The Final Question

OK, one last one... 

(And Happy End of "Question & Answer Month", btw!)

monkey said, "I would love to hear one important thought about submission, your brand of submission, that you haven't written about."

This one was really tough, because truthfully, I can't think of much to say about submission that I haven't already said at one point or another. In fact, I actually went back to monkey to ask what sort of thing she had in mind, in hopes that she might jar some thoughts loose.

"I was thinking along the lines of something that surprised you about submitting, and/or about yourself, or something you struggled with/ had to learn, perhaps? An aspect that made you uncomfortable but now you accept? What you might tell someone who was just beginning to explore submission?"

Fair enough, altho' not immediately thought-jarring. 

As I've told you guys before, I generally feel like a dilettante when putting my brand of bedroom submission out there next to the deeper sort exhibited by many of you. I really don't "struggle" with that much about my submission -- which leaves me feeling like I must surely be missing the point, and so am probably unqualified to speak to any of this. 

And the bits I do struggle with, I've already written about… 

(Did I mention I feel like I've said everything I have to say?)

But maybe this will serve...

I had wondered, when I first began to contemplate this journey, how much submission might change me, or how much I might have to change for it. In my preliminary research of what D/s actually entails, I came across a lot of uncomfortable information, from angsty anguish over what being submissive says about you as a person, to the downright dehumanizing tropes that abounded. 

Did I really want to go this route? Could I?

Weenie Girl was not sure.

Conversations with SP reassured me that no, my life didn't have to get turned on it's ear if I followed this path. I could be a submissive and still be myself. Nevertheless, I had enough reservations that I did not actively pursue finding a D/s relationship. I just wasn't sure I'd ever meet anyone I could trust enough to take this chance with. 

And then I stumbled into BG -- and my world did get turned on it's ear.

But not because submission changed who I am. Rather, the surprise was in how it didn't. 

Oddly, submission makes both a profound difference to my life -- and absolutely none at all. My life wasn't uprooted, I didn't morph into some unrecognizable creature (of either the sex-crazed or doormat varieties.) Instead, I settled into myself and became more wholly me. Expressing my submissive nature brought a noticeable sense of improvement to my life, like when a cog finally slips into the wheel and suddenly your engine starts running smoothly. 

That was my surprise.

I didn't change, I became realized -- integrated -- a more complete Jz.

I count myself fortunate that it wasn't more of a tumultuous process -- redefining yourself can be an excoriating experience, I do know that. 

But here's the thing:

You can deny realities about yourself all you want but that doesn't make them go away -- it just makes everything ten times harder as you try to work around the obstacle you're pretending you don't see. 

Accept the realities, incorporate them, learn how to channel them, and you become a stronger, more complete person. Which in turn lets you spend less time fighting yourself and more time negotiating the curves of life. 

So there is the surprise and the lesson.

Don't be afraid. 

It's just you, after all.

An Open Book

"If your life were a book, what would the parts or chapters be titled?"

Another challenging one, miz sofia!

Not to mention sort of ironic that you would ask this. In my draft folder is one "Body of Literature" post, in which I discuss the ways that my corporeal self has tried to emulate works of fiction throughout the ages, all the way from an unintentional dramatization of the Miller's portrait (from The Canterbury Tales) at the age of 8, through "Dancer with Bruised Knees" (Lynne McFall,) before circling back to the classics with the recent dermatological procedure which left me with a big honkin', bright red "A" shaped scar on my back…

I liked the possibilities but I never could quite pull the post together, so there it has sat.

But it completely works as a jumping off point for your question, so here I go...

"My Life in Literary Segments - by Jz"

   Ages  1 - 5  = Brave New World

Having hatched, the conditioning begins...

   Ages 6 -10  = Adventures in Wonderland

I try to make sense of the weird and wonderful world surrounding me

(and learn that, when in doubt, you should grin…)

   Ages 11-15 = Dr. Jekyll & Ms. Hyde

Seriously. It's adolescence. Do I really need to explain this one?

