Unfathomable

So, I am in one of the worst funks I've experienced for quite a while.
Major, MAJOR case of the fat and uglys.
(Think beginning to try to counteract eight weeks of near-complete immobility combined with nausea-battling, non-stop grazing could have anything to do with that?)

And yet, in a stunning display of the indomitable nature of my mother's shopping gene, I was still unable to keep myself from purchasing this:

Hey, $13.83 on sale, hello!

My brain.
I don't know whether to applaud it or shoot myself...

The H-Word

"There was a great deal of promiscuous kissing in the vestry" -Dorothy L. Sayers, "Busman's Honeymoon"

I am from New England -- NOT The Land of Casual Touch.
Around here, touching only takes place in a sort of once-removed fashion. We'll do hip chucks, elbow nudges, and shoulder bumps, but getting the hands involved?  Nooo, no, no! WAY too intrusive, that.
Pressing torsos? Excuse me?!?!??

So you can imagine that I find myself feeling a bit like Alice in Wonderland as I wend my way through BlogLand...
     "Hugs"
     "(((H)))"
     "hug"
     "{h}"
     "HUG!"
Goodness me! I hesitate to align myself with such a disagreeable character as the Duchess of Denver, but really, there is a great deal of promiscuous hugging here in BlogLand!

Now, I'm only teasing about this. I am honestly neither bothered nor offended by being offered hugs and I genuinely appreciate the sentiment, so please don't think I'm asking anyone to stop using the h-word. Just, also please, don't feel hurt if I fail to respond in kind.
It's not comfortable, it's not second nature, it's just ... not me.

(If I'm born in different part of the country in my next life, I'll look you up and hug you twice then, how's that?)

Meanwhile, shoulder bumps to you all!  ;-)

My Two Cents Worth

I'm glad to join in on sfp's Bloggers United For Human Rights.
But this will be short. Because I am pro-choice -- but I am also a realist.
No amount of impassioned pleas or finely-honed arguments from me will change anyone else's mind. Beliefs are deeply personal and resistant to external pressure.

So I am not going to argue my beliefs, I'm simply going to ask you to stand up for yours. We live in a society where we are allowed to voice our opinions -- please do so, whether it be in large ways or small.
Do not turn your back on the opportunity to make a difference.

For more information:
     Center for Reproductive Rights
     NARAL Pro-Choice America 
     NOW 
     Womens Reproductive Rights Assistance Project 
     Native American Women's Health Education Resource Center 
     Ipas  (global non-profit)
     United Nations Population Fund 

For a musical perspective:

Be Mine?

 

Done here, with a little tweaking

face_palm

Since I completely dropped the ball for SP's birthday this year (I usually try to write him a story) his belated present was an audio clip of me reading this, instead.

His response made me smile -- until the closing sentence....
"Incredibly perfect. Worlds of erotica open on that simple "yes" the way she says it several times. ... Would you do the soliloquy of Molly Bloom for me?"

Now, I have managed to dodge the literary bullet of James Joyce thus far and I am frankly not in any hurry to correct that omission. (Yes, yes, I know... he's brilliant, I'm a cretin -- none the less, the fact remains...)

So, I had to google it.
In case you're as unfamiliar as I was, Molly's soliloquy (per Wikipedia,) "consists of eight enormous "sentences." The concluding period following the final words of her reverie is one of only two punctuation marks in the chapter, the periods at the end of the fourth and eighth "sentences." [At the time it was] written this episode contained the longest "sentence" in English literature, 4,391 words."

Say What?????

So, I looked it up. 
It's stunning, it's beautiful, it's erotic, ... it's twenty-four thousand, two hundred and thirteen frickin' words long -- with only two punctuation marks and seven line breaks to aid the reader!
Can you say, "mind-numbingly daunting"?
I'm not sure how you successfully read it, much less orate it...

So of course, at this point I laughed and shot SP an email. "I thought you were serious but you are yanking my chain, rotten man!"

He's not.
At all.
In fact, I think he's already counting the days until his next birthday.

Note to self:  Sometimes, it's really better to just remain ignorant...

The Draw

This one's for lil, who refused to get swept away in the Great Limerick Tidal Wave but stayed on point and asked, "what drew you to ttwd?"

Perhaps surprisingly, I had to really think about this. I've spoken before of how I realized I wanted submission, but exactly what drew me? That's a slightly different slant to the question - and I wasn't sure I had a single answer.

I uncovered my interest in BDSM through a series of small discoveries, all made in hindsight. Each breakup of a relationship revealed a new quality to be added to my mental list of "what I want (or don't) from the next guy..."

I came across an old email to a friend the other day in which I said, "I blame my boobs", which sounds silly but actually is a valid starting point -- just one that hardly tells the whole story. I mean, it's one thing to realize that your breasts respond best to rough handling, but by itself, not really sufficient reason to run out and join CollarMe, is it?
But it was my first step.

