Busy, busy, busy

I dashed out the door last night to meet the two boys for dinner and movie. One of the boys is moving to NY state at the end of August...and although I'm thrilled for his new adventure, I'm also sad. Clicking from the first time we met, we've been making a concerted effort with finding time to hang out and get to know each other more deeply. He's a wonderful leatherboy, a great player. Sexy. He's also an assistant teacher with the Body Electric School. I'm going to miss him lots.

Getting home late I fell into bed...only to wake about 6 and rush off to work. And, I didn't get home until after 9 tonight. I had another hair appointment with the Bear. We cut it even shorter than last week. A friend met me at the shop and we grabbed some dinner and walked around town before they needed to head to the Eagle to bootblack. Tomorrow, after work, needs to be a stay home night. Rest, rest, rest.

Work is way too intense right now to be out all the time.

I had a great talk with my therapist this morning regarding this whole connection stuff and slavery. He said something very interesting.
He mentioned a progression in development.
Codependence to independence to interdependence. He said my longing for a strong connection these last few years was natural due to the 15 plus years I've spent being strongly independent. He said..."it's time".

So, thoughts are still fresh in my mind and I'm not quite ready to put into words. Maybe in the next few days.

Connection...wow. Connection.

Thank you Singletails. I hope you don't mind if I quote from your latest post.
This afternoon Singletails wrote: Maybe that's it in a nutshell. Only connect. The experience of connection with another human being, even with the most mundane of apparatus, is far more powerful than the solipcism (sp?) of fantasy, no matter how wild.

Now I'm wondering if connection is one of the driving forces behind what we do. Or maybe "the" driving force?

My ego is such that I always fall into the pit of thinking there's something wrong with me if connection is involved. Like, maybe I'm too weak to go it alone. Or maybe too needy.

What if it's all about connection..period? What if that's the reason we are put here?
What if no matter where we set our sights, be it a new job, or s/m or painting or....whatever, that down deep our motivation is connection. In that case, what's wrong with connection?

Maybe, in this oh so stubborn head of mine I've been throwing out the baby with the bathwater, or something like that.

I need to let this simmer seeing I'm headed out the door to meet two boys. But I had to get this down first. More later.

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Vocation and Slavery

\Vo*ca"tion\, n. [L. vocatio a bidding, invitation, fr. vocare to call, fr. vox, vocis, voice: cf. F. vocation. See Vocal.] 1. A call; a summons; a citation; especially, a designation or appointment to a particular state, business, or profession.

2. Destined or appropriate employment; calling; occupation; trade; business; profession.

3. (Theol.) A calling by the will of God. Specifically: (a) The bestowment of God's distinguishing grace upon a person or nation, by which that person or nation is put in the way of salvation; as, the vocation of the Jews under the old dispensation, and of the Gentiles under the gospel. ``The golden chain of vocation, election, and justification.'' --Jer. Taylor. (b) A call to special religious work, as to the ministry.

Source: Webster’s Revised Unabridged Dictionary, © 1996, 1998 MICRA, Inc

I attended Catholic schools for 13 years: grammar school, high school and one year of college. Although I am a recovering Catholic, it’s become a part of me, my personal history.

The first art contest I won, back in grammar school, was a poster contest about vocations. From the time I was little, I was taught there are 3 vocations: marriage, single life and religious life. As a teenager, I had this recurring irrational fear that God was going to punish me by making me become a nun. I felt like such an alien, a black sheep, and so feared the nunnery would be my destiny. It was a confusing feeling because from what I knew of vocation was that it is a calling. One is drawn to a specific way of life, not handcuffed and dragged to it.

About 2 years ago, that memory returned…the scared teenager who was going to be taken by force and thrown into a convent to lead a life of service. Service. Hmmm. Service.

Smiling to myself I further considered this. I am a service bottom. Am I a slave? I’m still learning about that one. But I wondered if my teenage self intuited my future. And because at the time, in my world, the only vocation that offered service was religious life, that’s where my fear came in. I am so not a nun.

I’ve also since learned more about service. Top or bottom, we are all creatures of service. And there are many ways to serve. We are all connected. I believe each action begins a chain reaction and cosmically affects all. In serving ourselves, we serve others. Mind you, it can be bad service as well as good. In zen, they speak of being mindful. Aligning ourselves with each moment keeps us centered, there in turn, assists to center all.

A Mentor serves the community by taking on a student. Bootblacks are Tops as well as bottoms. Bottoms, be they submissives or slaves or whatever, serve their tops. We read about the sexy service such as licking boots and offering our bodies, our asses, our mouths. How about less popular service? Doing a job well is a service to yourself and others. When your Top needs you to not be around for a bit, that also is service.

