Friday, November 20, 2015

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.

Wednesday, November 11, 2015


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.

Saturday, November 7, 2015

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.

Monday, November 2, 2015

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.