Virtuosity Again

I continue to be intrigued by the possibilities of using the ancient Roman virtues as guides for building my own personal Master image, so, here's my next candidate:

In discussing dignitas, I mentioned that one big strike against Cranky Dom was his lack of a perceptible sense of humor. Humor is critical to me, especially in someone to whom I'm going to expose my vulnerabilities. It's an effective way to ease my nerves and re-ground me. Plus, I just plain enjoy it. SP, for example, can make me laugh harder than anyone on the planet. He has a turn of phrase that I have never seen matched. BG isn't as purposefully amusing but he's quick and witty, with a finely-tuned sensibility for humor, plus he loves to tease. Humor is a good part of why I like to be around both of these men.

So clearly, I need to add it to my master image. But was there a Roman virtue for humor? (Let us be consistent, after all!) There was one - hilaritas - but, like dignitas, the definition isn't as straight-forward as the modern cognate might imply. Taken at face value, it could easily seem that I'm looking for a man with both dignity and hilarity. Defined properly, however, both these virtues connote complex qualities that I think fit very well into the dominant framework.

You can find hilaritas defined in Merriam-Webster as, "cheerfulness, merriment, and good humor." St. Augustine pinpoints it even further, describing it as "a mixture of intellectual excitement and sheer aesthetic pleasure at a notable display of wit."

Neither definition is talking about being funny. Rather, they both touch on humor in the broader sense of attitude. Which I think is an appropriate approach for a Dom to take. By shifting the focus of humor away from jokes to a larger, shared experience, you foster a sense of perspective - which is crucial to smooth interactions between people.
In fact, St. Augustine's definition actually implies that hilaritas is a function of listening. You exhibit it by being attuned to others. It denotes shared enjoyment, an awareness turned outward, rather than inward.

Now, don't those sound like skills a Dom should be able to utilize?

Perspective in particular seems to me to be critical for the dominant. As a person holding the well-being of his sub in his hand, the Dom has to be able to see past himself, into the sub's world. Being attuned, aware, and attentive to the needs of your sub is Basic Responsibility 101.
Additionally, a shared sense of enjoyment fosters co-operation. Some might think co-operation diminishes authority, but I would argue it only makes it more palatable. After all, the Dom may always be the one driving but isn't it better to arrive at your destination without a fight? (Think "catching flies with honey"...)

I actually like this broader approach to humor as an attitude. Humor ha-ha is very individual and prone to being misunderstood. Being good-humored and attuned to others, however, rarely lets you down.

So I think hilaritas makes the cut, too ...

The Hasbro Hour

With the ridiculous schedule that BG keeps, one thing I do to keep the magic alive is to send him intriguing pictures on a fairly regular basis. Basically anything I find compelling, anything I'd like to try with him, anything I want to see his reaction to, it all finds it's way to his Inbox. He likes this, to the point that he finally asked where the heck I find these pictures, anyhow.
So I turned him on to tumblr.

I think I created a monster...

Now, I play fair. I send him the pictures and let him appreciate the whole mise en scène, soak in the atmosphere, generally enjoy contemplating the whole visual, mull over the possibilities...

He just says, "Found another good one. You're in trouble!"

Which is how I ended up balanced on my kneecaps atop a cushion, hands behind me, feet bent to my butt and tied to my hands, face buried in his crotch. This is definitely a position with some challenge to it. The slightest adjustment in position or technique sends me lurching one way or another. Though fully dedicated to my assigned task, I'm entirely reliant on him for balance and placement.
And this man is one of those who go through life thinking, "Hmmmm. Wonder what will happen if I do THIS?"

