Photoshop and Perception

One of the disadvantages to a D/s relationship that gets very little time is that BG is never around to admire his handiwork. He may see the first tentative budding of a bruise but he never gets to see it blossom into it's full-blown glory. (And, trust me. My bruises BLOOM!)
So, I make photo-documentaries.

It's a very odd thing, tho', to be editing pictures of your girl-flesh. Even in my twenties, I never caused traffic accidents. With a few more years under my belt, there is no denying that temporal advancements have made our streets even safer.

Yet here I am, up close and personal, scrutinizing myself in pieces instead of using the broad, painted sweeps of overview that usually inform my self-perception. For most of us, this sort of proximity can induce an Edvard Munch moment.

But I am working on getting past that.

I recently had way too much fun with responded to greengirl's post, "...and which is illusion?" that no one view makes up the totality of what is real about a thing. Instead, reality is actually an amalgam. (And I'm STILL sorry that I scared everyone away, gg!)

I've decided that this approach could easily be transferred to my Photoshop tasks, as well. After all, no picture is a single pixel. So, instead of fretting over one particular view, I will look for as many different ways as possible of seeing the picture. Hopefully the perspectives gained will coalesce to let me see a picture of entirely new dimension and meaning.

So far I've identified:
The viewer who cringes as
    the wistful girl who'd like to be prettier.
The viewer who criticizes as
    the perfectionist who is always striving to be better.
The viewer who ponders the soft color and texture of skin as
    the sensualist.
The viewer who zooms in to examine the unique contours as
    the individualist.
The viewer who zooms out to admire a lovely curve of lineament as
    the aesthete.

As to the viewer who finds beauty in the bruises - I'm not sure I'll ever incorporate that perspective ... But I'll happily keep providing material for He Who Does!

On Finding Yourself Single Again

No, not me. At least, not at the moment.
Rather, I've been spending a lot of time lately pondering the condition of being separated. As a woman dating a separated man, it's something about which I need to be constantly mindful, anyhow. Additionally, however, I have recently become the confidante and advisor to my newly-separated friend, Hal.

Hal was married for 30 years and this just blind-sided him. He married young and it's the only real breakup of his life, so he has no idea how to handle it. As a result, he's letting his knee-jerk reactions rule him.

Which puts me in a tricky spot. Because Hal and I have been good friends for years. We have cheered each other on in life and love since we were twelve. It makes perfect sense that he turn to me now for support and I truly want to be there for him.

Except for the part where I have to watch him doing all the stupid, hurtful things a separated guy does to the women he dates during this period - a position I've held more than once in my life. (Oh! Including now!) When I hear of those shenaningans, I become, not Hal's friend, but the roaster of his butt.

Which is pointless and I know it. Separations make you fucked in the head and you do whatever it takes to get you through the now. Frequently, this involves throwing yourself willy-nilly into a relationship to distract you from how badly you're hurting. You select someone by using criteria geared toward soothing the ego rather than complementing the soul, rush the relationship to mimic the comfortable level of intimacy that you're missing, then when the other person relaxes and starts acting like they are expecting something from you in the relationship, you become profoundly uncomfortable. You're not ready for this! You're not even over your ex yet! You flee, leaving the other person feeling like used kleenex. Yet, you still hurt. Maybe someone else would prove a better distraction...
Let the loop begin.

With a breakup or two under your belt, you may have accumulated some degree of objectivity and know that it's better to heal a bit before jumping back into the fray. But that isn't always the case.

So, I listen to Hal, call him a bone-head when needed, reassure him that he's a terrific guy and any woman will be lucky to get him (once he gets past this unfortunate bone-head thing,) try to point out the woman's perspective, and wait for the whooshing noise as my words are sucked in one ear and right back out the other.

