seeing my father unhappy and probably that's what made me 'good' and silent; a desire not to cause him any more unhappiness or anxiety than he already felt.

I can see that many people do have Michael Corleone's issue. My husband was not first born. He didn't get the attention that is so naturally thrust on the first born child. Instead, I would say that as a middle child he was almost neglected; considered unimportant; not privy to high expectations. He felt this and railed against it. He, of all the children, wanted to be a big success; to travel; to get away from poverty and distress. Against the odds, he achieved well in the academic arena and rose high in his profession of choice. That he did so well for a period of time probably made it even harder on him when the tide turned against him, and being born with tenacity, I feel sure that as long as he is breathing, he'll never give up trying to achieve success as it is defined in his mind.

I think there are two reasons why he'll never give up. Certainly, he takes his responsibilities to his family seriously. He wants the best for me and the children. But, I think the real reason he won't ever give up is that he is plagued with a similar obsession to Michael Corleone.

It's odd this complete commitment to a cause that is unwinnable. I understand it and I don't understand it at the same time. If a man was a delight to be with; if he was generous with his time and made that shared time pleasant, if he was affectionate or had a positive effect on his children's state of mind; I'd understand. However, my father-in-law cannot be described in this way at all. He's extraordinarily moody, cantankerous; difficult; not prone to praise people. He has zero awareness of the upset he causes amongst the family, it is thought, although I have strongly suspected for decades that he revels in this upset.

He has good qualities, of course. He is a family man and can be pleasant on occasion. He means well. But, his control issues and need to stay Top Dog supersede the goodness. He's manipulative, controlling, demanding and overbearing. You won't find anyone who will call it another way.

From the outset my husband warned me not to get involved in the politics of his family. I am pleasant to all of them; shoot the breeze with all of them and leave it to him to make the decisions related to them, even when I have found the situation quite ludicrous. I realized even in the early days that there was an unspoken policy that the children were to succeed and not succeed at the same time. To succeed meant that they could also be subject to their father's wrath. How could they live in comfort, perhaps buy a new car or home, when he had wants of his own? I overheard a hundred of these comments and this kept my husband down on the farm through university holidays, giving whatever spare money he had and then giving big chunks of money when he had big chunks of money to give.

That's all fine if there was some sort of recognition that my husband (and I) had paid his dues. My husband has given back every cent he has ever cost many, many times over, gave of his time almost every night of our lives for some years listening to his father's complaints about life on the phone. (Had he planted a camera in our house, calling at the exact moment I put the dinner on the table??) But, nothing turned him into a happy man. My husband is still trying, bless him, but nothing can make my father-in-law happy. He chooses to be unhappy.

I was talking to my oldest son last night and at a certain point I found myself sharing my concerns about his father. It's something I hate to do, but last night, it just happened. I didn't know, I said, how to stop his father from working himself into an early grave. My son does everything he can to allay my fears but this is what he said to me last night:

"Yeah. I just can't seem to pull him out of his distress lately. He always seems so exhausted, so defeated, so negative. In the past I've been able to cajole him and get him talking about something else, but lately it feels that I just can't make him happy."

Ka-Ching!

"Darling, who do you sound like?"

Silence

"Ohhhh, Dad talking about Grandpa."

"That's right. He'd hate to know that; that he was imposing on you in this way; that you feel responsible for his happiness in this way. It's not your responsibility to make him happy."

Now is not the right time for me to sit my husband down and explain what he is doing to his beloved son; the son he absolutely adores; the son of which he is so rightfully immensely proud.

To any father reading this, please drop the denial and listen to my words. Don't let this be your legacy. Take responsibility for your own happiness and leave your children in peace. Wear a smile. Teach them that life is good by enjoying your life. That's the best gift you can give your children. Life is to be lived, not endured.

Fear

I feel sure that growing up as I did in the 50s and 60s when corporal punishment was still very much the done thing, I was fascinated and fearful of what happened to some children. Since it didn't happen to me, but supposedly happened all about me, I think I grew up with a feeling that whatever it was, it was to be feared, and avoided. Then, the fear became eroticized and the next thing you know there is a middle-aged woman writing over 900 entries in an e-journal about her thoughts and feelings around that!

Many of my fantasies include fear as their base. I never launch into a spanking in my thoughts. Never. I'm told I'm going to get a spanking. It's a waiting sort of experience first. I'm put up against a wall to wait or told to report on Sunday at 3 pm, maybe five or so days away. Perhaps I have to report to the Master at the end of the school day. They seem to know that inducing my fear of the spanking is the real correction; reminding me minute by minute that they are the ones in control. They are the ones who will administer pain in order to make their point.