So he starts playing around with his own personal Weeble:

Let's hold her by the head.
No, bad idea. Limits her movement too much.
Shoulders? Hmmm. That's pretty good...
What happens if I let go?
Oooh. She plummets forward. Aaah, nice and deep.
Wait? Is she breathing? Well, her lips are still moving...
Mmmmmmmm
OK, now she's looking a little blue. Back to the shoulders.
I'll try just balancing her, instead of holding her. See how she does...
Oh, that's good. I like that.
Very nice.
Maybe a little pressure to just one shoulder...
Whoa! Did I just puncture her cheek?!? No, we're ok...
Mmmmmm
ooooo yeah
hehe, she's slipping ag... GEH! TEETH!!
Back to the firm grip, I think.
Mmmmhmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm...

He was teasing me the other day that I've opened Pandora's box and there's just no way to shove all the stuff back inside now.
I think he just doesn't want to put back the new toy at his disposal...
WeebleGirl.

ISO Slutwear

True Confessions Time.
I used to be a lingerie slut. I had the figure, I had the money, Victoria's Secret was my best friend. It was a golden time of fun, frolic, and frilly things.

Then I dated a guy who could not care less about lingerie. Although when the kink was on him, he did like pantyhose. Not stockings, nothing pretty or lacy or sexy. Just garden-variety L'eggs. I'm not even entirely convinced I needed to be in them. I think I could probably just have handed him a wadded-up handful of nylon and gone off to clean the refrigerator and both of us would have been just as satisfied. (Or possibly more so.)

As a result, lingeretic apathy set in.
Then economic straits were encountered.
Between the two, I drifted waaaay off the frippery highway.

The good news is that I have been edging my way into traffic again since dating BG - but I'm still not quite back in the swing of things. The intervening years wrought changes and I haven't yet regained the keen sense of what flatters that I once had. Victoria's Secret is no longer a sure thing for me, nor is it quite the right price point anymore, either.

But that's OK. I have located other resources and my Sexy Undies drawer is filling a-pace. My troubles come with the, um, less elegant requirements, shall we say?

"Think fetish wear," he grins.
"OK. Type? Kind? Fabric? Pictures of examples...?"
"I like it all. Surprise me. Just wear it with heels."

Now, the shoe shopping, I'm all over.
Really. Trust me on that.

But I'm really having trouble locating Budget Fetishwear For The Tall, Zaftig-But-Not-Womens-Sized, No-Longer-20-Years-Old Gal Who Doesn't Know What She Wants Except That She Isn't Keen On Polyester Or Any Fabric That Melts In Heat.

Even cutting and pasting that into Google didn't help.

So I turn to you, dear readers. Any good pointers to be had out there?

An Elegiac Love Note

SP is about to upend his life and move on to the next new adventure.
I'm really pleased and excited for him. But I'm also a bit wistful because this next new adventure will take place largely away from internet accessibility. I'll hear from him but contact will be very sporadic and even less frequent than it is now. (Not to mention the newly-plummeted odds that I'll ever see him again. *pout*)

Granted, it's not like he'll be dead, as he has been at great pains to point out. (Which is why this isn't an elegy proper!) We aren't losing each other, it's just another phase in our relationship. (Approximately our sixth so far.) But circumstances will force us to shift from the closeness we've reestablished over the past few years.

I will miss him, as my friend, my advisor, my touchstone. He's my authority on questions both male and domly. He's my reality check. (He doesn't mind either role because the first gives him an excuse to indulge his prurient curiosity and the second, reasons to scold me, in a varying assortment of languages, on a regular basis. Both of which make him very happy...)
I'm not quite sure how I'll adjust to having to punt around him for these things.

But even if this change has aspects that sadden me, it also provides a good opportunity to reflect on what he's given me:
    *Twenty-eight years of unwavering love and support. From a distance but still, NOT a thing to sneeze at, no matter what form it takes.
    *The knowledge that there's someone out there who will always take my side, even if he takes it while zijk'ing at me for getting into this pickle in the first place.
    *The sweetness of being known inside-out and backwards and still found intriguing.
    *The realization that there are more flavors to life than vanilla -  and the courage to try and chase down my very own rutti-tutti ice cream cone.
    *Belief in myself.
    *Enough funny stories to dine out on for years.
    *A brighter world, because I know he's in it.