   Ages 16-20 = The Call of the Wild

Venturing forth on your own and realizing you can run with the wolves… 

   Ages 21-25 = The Pursuit of Love

Before this, I hadn't cared because I was too busy having fun.

(This segment is all SP's fault…)

   Ages 26-30 = Things Fall Apart

In which I realize that life will often refuse to accommodate your Plan.

   Ages 31-40 = Jz the Obscure

This was the decade in which I slowly lost myself, mostly from trying to do what I thought I was supposed to do in order to become who I thought I was supposed to be. 

(Note to self: Don't do that again!)

   Ages 41-45 = Nausea

In which contemplation of what my existence had become filled me with strange and sickening sensations.

   Ages 46-50 = Pilgrim's Progress

With extra circuits of slogging through the Slough of Despond and overnighting in Doubting Castle before eventually getting within shouting distance of the Celestial City.

   Age 50-now = The Book of Laughter and Forgetting

It was this or, "Little Jz, Happy at Last" but I don't know if anyone really wants to claim they've achieved the state of happiness. That sounds unrealistically static. This is more like I've regained the capacity let go of the past and relish the now. That feels more apt…

About that Shakin' and Bakin'...

For someone who almost never gets takers when she puts out a call for questions, this is turning into, "All Answers, All the Time!"

But I love it -- (and hopefully you guys enjoy the ride, as well.) :-D

This time I bundled a few of monkey's questions:

"As the Queen of the naughty bloggers on-line cookie exchange, what is your favorite cookie? I truly have wondered." 

OK, first the disclaimer - I do not claim royalty.

"Queen" sounds lovely, of course, but I feel I should stop you at the "Organizer" tier -- it's more apt. Our cookie exchange is a group thing, I just get the (dough)ball rolling.

But to the more interesting subject of COOKIES!, I luuuv the Cherry Winks that I posted for the first ever cookie exchange. But I only make them at the holidays. (They're easy for a holiday cookie but choppin' those cherries gets a bit fiddly in everyday life.)

My favorite cookie for the rest of the year would have to be my Grandma's oatmeal cookie. But I am quite fussy about the "Grandma's" part. There many perfectly adequate oatmeal cookies out there, but they generally lack the amazing balances of Grandma's. 

It's crunchy -- with some chew to it, buttery and brown-sugary-sweet -- with a nice tang of salt to mellow it out. Nom!!

I don't make them often, however, because I find myself hoarding the entire batch of 4 dozen. For a single woman, living alone, who has lost the metabolic vigor of her youth, this is not really a sound policy.

(But don't even think about sneakin' your hand into the cookie jar, you! *slap!*)

"Your old icon, the big gorgeous green eye, was it yours?"

What, this ol' thing?

Yes, that's mine eye. I think of it as grey, to be honest, altho' I recognize that it looks pretty darned blue here. And of course, I love that you remembered it as green because that's totally exotic. 

But sadly incorrect...

"and do you still practice belly dancing? if not, why not?"

No, the belly dancing has kind of fallen by the wayside once more.

There are several reasons for this -- primarily, of course, laziness.

My front room, which is where my DVD player sits, catches the afternoon sun and is hotter than the hinges of hell in summertime. Which means I generally bypass that room, go outside where there's a breeze, and weed for exercise, mesmerizing hips be damned! 

This naturally kills any kind of momentum -- and I haven't yet been bothered to revive it.

Additionally, there's the fact that the DVDs get to be old hat. I've taken actual belly dancing classes, and they were much more sustainable, interest-wise, but they got pushed back to a time that's just not suitable for someone who has to (grudgingly) rise with the lark.

And finally, while the belly dancing was great to do during my recovery, once I got feeling better, I itched to return to the big-air, fast-twitch muscle moves of the modern dance I'm more used to. In the words of my mama (as she yanked me head first out of ballet classes,) "you do better with a faster dance, honey. Leave the ballet for the girls who are graceful." (As the quicker tempos actually suited me better, this wasn't as nearly hurtful as you may worry it felt.) 