The positive side to this is that it's given me a chance to appreciate some of the things that BG is doing right. Partially this is just because he's farther from his bust-up and has a little more experience to boot. But also, he's a dom, a man wired toward awareness and acceptance of his responsibilities. (Heck, that's more than half of why he's so very B. He'll run himself ragged rather than shirk something he sees as his responsibility, no matter how many of them he's buried under.) That awareness has slowed us down, because he knows he is max'ed out and is not willing to bite off more than he can chew at the moment. But it also allows for a patience and honesty in communication that, frankly, surprises me in the circumstances. I was braced for the hare (rush/flee) - and got the tortoise (poky but tenacious.)

Which is NOT to say he hasn't mis-judged rather badly at times. We've had our share of run-ins. But he doesn't throw up his hands, say, "Screw this!" and stomp off in high dudgeon over receiving what one friend refers to as "that gentle Jz correction." With one glaring exception (since resolved,) he gives careful and due consideration to what I've said before responding. Even when we disagree, he enables me to respect his decisions. I may sometimes feel mis-prioritized but I am never made to feel disposable. Instead, he is helping me believe that although we may be crawling, we are crawling toward the long-run. It's nerve-wracking and I may yet falter. But I get more confident as time goes on, rather than less.
I think I'll take that as a good sign...

A Nursery Rhyme

This is the wax
That coated the breast
That wore the clip
That, like the rope
And even the wheel,
Came out of the box
That was opened today where Jz lives.

Happy Belated Birthday, Sir!

Images, Anecdote, and Virtue

There's a thing we do in my line of work, which is to "create a master image." I got giggling about that the other day, (in between rounds of wrangling machines and beating my head against the wall) and decided that it might be an interesting exercise to create my own personal master image. (May even come in handy someday - I haven't thrown in the towel on BG yet but it's definitely wadded in a ball at the moment.)

It's often easier to determine what you want by eliminating what you don't. To that end then, I was considering something said by MagnusCattus in which he discusses a Dom he knows who, "claims he is dom, is NOT Gorean, but does seem to honestly feel that women are property to be used as a man sees fit, that all women owe obeissence to a man simply based on gender..." 

His description reminded me very much of the very first Dom I ever spoke to online. (SP excepted, as he generally is for most things.) I came across this man on my dating website, which is vanilla but with the odd blend-in. So, I explained that I was inexperienced but exploring possibilities and asked if I could ask him some questions.

Our exchange failed for several reasons. First, he was one of those people who exhibits NO discernible sense of humor. I'm not sure if it was genuinely him or that he just didn't choose to break form. Whichever, humorless and Jz do not mix so well. I am lost without the give and take humor creates.

Second, he was not very accommodating of my inexperience. Granted, I'm sure he was braced for the possibility that I was setting him up for nefarious reasons of my own. But he was extremely unyielding, as though being cranky and stern would single-handedly earn my respect.
(So he's humorless, unbending, AND unrealistic.)

But the real, true, final straw was when he tried to intimidate me intellectually. (*coughs*) But wait, it gets better. Because not only did he totally miss the concept ballpark with the term he chose to lob at me but he also butchered the spelling of it in the process.
(Did I mention he'd claimed to have a PhD?)

Now, this wouldn't have been so irksome if he hadn't been so obviously (mis)using the phrase in an attempt to sound erudite. We all misspeak or misspell upon occasion. But I am a firm believer in that old adage, "Before you shoot your mouth off, make sure your brains are loaded." He didn't check his ammo, he just fired blindly - and failed miserably.

At that point, I stopped crediting anything he had to say.

Because I'm me, however, the first thing that popped into my head when replaying this conversation later was, "He is clearly misled as to the proper meaning of dignitas..."
(Yes, I really do have thoughts like that pop into my head. More often than I'd care to admit, actually...)
Let's consider what I meant by that.