I think I come out ahead, don't you?

Hic Sunt Dracones

It's not that I mind that my life steps outside the norm but sometimes I wonder if I'm constitutionally equipped to handle it ...

I don't consider myself to be a limited thinker. I can actually stretch my envelope pretty well most of the time. However, I am occasionally brought up short by an unexpected obstacle to "doing." There are certain things that bring my own personal Bartleby the Scrivener to the fore. I would just Prefer Not To. And unfortunately, the toughest resistance is reserved for the things I fear.

A lot of times, with scary things, I can think it out and talk myself through it. You can't think out everything in life, tho', I know this. Sometimes you just have to jump in with both feet. (And a loud, exultant "Whoop!!!") I've done this many times and always been glad for it. Still, there remain plenty of occasions when I find myself doing the Wuss in the Water thing, advancing and retreating in small prancing steps, as squeaks of alarm issue from my lips.

I hate this about me. I loathe being a scaredy-cat.
I want to be Bold and Fearless At All Times.
But the simple truth is that some things just plain scare the crap out of me. There are physical fears, like bungee jumping and downhill skiing. At least with these, however, physical damage is the bogeyman. I may try to conquer the fear or not. Either way, I can write it off as common sense or survival instinct and feel comfortable with myself again.

Emotional fears are a horse of an altogether different color, however. Rarely do they fit nicely into so soothing a category as common sense. Usually, they're silly and baseless and we don't even want to admit them to ourselves because we'd have to acknowledge the ridiculousness of it all.

Yet emotional fears are entrenched in the primordial ooze at the very bottom of our psyche. Stir that up and who knows what sort of toxic, virulent amoeba will be released? There is an inordinate sense of dread to tackling emotional fears that is unmatched by any mere physical one. With reason - they are the hardest to excise and the most resistant to force of will.

I have overcome many of them, tho'. I have grown through intense grief. I have shattered and repaired and strengthened myself several times over in my life. I have embarked on a journey of self-discovery that has changed my very view of life. Each and every fear conquered has made me a stronger person.

Unresolved weaknesses still remain, however - places that I worry I lack the courage to explore or the strength to survive.
And one of them is his latest request...

Help Me To Understand...

I'm sorry, but I haz a rant. It's a long-standing one that I can usually tamp down but not today. It's also a rant that I can pretty much guarantee not all of you will get. But it's driving me flippin' nuts, so here goes.

Over the years, in a variety of moods, over a variety of situations, in a variety of ways, I have wondered aloud to my friends about what would cause a guy to venture into my sphere, when it was so obviously entirely unsuited to him. (Does anyone remember Goat Man?)
The scenarios I describe vary. The answers don't.
Male, female, what have you, allowing for individual vocabulary,
I hear the same thing:
"Boobs" 
"Tits" 
"Bodacious tatas"

Great. Thanks, guys.
Can I just tell you how very much this unconsidered response makes me want to SCREAM!!!!?

The irritation has been building for quite a while anyhow but then Hal pulled this crap on me last night and it was the last straw. I snapped. I really did scream. (Poor Hal. He just doesn't realize he's worn me down to my last nerve.)

He gave me the same bewildered response that all my testosteronely-inclined friends have offered. "I'm only giving you a compliment! Why are you so bent out of shape?"

Why? WHY??
Here's a "why" for you:
Why on earth would anyone think I'd take it as a compliment to be told that the sole reason I'm dateable is MY CHEST????

Have I not a brain? A personality?
No, apparently not.

Face? Eyes? Smile?
Nope.

Humor? Kindness? Intelligence? Compassion? Joie de vivre?
Those either.

Rather, you have excised me from my humanity and turned me into something not unlike that giant breast that rampages through the countryside in "Everything You Always Wanted To Know About Sex"

Talk about frickin' objectification!