Okay, that’s all general service. But aren’t some called to a specific life of service?
I wonder because for the longest time, about 30 years…I’ve felt this hole. It’s a longing for a specific something. As I’ve gotten older, I see that it’s a connection missing. From what I’ve experienced with Sir, I’ve seen the difference between doing a task, even enjoyably, and the difference with doing it in a space where you are part of the other person.

The only way I can really describe it is becoming someone’s arms or their legs. Not that they aren’t capable of doing it themselves, but the wholeness that comes from being that much in sync.

I’ve experienced moments where I felt so in tune, it was as if reading the other’s mind. Sir would begin to say something, and I’d already be there, handing Him what He needs. Or we’d be in a crowd and He’d look over at me, and I knew. I knew from His eyes what He desired. It’s the feeling of two individuals melting into a third, moving as one entity with double the stuff because we are still each unique.

I believe slavery is a vocation. It is something so ingrained there is no escape.
Resistance causes distress. Acceptance is freedom.

But, am I a slave?
Or is this longtime longing actually for something else? Shouldn't I be able to find it within myself? Is it actually dependent upon some type of relationship with another or others? Or is it all of the above?

Sometimes I wonder if this is all a joke. I wonder if it's a fantasy concocted and passed down to increase the likelihood of wet dreams. I wonder if the actual reality of a Master/slave relationship is possible. Not in the sense of we are partners, both into s/m, and seeing I'm the bottom I am then, therefore your slave.

I wonder if a Master/slave relationship can exist as is. I know there are a few out there. But I don't know what their relationship is actually like. Reading about it isn't always helpful. We all put on the face we want the world to see.

Yeah, I'm questioning today.

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I'm not very inspired this morning.

Saturday was a long day. I went to Sir's early in the morning and spent the whole day working in the garden. I was focusing on a strip with roses and lilacs. This piece has been sadly neglected, due to lack of time, not desire. The grass around these rosebushes was about a foot high. I needed to approach it with large scissors, grab the grass and just begin hacking. I love being able to clean out an area. I'll touch the plants as I work, letting them know they are cared for. As I clear out the garbage of weeds and unwanted grass, I feel I can actually see the roses begin to breathe again. That's partly why I enjoy weeding. It's a nurturing thing.

Sir had invited a few of His friends for dinner, so I helped out with that as well. I even managed to nap on the floor, curled up with the cat and the dog beside me between the garden and dinner. A good full day.

Yesterday one of the boys called early, and wanted to hang out. So we went into Belltown. We had brunch at Macrina Bakery, a delightful little establishment. Sitting inside, seeing the tall ceiling and large windows, my eyes roamed over the walls and then to the shelves. I scoped a basket of wooden bread boards, not rectangular, but one piece with a handle. They make perfect paddles...solid and a good size. Checking out the rest of the room, I discovered 2 large floor to ceiling concrete beams, instead of what could have been wooden beams. A turn on. A major turn on.

To be in this intimate little establishment, smelling wonderful foods, and simultaneously see the massive, solid concrete claiming it's place was a feast for all my senses. Turning to the boy, I mentioned how all the windows could use deep, blood red velvet curtains, floor to ceiling. In the evening, the curtains would be drawn, tables pushed to the side and it would morph into a very different space.
The place could feed bellies during the day and souls at night.

After eating, we walked for a while and then opted for a matinee. Pirates of the Caribbean-The Curse of the Black Pearl. I wanted fun and light. This was that.

Actually, it's a good movie. For this genre of film, the writing was quite good. There were touches of brilliance in the script. Johnny Depp as Captain Jack Sparrow makes this movie. He was immediately one of the most likable characters I've seen in a long while. From the first moment he appeared on the screen, I was enchanted.

This is a totally lighthearted, good fun kind of movie. I couldn't keep my eyes off of Jack Sparrow's wonderfully distressed, brown leather pirate hat. I wanted to hold it in my hands and just run my fingers all over it.
And, I really appreciate that it wasn't a cheesy romance.

Writing about my dream yesterday reminded me of an ongoing joke that some of my family and I have. Especially one boy.
He and I enjoy going for walks. We prefer neighborhoods, checking out homes.

He's been teasing me for over a year about how when he wins the lottery he will buy me a house. My house.
So during our walks...he'll point to one and say "that's your house."

My response is, "can I walk around naked?".

I can't imagine spending the money on a home unless I could stand next to the windows naked and be in my garden naked. Absolute privacy. I don't want to have to worry about neighbors. And Stepford communities don't turn me on.