I do still periodically work through the yoga portions of the yoga/belly dancing DVDs on hand. (For whatever reason, a lack of flexibility can motivate me to exercise much more persuasively than any mere pooching abdomen.) Plus, I occasionally don my finger cymbals to *clink!* around the house - just because.

But for the most part, the cymbals and bindis and DVDs lie dormant right now.

In Which I Select The Quick and The Dead

Today's question comes from sofia (who I now know is the lady behind "inlovingsubmission")

"If you could pick someone famous, living or dead, for a friend, who would it be?"

oooh, this is a fun one!

Tho' once again, I think I have to cheat the question a little. I'm going to give one of each (plus an alternate) because I really cannot narrow it down any further.

For the dead person friend (I'm feeling very Sookie Stackhouseish right now, btw) I believe I'd chose Jane Austen. 

We would sit with our needlework, take long walks, or just keep each other company in the "old maid's corner" of the country dances as we dissected people and their foibles -- and I would be all agog to hear her humor, her turn of phrase, and her pointed, discerning (yet very civil ) analyses of human nature.

Of course, it would be a mostly one-way friendship, -- I wouldn't be saying much because who on earth would voluntarily go toe-to-toe with Jane Austen in a verbal exchange? 

Not this girl! 

Nope, I'd just smile and nod like a benign idiot as I listened... But I would do my very best to always point out when she had ink smudges on her face. (That's important, no?)

A close contender for the dead person friend, however, would be Ralph Waldo Emerson.

He didn't make top pick because I rather doubt I could actually be friends with him, per se. But my heavens, would I love to be able to sit down and natter with him over dinner! 

I'm thinking on a monthly basis, maybe… and I'd take along my pointy-headed friend, Book Man, to keep the philosophical exchange at a more erudite level. 

(I'd just bring the cookies.)

Then I'd sit back to listen and think -- and then listen and think some more…

*sigh*

heaven...

For my famous living person friend, it would have to be Cher. 

In the words of Will's sister Honey in "Notting Hill", "I genuinely believe, and I've believed for some time now, that we could be best friends…" (Which I'm sure Cher would receive with precisely the same degree of enthusiasm that Anna Scott displays in the film…)

But I'll bet Cher is a GREAT friend to have. 

She seems absolutely genuine, unafraid to be herself, even if that self raises eyebrows, she's funny, unflappable, blunt, and I suspect, very loyal to those she genuinely cares for.

I totally want to do Pizza Night Fridays with her!

(Not to mention that she's probably a fantastic resource should you need to borrow something with sequins...) 

So there you have it, miz sofia.
Not terribly profound choices, perhaps, but mine own. ;-D

I Haz Questions!

Well, technically, I gotz questions and now I haz answers.

But let us not nit-pick. It's a fine spring day after all, and I have six questions to address.

It probably won't surprise anyone that the first answer I offer is to monkey's question: 
   "what is your very very favorite moment that you've had with BG?"

Unfortunately, it's kind of hard to come up with one single very very favorite moment, we've had so many amazing scenes and lovely, special times together.

But I think I can pinpoint a single most memorable moment, if that variation is allowed…

I've mentioned before that I have some problematic neck issues. If it gets torqued the wrong way or strained in certain positions for too long, my breathing shortens, my vision starts to cloud, and I am in very real danger of passing out. I've never actually gone completely unconscious on him but I have dropped to the floor pretty darned quickly in my attempts to NOT go out cold.

Well, my most memorable moment is of the first time I had to do a floor dive. 

Which just happened to be during our very first scene together -- which also just happened to be my very first scene ever. (And still he came back for more, go figure...)

Now, I hadn't warned him this might happen because I didn't know myself. In vanilla life, I'd always shifted position long before the situation became critical. I honestly had no idea…

So there I was, strung up by my wrists at the door; arched, straining, dazed, (and incredibly aroused,) when I realized my vision was greying. Screw "red" or "yellow" -- it was all I could do to gasp out, "fainting!", then pop my hips back and get my head down as low as I could.