One of the ancient Roman virtues, dignitas doesn't actually translate as dignity. It's a much deeper and more involved concept.
Classically, it was regarded as "the sum of the personal clout and influence that a male citizen acquired throughout his life. When weighing the dignitas of a particular individual, factors such as personal reputation, moral standing, and ethical worth had to be considered, along with the man's entitlement to respect and proper treatment." (emphases mine)

In other words, you aren't entitled to respect simply because you think you deserve it. You earn it, based on the comportment of a lifetime.

While I grant you that my short twenty-minute conversation was far less than a lifetime (despite how it felt,) his comportment failed him. Badly.
If what he showed me was real, he's a bozo.
If it was a rôle, he chose poorly.

In neither case will his picture be found next to the term dignitas in my master image dictionary.
(Just sayin'...)

Speaking of Fantasy and Romance...

SP is on my case again to "WRITE!"

I love him for his faith in me. However, I have tried to remind him that not all of us can knock out a book and two journal articles in under a year. Some of us have to deal with highly persnickety muses. He remains supremely dismissive of facts. (Although he did offer to send me periodic inspirational assists, such as emails saying, "I am now doing laundry - naked.")

I find it very strange how he's the one with the fantasy of me becoming a world-famous author, nodding my head graciously as I wield my Montblanc fountain pen during my many, well-attended book-signings.
I suspect him of scheming for access to a sugar-mama.

Personally, I fantasize about being able to afford to pay my taxes. Then getting my house re-wired. And re-sided. Maybe insulated. New windows. Renovating some rooms...
It's not nearly as elegant a dream but it would sure make me happy.

Don't you think it seems more like I'm the one in need of a sugar-'rent here?
Prince Charming? Knight in Shining Armor?
Vagabond Handyman as temporary lodger?
Bueller? Bueller?
Anyone???

On Failing Romance 101

I was chatting with an online friend the other day and he said, "Thankfully for [BG], you're more reasonable than emotional." I had to laugh because it very much reminded me of BG's words of a while back, "You are pragmatic ... and pretty damned sensible."

At the time, I really couldn't decide how I felt about that. I groused to SP that I didn't know whether to be complimented, offended, or afraid. He replied, "All he's saying is that you are a yankee - usually you take pride in that. It doesn't mean that there isn't a lot more to your turbulent self. -- You are probably just confusing those terms with "boring"."

Yes, pragmatic does feel like it means boring. But at an even deeper level it just feels unflattering - unattractive, somehow.

Facts must be faced, however. I've already acknowledged that I am neither a fashion success nor a girly girl. Now - my Valentine's Day True Confession: I am hopelessly unromantic.
I realize you're all GREATLY surprised and probably Highly Disappointed.
But it's true.

When I was active on my dating website, I frequently heard, "Do you like romance?" Helloooo? One of my pictures is of me in torn jeans, liberally spattered with paint. Does that strike you as the choice of a romantic woman? No. Hearts and flowers are not my weakness. They smack of technique, not interest, and I don't trust them. If this makes me an oddball, so be it.

To my mind, romance is the fantasy of love. It's pretty but it's not the part that's real. I've had romantic boyfriends. They were each more in love with the idea of love than with me. I don't want to be idealized, I want to be seen. I want to be loved, bad hair and all. I choose honesty over fantasy.

Don't confuse my not needing romance with not needing you to demonstrate your feelings for me, however. That would be totally the wrong end of the stick to get. It's critical in any relationship to frequently remind your partner that you appreciate them. I do question the generally accepted methods of how to accomplish that, however. "Romance" these days has come to mean a rather hackneyed, artificial construct of particular moves. It's become cliché and, frankly, too danged easy. Plug in some roses, add candlelight, throw in some scripted compliments, then sit back and wait for the kissing to begin.

What I prefer requires more effort. (There's just nobody out there saying, "oooh, I want to meet this woman!" right now, is there?) But what I want is for you to demonstrate that you have some appreciation of the person I am, rather than just seeing me as a cardboard-cutout generic female.
A beau once gave me a diamond pendant - TOTALLY not my style. Another offered a hand-blown glass fountain pen set for my writing. Which man got points for paying attention, do you think?