Also, the other non-negotiable is noise factor. My noise. I need to be in a place where I can make all the noise I want and not bother neighbors or have them call the police.

Yes, it's happened a few times. Some from s/m play and also from basic sex. Cops show up at my door. After the s/m scene, not only did a cop show up, but I noticed 3 cruisers in my driveway. "No officer, I haven't heard any screams this evening", as I'm standing there clutching my bathrobe closed.

Nope. It won't do. Just won't do.

"Am I fucked up for not desiring traditional, romantic love relationships?"

That's the question I asked my therapist the other day. I was asked half kidding and half serious. My views on relationships have drastically changed over the last 3 years. Before Training. And yes, BT is a definite line of demarcation in my life. Think of the Mason-Dixon line.

Huh. That's funny. The Mason-Dixon line separated free states from slave states. I'd have to say my BT was a state of slavery. With training...increasing awareness of myself, my potential, and the ongoing discovery into slavery, I am making my way into freedom.

Before training, when I was a shiny new leather kid, I ached to have a Top. I wanted this person to be my Top, my lover my all. Yes, the knight in shining armor story. A tough dominant, with me kneeling at their feet, hands chained...and making a life together. A collar and a wedding band.

Within six months of training, a quiet shift happened. One day, out of the blue, I realized I didn't want my Top and lover to be the same person. A d/s or M/s relationship is a very different dynamic than a lover/partner relationship, with different parameters and needs. So I wanted 2 people. One for each. I personally felt that by having two, the sanctity of each relationship would not be contaminated. I didn't want to live with having to continually flip the switch between "are we in d/s role or partner mode?" I was seeing that my Leather wasn't a role. It was no longer something I could put on or take off. It was who I was.

About one year ago, I woke up, startled, because I knew I no longer desired the traditional lover/partner. Talk about a fucking major paradigm shift. I could envision myself having a Master. And I wanted lots of other available Tops and boys to play with, cry with and open my heart with. But I had and still do not have any desire for a marriage type primary partner.

I discovered, that for myself, other sources of intimacy were more powerful and connected than regular love relationships.

Thinking back on it, I am more emotionally intimate now, with about 5 or 6, than I ever was with past girlfriends or boyfriends. Yes, we were in love and had great relationships. But something always felt as if it was missing.
I wanted more. Always wanted more.

Deep intimacy was missing. Sexual diversity was missing. Creativity was missing. I felt boxed in, bored and smothered.

In this society, we see intimacy and sex tied together to create the "ultimate" relationship. I believe that although it can happen, it seems that setting manifests in huge unrealistic expectations.

My desires for the future

I crave my own household.
I envision a house with a Master and at least one other Top (could be switch...actually, that would make more sense, less chaos). There needs to be a minimum of 5 people. You see, in my world, a house of two smacks too much of convention. With three, one will always feel left out. Four creates two couples. So there needs to be at least 5 people.
See? I've given this lots of thought.

Also, I come from a large family. One of my greatest joys is having many around the table every evening, sharing food. I deeply miss that. I love having loads of other energies and personalities to bounce off of. It's one of my hungers.

I currently have a family...but it's still in transition. Being a former student of Sir's....I will always be a part of His family. Slowly, my connections are building. I see my current intimate circle as the first step in my new life. And one day, I will have my own family. It's called moving on.

This family needs to be artistic in some fashion. Out of the box thinkers, powerful personalities, minds that are always creatively focused...working on their painting or writing or photography or music, etc. Ideally, at this time in my life, I envision lots of beautiful boys. The boys and me.
There will be a large studio space for us to work on our stuff. There will be a dungeon. There will also be place for us to retreat to...because we need to rejuice with alone time. There will be gardens. The earth heals the soul.

There will be a very large hedge or wall around this property. People driving past will have no idea what goes on inside. Europeans have the right idea. Their homes and properties have gardens that are hidden from view. Private. We don't do that in the U.S.

There will be invitations...comings and goings...guests who desire to take vacations to spend time.
This space will be a pocket of radical thinking, refusing to live within the confines of what society or even mainstream Leather considers normal. We will provide solace and comfort for the tired and the isolated persons who can't take one more day of conventional living. Rejuvenation.

It will be a secluded place. No workshops, no conferences. We will rekindle the days of one on one mentoring. Word of mouth. Underground. Hmmm...I just flashed to the underground railroad. Yeah, it would be something like that.
Created by those who are not afraid to live provocative lives and have dangerous sex.

That is my vision.