Without missing a beat, he had the door open, my arms down, supported me to the floor, made sure I was in a safe position, and got me some cold water. He watched me intently and, at about the second breath after my color returned, ran his hand over my hair and, gently but firmly, patiently but implacably, required me to take his cock into my mouth.

Expectations were not excessive -- minimal attention was all that was required from me while I recuperated in my safe position, but I was not allowed to forget just what we were doing here, either.

This flipped a switch deep inside and I completely melted. 

He's had to do this a couple more times since and that "reset" makes me go "oof!" every time.

I love that he never lets me hijack control, even inadvertently. 

Instead, he accommodates the problem, cares for me beautifully, and keeps the scene from getting derailed -- we just bank the corner and keep on going.
And he does this without ever making me feel bad or fret that I've somehow spoiled things. 

Dominated, tortured, cared for, controlled, safe.

It doesn't get much better than that...

Questions Unanswered

Back in November, I threw out a couple of questions to the world -- and then never answered them myself. (How very devious of me!) 

They were:

   "What do you imagine your Patronus as being?

    (And what do you suspect it might actually be?)"

and

   "what is the nicest thing anyone's ever said to you?"

I think the time has come for answers, if for no other reason than to get these half-formed thoughts out of my drafts folder. 

(Although you'll notice it also gives me March questions to answer, even tho' no one has actually asked me any … HA! Beautifully sneaky and I didn't even plan it!)

As far as my patronus is concerned, I'd love to think it would be something lofty and soaring, like a seagull. Free and graceful and playful…. oooo, watch it dive and swoop….

Unfortunately what I suspect would actually emerge from my wand, however, would be something small and prickly, like a wee hedgehog - in full spinal alert. 

Not nearly as picturesque as aisha and her unicorn…

The nicest thing ever said stumped me for a while. There have been observations I've appreciated, flattering compliments from loved ones that make me smile, but nicest thing was tough.

I think, however, it was a friend saying, "You really are a good person, aren't you?"

Now, I hasten to add, I don't think I am, particularly. 

I'm prickly and snappish and blunt and sarcastic and arrogant and I don't understand emotions very well so I'm constantly blundering all over people's feelings. 

I have a long, long way to go before I reach "good"...

But I do try.

And having someone see that felt, well, really nice.

How about you guys?

Amendment #3

Dear Unforthcoming Ones,

It is unarguably true that "It's The Thought That Counts"...

But in order to collect your points for having that thought?

It is necessary to share that it has ever crossed your mind.

Otherwise, no cookie.

(just sayin'...)   

umm... what??

There's a lot I don't understand about blow jobs because, well, I haven't actually been giving them that long.

You see, waaaay back in the day, when very young and even more naive than I am now, I had an unfortunate date. The only one, in fact, I've ever come away from with non-consensual activity-type bruises. I managed to get myself out in one piece by giving the swine oral - only to find I could no longer stomach the thought of ever doing that again. The associations of fear and anger and disgust were too strong.

I'd try - the front part of my brain was willing but the more instinctual regions would take over and my flesh would recoil -- and my stomach heave…

I Just Couldn't. 

Blow jobs were simply not on offer if you dated me. 

For nearly 28 years.

But time did it's healing thing and eventually, thankfully, I realized I'd finally gotten through this -- just in time for BG to begin his tutelage in the fine art of cock-worship. (yippee!)

One result of the long delay, however, is that this service has not yet become second-nature to me the way it seems to be to many of my contemporaries. Rather, it's still a thing of wonder and joy. I keep getting lost in the pleasure of it all, both given and gotten.

So I'll admit I was a little taken aback to read the question, in one of the many memes circulating out there, "What's going through your mind as you give a blow job?"

Huh?

I'm supposed to be thinking about things, too?

Apparently there are memos I still haven't gotten…

Check The Fine Print

I've always considered myself to be someone who likes animals.

Dogs, in particular, thoroughly rock. 

Cats maybe not so much but I'll still pet them whenever they so deign.

I've had birds, turtles, chicken, fish, and a mouse as pets... 