Pragmatic, it turns out, means "Dealing or concerned with facts or actual occurrences; practical." I thought about it a while and decided that I was OK with that, after all. Because BG's follow-up to calling me pragmatic was, "You figure out what needs to be done to make something happen, then you do it."

You see, the romantic frequently finds himself disappointed because he has failed to allow for some essential reality. The realist, however, can work pragmatically and sensibly to ensure that even seemingly-outlandish goals are reached. Like, oh, say, finding a man who will spank the beejeezus out of you, while assuring your comfort with a cushy pillow. (Just to pick an example out of a hat...)

Oh, and even tho' hearts and flowers don't work? - I am a sucker for chocolate. - Tho' I'm afraid I suspect that's greed, not romance ...  :-)

A Silly Question For You

I'm a bit behind the writing eight ball after a round of medical crap so no real post today. Instead, I'm taking this opportunity to ask you all a question that I've wondered about for months now.

How do you pronounce my name?

I know it seemed fairly obvious to me when I first decided on it but as time went by, more and more possibilities occurred to me. (Most frightening among them, "Jiz")
It also doesn't help that the template I use for the blog uses all capital letters, so 'most everywhere my name appears, it seems to be spelled JZ, not Jz.

So, fair readers, how about it? Am I:
    1- JayZee
    2- Jayz
    3- Jaz
    4- Jez
    5- Jiz   (please God, no)
    6- another permutation I have not yet considered
         (please include details)


(I do actually mention how I pronounce it in the small print of one of my earliest posts but as a lousy back-reader myself, I perfectly understand that few have seen it.)

The View Inside Her Head

She sat with head bowed, watching the rope wind around her wrists, noting the careful symmetry in which he worked. His hands are perfect, she thought, bemused by the dexterous fingers. He gave the knot a final tug and a quiver ran through her stomach.

"Shut your eyes and look up."

Blindly, she turned her face up and waited. Fingers gently smoothed the hair back from her face and her lips softened to an almost-smile. Something soft and cool brushed against her face before settling against her eyes. A light touch brought her head forward and she felt the crispness of his starched shirt against her forehead as he leaned to tie the blindfold behind her.

They straightened and she sat, waiting.
The jangle of a belt being undone sounded directly in front of her, followed by the rip of a zipper being pulled down. Her lips opened in anticipation.

"That's my good slut."

Her mouth closed over the velvety hardness she loved so much. Slowly, she explored him with her tongue. Long, broad strokes along the length, a firm flick to that tempting notch in the back, sensuous swirls all around the head. The fingers of her bound hands raised in forced tandem to gently stroke the softness beneath. Her body rocked in languorous rhythm as she savored the warm flesh.

"Mmmm. You'll be doing more of that later. Right now, I want you to stand up."

Hands cupped her elbows to steady her, then were gone. A gentle tug at her wrists and she slowly moved forward. In her mind's eye, she pictured his strong, broad hands around the rope as he guided her. What was it about that sight, she wondered, that she found so powerful? Even in memory, it warmed and softened her, made her want to drop her eyes and whisper, "yes, sir", to follow him gladly wherever he took her. She focused on that image, letting it center her as she was led carefully from the room.

The left turn brought another quiver to her stomach. The door. She drew a shaking breath as pleasure and anticipation made room for trepidation.

"Up."

Her hands were jostled back and forth as he adjusted the rope. There was a gentle creak, then the thud of the door closing. His shirt tickled her back as he stepped close. Warm hands ran up her arms to squeeze her fingers, then slid back down. An appreciative murmur started past her lips but changed to a gasp as he gave a sharp nip to her neck. The hands continued their warm slide down her body, gliding over her tummy, shaping her hips.

*SLAP!*
A whimper, quickly bitten off.

*SLAP!*  *SLAP!*
The whimper escaped this time.

