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.