More realizations followed. Some concerned the physical, some the mental. But my list was growing. Small discovery added to small discovery until finally, when SP hit the switch for that "you like to sub!" light bulb, I realized that I had a whole bundle of wants and needs that fit nicely under the heading of "submissive."

But what did those wants and needs have in common?
What was "the draw"?

Much pondering later, I've decided the common denominator is -- sensation.

Physically, I love the greatly expanded range of sensation that I get from bondage and use at the hands of a sadist. Ramping up the sensory input does wonderful things for me.

Mentally, I adore the mind fuck of submission. It's that whole, "your brain is the largest sexual organ" thing. I love a man who knows how to dig inside, find, and push the buttons that make me feel quivery and mindless. Control me, cherish me, take me to the stars... that feeling.

That sounds pretty one-way, but it's not. When you find a man who can do that, when you realize that synergy, that you are giving that same intense, deep satisfaction right back to your dom, that the two of you have created an energy loop on such a profound level... that is probably the most amazing feeling of all. Because at that moment, you have been drawn outside of yourself and become sensation.
And I'm not sure it gets much better than that.

Bad Ideas, #217

To present your tit-torturing dom with a mini-slapper, a full hour after he has walked into your house for the first time in seven weeks, determined to make up for lost time.

And if you must do this, if you simply cannot refrain, then do NOT, for the love of all that's holy, lean over with your breasts swaying temptingly as you point out how it's an ideal size to use on nipples.

I blame the concussion...

Hoist With My Own Petard

I've bumped into a few norms and conventions lately that have really set me to thinking. (Hey, I have the time at the moment!)  Mostly they have been ideas that just bother me in the abstract but then BG unearthed a real doozy, one that actually gets in my way and needs addressing.

Background: I cannot remember a time when I ever wanted to get married -- or to have children. In fact, I even told Mom this, so I already knew it by age twelve...

Now, I have always thought it would be nice to have someone in your life. Someone to love, share with, lean into. But the structure I've pictured for that relationship has always been pretty free-form. I've never gotten tangled up in the societal norms that form the basic requirements for many couples.

In college, a guy friend suggested I might have better luck with guys if I "played the game a little more."
What game? What does that mean?
And why do I want to play at something I don't feel?
I was ... confused.

Shortly after graduation, I had a date with a man who had his PhD in Philosophy and double masters in Philosophy and Econ. This guy could analyze and think -- I had high hopes. But then he spent the majority of the evening telling me that women were only after security and they basically lied to trick men into marriage. (Ah. The Game!)
The date ended with his arm around my shoulders and his face pointed 180 degrees away from me as he uttered the memorable words, "I'm really attracted to you but I don't know what to make of you."
He was ... confused.

I ushered him to the door with the injunction to call me if he ever figured it out, then sat back and thought, "Well, I may not play the game but at least I don't have to deal with that idjit!"

But this is a situation I've run into time and time again. People are completely disconcerted by my lack of an orthodox approach to relationships -- and their confusion frustrates the dickens out of me. Every time.

I have never claimed to want any of the standard conventions attached to love, yet no matter how far you stay away from the field, no one ever believes you're not playing the game, anyhow.
It seems that societal norms are so pervasive that people frame you inside them, despite any and all words you might utter to the contrary. They cannot shake the conviction that "free spirited, single, and OK with it" is actually subliminal code for, "Desperately Looking For Someone To Move In With."

Even BG, with whom I've had this discussion many times, seemed to have fallen into this trap. Our latest Time of Troubles was over his very real concern that my eventual goal was cohabitation and constant companionship.

While beating my head against the wall, however, I finally knocked a realization loose:
In all our previous conversations, I had tried to explain what my requirements were and -- defend what they were not -- by using a word intrinsic to those very conventions I avoid.
I had said I wanted to be the girl friend as well as the fuck toy, without bothering to explain what "girl friend" meant to me!
Now, *I* knew that I was saying, "someone you care for" - not "someone you plan on eventually settling down with" but how could I fault him for not grasping what I hadn't bothered to spell out? Especially since I know from experience how deeply ingrained those implicit assumptions can be. (Remind me again who the idjit is?)

With this new light bulb illuminating my thoughts, I poured out yet another email. This one shows signs of having succeeded. It seems there may be room to meet in the middle.
At least right now we're not ... confused.

We Interrupt Our Regularly Scheduled Posting...

... to bring you this special musical interlude.
I just discovered that this is on YouTube and I had to share it.
It's one of my all-time favorite songs, one I first heard long before she gained fame as a songwriter.


Cheryl used to show up regularly at the local pub, and we would drop everything to be sure we got there early to get good seats.
Nowadays, most people are familiar with her work from hearing it sung by other people. Well, I may be biased but I've never heard anyone perform her music better than she does.

Friends, I give you Cheryl Wheeler.
One Frickin' Talented Lady

The Bitching will resume as usual in our next post...