Her breasts were caught in a firm squeeze. Fingers nipped, hands kneaded, maddening her, molding and pinching and twisting. She arched into them, then pulled away as the sensations increased. But the hands were relentless, pressing her back against him, flattening, twisting, wringing, squeezing. Strong teeth bit into her shoulder. His breath was loud in her ear and warm on her skin. She panted and whimpered and sometimes stopped breathing entirely. She sank inside herself and floated.

Suddenly, the hands were gone. She was struggling to focus when crisp whiskers brushed the throbbing skin of her breast. Sharp teeth clamped onto a nipple and her breath whooshed out of her and caught. She rose to her tiptoes and gasped air back into her lungs. Keening, she undulated beneath the sucking and tugging and biting, toward him, back again. He stopped. She started to sigh her relief but he'd only moved to the other side. Again, sucking and biting and tugging. Hands squeezed and pinched. Sensation swirled and escalated through her. Her cries grew louder and harsher until, finally, she threw back her head with a shriek. He pulled away once more. Gently, he ran his hands up her arms and squeezed her fingers.

"Where are the clothespins?"

Her mouth struggled to form words, to no avail.  But finally she slurred out an answer. Footsteps sounded as he walked away. She rested her head against the door and stretched her aching back, breasts on fire, loins throbbing, wanting, needing, yearning.
Rustling behind her. A hand gripped her burning breast - pain shot through her nipple. Right, left. Waves of agony washed through her as the clothespins were first jiggled, then flicked. An edge, cold and sharp, ran up her legs, across her rump, back, arms, chest, then back down the other side. She shivered as goosebumps rippled across her skin.
A soft thunk on the dresser - then... silence.

She waited, jagged breaths rasping from her throat.


*SLAP!*
*SLAP!*
*SLAP!* *SLAP!* *SLAP!*
*SLAP!**SLAP!**SLAP!**SLAP!**SLAP!**SLAP!*
*SLAP!**SLAP!**SLAP!**SLAP!**SLAP!**SLAP!*

His breath stirred her hair as he whispered, "I like it when you whimper."

His warmth faded and, dazedly, she heard the rasp of a belt being pulled free. She inhaled sharply and bit her lip. A brief impression of movement before hot, fierce pain slashed through her and she cried out. Once, twice, more, and more, and endlessly. She danced beneath the blows. The clack of wood on wood rang out as the lashes drove her body forward, breasts banging into the door. Pain wrapped itself around her like a lover, snaking it's arms from back to front to back again.

He nuzzled her neck.
"I like it even better when you scream."

Then he moved away, leaving her to slowly come back to earth. She sagged against the door, panting, sobbing, struggling for breath. Where was he?

A hand checked her fingers. The clothespins were roughly pulled off and a stinging, icy wetness massaged first one nipple, then the other. The rest of the dripping ice cube was pushed between her lips and she greedily sucked it with parched mouth. As the frigid water soothed her, the interrogation began.

"Whose tits are these?"
"Yours, sir."
"And whose ass is this, to beat anytime?"
"Yours, sir."
"And whose sweet pussy is this, to do anything to?"
"Yours, sir."

"Good girl."

The door popped in front of her and the tension in the rope slackened. Her hands dropped, tingling as warmth flowed back into her arms. She listened to the rustle of clothes being removed. Fingers turned her face, a warm mouth touched hers, and she opened her lips, welcoming the caress of his tongue. Hands cupped her face as they kissed and he guided her away from the door.

"Down."

He held her shoulders and gently pushed her to her knees. Drained, she dropped back on her heels. The rope pulled her hands out in front of her. She felt the soft brush of hair against her skin and realized he'd stepped inside the circle of her arms. Another tug to the rope and her arms were sliding up his legs. One more and she was back up on her knees. Something warm and smooth and hard brushed against her cheek. She nuzzled it dreamily.

"Time to finish what you started."
"Yes, sir."

She opened her mouth, still chilled by the ice, and drew him in where he belonged.