My buddy Bookstore Guy tells the story of having to weed the women's section at his store. He claims he had never really understood the amount of pressure and objectification a woman undergoes until he saw all those book covers, touting plasticism and unrealistic expectations, all grinning at him from the cramped shelves in one small section of one small store.

He says, "I went in a disinterested male ... I emerged a raging feminist."

Now, generally, I don't consider myself a feminist. I honestly think that people are people and that's just how I approach most situations in life. But sit at the receiving end of this crap long enough and indeed, the rage seeps through.

So, please. We are all more than our parts.
I beg you to remember this and speak accordingly.
Because I love you all.
I'd hate to have to hunt you down and kill you.   :-)
(*kiss, kiss!*) 

More in the Same Vein...

So there I am, head bobbing up and down, rump alternately gentled by the hand smoothing over it and twitching under the relentless lash of the belt wielded from the other, knee burning where I'm kneeling on rope, wrist screaming from where the rope bites into bone, and glutes aching with the tension of centering my balance for over an hour.
He leans down and positively *purrs* into my ear, "You are turning into quite the little pain slut, aren't you?"

Part of my mind screams, "ARE YOU FRICKIN' KIDDING ME?!?!!"
The rest considers the aching, dripping state of my pussy and thinks, "oh, dear..."

And adding fat to the fire, we also have Mr. "Of COURSE I  Want To See Pictures of Your Bruised Backside!" SP.

"oooh, baby! You are a fiend! He's right, QUITE the pain slut ...
I think I'm gonna call you Blisterbutt ..."

*sigh*

More Words I Do Not Like But Probably Need To Accept...

Opening The Toy Box

As I hinted previously, BG got a toy box for his birthday.
Now, the whole point was for it to contain nothing but innocuous household items that could also double as instruments of torture delight. So, no floggers, no cuffs, no wartenberg wheel. It was chock-a-block full, but nothing that would look out of place in the utility closet.

The box was sitting on the coffee table when he arrived. I interrupted the headlong rush to the couch long enough to inform him that he might want to open it sooner, rather than later. "Oh, really??"

But naturally, he had to wait until I was bound and wrapped around him, suitably reddened, and on my knees with a mouth full of cock before he opened it. (A man with priorities.) He put the box on the couch next to him (I should probably be grateful he didn't just balance it on my head!) and dug through it with one hand. I didn't catch his expression for each thing he pulled out because his other hand was making sure I stayed on task. However, I was allowed enough leeway that I caught glimpses...

He chuckled over the two different length/weight brushes, raised an eyebrow over the ratchet strap, ooohed over the plethora of plastic clothespins (two dozen - what WAS I thinking?!?,) put the pattern tracer to immediate and effective use, and promptly had me pause to put out my tongue for some mint drops before nudging me back to my appointed duty. (consensus - VERY strong mint.) But he didn't say anything about the candles. So I rather shyly pointed them out. "Got a couple of these, too..."
"mmmhmm, I saw them." But that was all. Hmmm..

Now, I know this will sound ridiculous, but I really was a smidge nervous that the man who loves to bind me, clip me, spank me, strap me, and spread me might think I was a little weird for being intrigued by wax. So when he didn't say much about it, I thought, "Oh well. Guess they'll just molder in the bottom of the box."

Until he smirked and asked, "Matches?"
*gulp!*

It quickly became evident that there was only one wax virgin in the room that day (and her name was Jz.) He only did the top of one breast, just to give me the general feel. But it was enough to leave me grinning like an idiot. I wanted to take a picture of it in place but he said no. I have to wait for when he lays me out and does my whole chest and *that* will be what we take a picture of. So, we shall see. (That "we" being he and I, just for the record.)

I asked him later what he had thought about finding the candles in the box, since, as I've noted before, we've never discussed wax play.

"They were a nice surprise."
"So, shall I put the rest of the 5-pack into the box?"
"I think that is an excellent idea..."

squeeeeeeeeee!!!!