Somewhere in my stash of old vacation photos, there's even a picture of me riding an elephant. I am smiling happily and looking quite excited. 

Also from that day is a picture of me with a snake draped around my neck.

Can I just mention that I don't look nearly as happy or excited in that one...?

In truth, I don't know how they ever got me to stand still for that picture, because I am, in fact, completely creeped out by snakes. Actually, I'm not a big fan of any reptile but snakes take the prize. Even coming across a shed skin will make me squeal like a ruffled-panty'd little girl. 

Not that they incite bloodlust or anything of that sort -- I'm more of the "throw something and run" kind of gal. Nor do I care if they exist quietly beneath my woodpile -- just please do NOT let me see you, oh Snakes in My Grass.

And for the most part, Snakes in My Grass have been highly cooperative in enabling me to live a reptile-free existence ... until last summer.

Because something about my closed-in back porch became very attractive to snakes last summer. Apparently, it was a very pleasant place to sun. I know this because most afternoons would find a snake slumped bonelessly in a position of complete repose -- On. My. Porch. 

As in, right inside the door.

Completely underfoot.

Where I could pretty much step on it before even seeing it.

     (yeah….)

But I blocked up the access point, the siestas ceased, and I breathed a sigh of relief that Snakeypoo had moved on -- way too soon. Because shortly afterwards, I accidentally mowed the very essence out of Napping in the Grass Now Snake. (And let me tell you, if snakes already creep you out, a gouged, bleeding, semi-eviscerated snake is not an improvement. *blergh*)

It was thoroughly unpleasant surprise and certainly brought my mowing progress to a screeching halt (while I did a little screeching of my own.) Heart pounding, I watched and waited until the snake began a slow, hesitant trek toward recuperation. 

Except that pain apparently affected it's sense of direction because on the next pass-thru, I mowed the crap out of the stupid thing again. This time, the snake was distinctly impaired as it slowly twitched it's way to sanctuary. 

I had a bad feeling…

Sure enough, the next day, the snake was only about 3 feet from where it had last been seen wriggling. But it wriggled no more. Nor was it shiny anymore. 

Or responsive to gentle prodding.

Yup, I had a creepy dead thing in my yard.

And truly, despite my reputation for being pragmatic and not particularly girly, there are still times when my actions are purely X-chromosome-driven.

This was one of those.

But, oh, wait! BG was due that evening. I'm saved!

"Will you get the dead snake out of the yard for me? PLEEEEASE??"

  "…maybe. … If it's still light out when I arrive."

Naturally, he was late.

Dark as pitch as he came up the walk, it was. And I knew better than to even think of asking if he'd mind delaying his blow job until after he'd disposed of a dead snake…

But Eternally Hopeful Girl did give it a shot on his way out.

  "Hey, I've got a porch light, you know! … AND flashlights!"

  "Nice try!" he laughed over his shoulder as he strode (very) briskly away.

You know, expectations of submissive roles be damned.

There are some vanilla tropes that just plain trump the dynamic, hands down, every time.

Dead Thing Removal is one of those.

I'm pretty sure it's in the contract...

Tongue / Tied

I was informed that the theme for the evening was "Making It Difficult For You."

(ooooh, boy. Don't we all love to hear that?)

Yeah, OK, I'm being facetious. I actually do love to hear that, because this is one of his skills -- adding just enough challenge to please both of us without setting me up for major failure. So most of the time, it's really only code for, "This is gonna be fuuuun!"

By giving me about 6 inches less play on the rope around my wrists and pulling the end taut before he sat down on it, he managed to leave me with a considerably restricted range of motion. My arms were snug around his back, my face was pressed against his body, and I was firmly anchored, to boot. I had about one inch of bobble room and that was it. 

Not really ideal conditions for a stellar performance.

By rolling onto a shoulder and straining my neck, I was able to look up at him and quirk a questioning eyebrow… 

  (*I'm supposed to do this from here HOW exactly?*)

Reading my mind, he smirks,

"Oh well, your tongue is going to have to work just that much harder, I guess. Now, get to work..."