It seems so close to an impossibility that I could ask for a spanking, it practically is an impossibility. Yes, I once asked to be spanked, but just that once, when my craving overwhelmed my fear. Late 40s and having thought this stuff for decades I simply had to know what it felt like to be spanked. I'm fortunate that my husband didn't make it a 'Claytons' sort of spanking. It was the real deal. It hurt, it stung, it had me flailing around and screaming my head off. And afterwards, man, was I relieved and happppppy. I flew.

I often walk the dog late. She gets nervous around most other dogs and if I walk her late she doesn't need to feel fearful. There are overhead lights one way, just little lights along the path the other way,  and when I look left it is quite, quite dark. I imagine it is the woods and I test myself with the thought, 'Do you have the courage, little girl, to walk into the dark woods where there might be wolves?' I am seriously terrified at the thought, and I just can't do it, but I like to play with the fear. I look left, but I walk right.

I'm still the little girl in the red cloak, frightened of the big, bad Wolf, but so incredibly entranced by him at the same time. I suppose it won't change now. I have no reason to imagine it ever could.

The effect of the erect nipple

Good times aren't necessarily shared in journals. I think a journal keeper can be too busy being content to necessarily take the time to record that state. This absence of content skews the reader's perception, naturally enough. It's probably a mistake to read the diary of someone long dead and conclude that they had a miserable life. Who of us rushes in from a day at the beach to record that the sun was shining, the waves were perfect for surfing and we felt radiantly happy as we walked by the shore with the hard, wet sand providing the perfect comfort for our feet?

I feel this way. It's a bit of an effort to sit and record that I am feeling so much better than I have for some time, but in the interests of balanced representation I shall try to explain. I'd mentioned to my husband a week ago an art exhibition in the country that I'd like to see, and as this weekend took hold I mentioned it again. Did he think he could fit it in? On Saturday morning he informed me that we were going shortly and to get ready.  I love this; his deciding.

We both enjoyed the exhibition of Australian painters of the past 50 years set in a stunning contemporary building on a gorgeous property. When we'd seen it all we headed into the nearby town for a vegan lunch; that is to say we chose to go to a sort of hippie place rather than a upmarket restaurant because, well, that's us. We love those sort of environments. It would have been better if the singer recognized that he was not giving a concert but rather providing background music for a cafe, but, hey, that's just my opinion.

Anyways, the interesting thing about the experience is that I was wearing some stretchy jeans and suede boots, and I had put on a lace see through  bra under a creme cashmere jumper. There was an open leather jacket over that and a scarf around my neck. Now, when I sat down at the vegan cafe, and the air was quite cold, my nipples were evident, apparently. I smile to write that after 40 years of being together this little circumstance aroused my husband profoundly.

When we got home he wanted to make love. He came hard inside me for the first time in a rather long time. As he showered, for we had precious little time to get to a birthday dinner, I wondered, could it really have been a nipple evident through my sweater that flipped his switch?

Somewhere in the course of lovemaking he had asked if I'd like to wear my corset that night and after my shower I asked him if he would help to lace me. The truth is that although I have had my corset for a few years I've never worn it to dinner.

I loved how it felt. I immediately loved the contained feeling. Of course, it could have been tighter but there seemed no need to push the point the first time I wore it out. It was a very happy night and what I remember about it is that I was very 'in the moment' all night. I've come to understand that at this point in my life I need to be touched in various ways. The corset was like a hug. My body embraced the firm, uncompromising embrace.

I've had some experiences recently which remind me with new found clarity that everything I have ever wanted to experience via BDSM relates to experiencing more love, never less. If a SM experience or bondage situation or a D/s situation doesn't provide closer connection or deeper love or affection, I question its worth. Again, that is my perception; how I want to experience it. I can't remove myself from my truth that my husband and I both have an independent streak and that interdependency is our ideal scenario.

At some point when we were on the bed on Saturday afternoon I made comments along the lines of the above paragraph. I asked him if he'd be prepared to entertain the notion that we are, in fact, two independent people who do enjoy playing power exchange games; take on roles for the course of the play time. So, he might ask me to wear my corset out to dinner, or he may take on the dominant role and lead in sexual experiences, but it was understood that I would behave and live out my life as an independent entity at other times. Yes, he liked that idea very much. In other words, I was removing from him any expectation on my part that he behave in a way other than what came naturally to him but also asking that we engage in practices that brought me (and us) joy.

But, let's not get carried away here. I won't be calling the builder to come and do the renovations according to my timetable and budget. He calls the shots. He makes the decisions. I convince, persuade, encourage, entice. Come hell or high water, nothing will change on that account.