(you know, he never says that to me in regular life…)

A Rolling Penny Gathers My Thoughts (and a lotta dust)

Aisha had a post a while back in which she mused over "who has the power?" She closed with a question on what role pain plays for us and suddenly, a penny dropped in my head... and then started rolling across the floor.

This post is me chasing the wayward penny. 

I have no idea where we're going to end up, so please bear with me...

(and my preemptive disclaimer - there are NO value judgements in anything that may come out of my mouth, I'm just talking about me and my own tiny little head. So even if something irks, it was not intended as a jab at anyone's choices, ok?)

The two dominants I adore are very similar creatures, yet with completely different styles -- which allows me some interesting insights into unfamiliar mindsets.

To answer aisha's question - BG uses pain (with safe words) to access my submission. 

It's his preferred mode and he was absolutely delighted to discover that the untried n00b that was me when we met actually housed a trapped pain slut, dying to get out and dance beneath his hands.

SP goes in more for playing with your head -- finding the stuff that is humiliating and hard and pushing at that. (Or maybe it just happens that the areas where he likes to push are the ones that I find humiliating and pretty much impossible - but that still boils down to the same thing, no?) 

SP feels that this approach is able to access a deeper level of submission than simple pain does -- which part of me can completely understand. Pain is just physical, the mental stuff is where you're really getting in deep.

But this is complicated by the fact that he also finds safe words unappealing. You're not really in danger, you're just uncomfortable, so he tends not to want to let you play that card. 

Again, I get this, and can even agree -- in theory.

However… 

It highlights underlying issues that I can't ignore.

It's not that I'm balking at what seems to be a simple question of power and trust -- what I can't get past is the question of responsibility. 

You guys already know that I strongly believe that I am the person who is ultimately responsible for me. To my mind, this is not a role you can abdicate. You can pretend you do -- your responsibility to yourself may look lovely with that tablecloth thrown over it for disguise, but none the less -- there is an undeniable reality here. Me - my self.

But this peripatetic penny has caused me to dig just a little deeper into why I feel that way...

I think it lies in this:

Pain affects the body.

If your body gets injured (at least, non-fatally,) it will heal itself.

Mind-mucking affects the psyche.

And if that is injured, I have to do the work. There's no built-in repair system to take over, nor is there a dominant in the world who's good enough to fix me all by himself - that task falls to me. I'm not denying him his part in the equation -- he can undoubtedly help, facilitate, strengthen, and guide, but if I'm not on board, doing the work, nothing is going to happen.

So I cannot accept that when it comes to playing with my psyche, I have no say in what happens. I still have to be able to judge what might cause damage beyond my ability to repair - and to be allowed to sit that particular one out if need be. For someone to dismiss that opens a very large rift in our common ground.

Conversely, with BG's approach, the knowledge that he will not try to appropriate that responsibility enables me to relax more deeply into the trust between us and go more easily where he takes me. Knowing I'm allowed to have a say frees me from feeling the need to say anything. 

(It's kind of the D/s equivalent of taking an umbrella so it won't rain.)

It just works out that for me, pain is the better vehicle to travel in.

Elasticity

Ever notice how different relationships are woven with different types of elastic?

Some seem so resilient, you assume the elasticity will be infinite -- until you find yourself flat on your back from the kickback of the break.

Some use such springy stuff that you bounce continually, never quite sure where you are at any given moment. 

(Not a good choice for those of us prone to motion sickness...)

Some have cheap elastic that snaps at the least provocation.

Some elastic appears so sturdy that you think it will last forever, only to realize that too much use has graaaaadually stretched it to the point where there's virtually no give left and you're really kind of just flopping now.

Some have trompe l'oeil elastic: pretty-looking but completely fake.

And every now and again, you stumble across one with some kind of space age inter-galactic technology-type elastic. You pull, you tug, you yank, you stretch, you take it for a run around the block, you assume it must surely be shot to shit by now. Yet there you are, for good or bad, still going strong...

(do you suppose these people could be aliens?)