Just wanted to say hi before I head to bed. I'm bushed...having worked over 36 hours in 3 days. It's called catching up from a 2 week vacation. See why I don't normally take vacations?

I received an email from a really good friend today, regarding the librarian action figure from my earlier post.
He said "I have to buy one to keep my Billy dolls in line."

It's perfect.

And on that note...

.....zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz

This totally tickles my toes! Only in Seattle.... :-)

In this morning's paper- New action figure doll is a librarian!!!

A few quotes from the article:

"Granted, librarians aren't known for Terminator-style stunts. Rarely do they need to be faster than a speeding bullet or leap tall buildings in a single bound...

Pearl herself comes across as modest and unassuming, but she's an unabashed booster of her profession: "The role of a librarian is to make sense of the world of information. If that's not a qualification for superhero-dom, what is?"

Seattle City Librarian Deborah Jacobs, Pearl's boss, said anyone who doesn't view a librarian as a potent force doesn't understand the job. "Ideas are more powerful than bombs," she said. "Information is the way to take over the world."

Pearl, 58, enjoyed sitting with a group of creative twentysomethings who batted around ideas about what the action figure might do, or carry, and what attributes — such as likes and dislikes — would be detailed on the package.

How about a cardigan sweater draped over the shoulders? Or glasses on a chain? Those were considered and rejected, Pearl said.

To Pearl's delight, the figure will be holding a (removable) copy of her new book, "Book Lust: Recommended Reading for Every Mood, Moment and Reason." The book, Pearl's third, is being published by Seattle's Sasquatch Books and is due out in September.

No action figure can exist without action; Pahlow said talk boiled down to two options: Put the figure's hair in a bun that could pop off, or have her right arm rise to put a finger in front of her lips in a silent shushing gesture.

"The ejectable hair bun had many technical hurdles to overcome and we thought doing two clichés was over the top," he said. "So, we went with the shushing action. It gives the figure a certain dignity."


Cool, eh? Now go read a book!

Notice...I'm procrastinating this morning? Okay...one more and then I NEED to get to work.

My homepage site on my work computer is Arts and Letters Daily. It's a journal, put out by the Chronicle of Higher Education. Updated daily, it's chock filled with articles, essays and reviews on everything from the arts to sciences to gossip. Love the site. This caught my eye this morning. Anyone interested in writing a textbook?

What's in that tea, Singletails? Pretty damned creative for the morning! And nope, I don't feel you are betraying confidences. Ease that sadistically imaginative mind and focus it on what you do best.

You see, I sent Singletails an email early this morning. He responded pretty quickly with this beautiful piece of writing that grabbed my belly and wouldn't let go. One day....one day I expect to see and feel that bite of yours. And yes, as twins, I know you can effectively torture me psychically as well as physically. I'm going to tell Daddy on you. ;-)

Gay Man, Citing Supreme Court Ruling, Fights '97 Army Discharge

I'm going to keep an eye on this. With the sodomy ruling a few weeks back, I wondered how the dominos would fall.

Have you ever had the feeling that something was just out of your grasp? My internal struggles, definitely spiritual, are beginning to nag me. Yes, they've bothered me and I've angsted over it. But what is really nagging me is the fact that I feel I'm not "getting" something. It seems the solution is hovering around me, like that damned fly that wakes you in the morning when you are out camping. It's a continual buzzing around your ears. Still mostly asleep your hand reaches out to keep shooing it away, but the fly redefines stubbornness.

Walking into work this morning, I know the answer is right in front of my face. And, I'm sure it has something to do with simply letting go. Breathing. Harumph. It's always about breathing, isn't it?

A couple days ago, I was sitting on the steps with Sir, at His house. He was speaking about something, and unintentionally, it touched a hurt inside me. I immediately became silent, and felt a wall go up. After a few minutes, Sir, still sitting next to me, simply says, "breathe". I realized I hadn't been. He then put His arms around me...and tears fell. Large, silent drops.

Breathing.

I wonder how often we really shield ourselves from our pain. I know that some of it is circumstantial, in the moment stuff. Other hurts come from long ago. And I believe even other hurts come from before birth. We carry the pain of our parents and of their parents. It's a small thorn that is lodged inside our hearts. We are all wounded animals. And by not breathing, we attempt to protect ourselves from all this.

Don't we try to do the same in our s/m? We hope for the endorphins to escape from the pain. Or we can allow ourselves to remain present, feel it, and then in acceptance of the pain, transcend it. Or...is this all bullshit?

Anyway, I'm going off on tangents. Back to my original thought. I think I'm on the verge of figuring how to let go and access this elusive whatever. Once again, I wonder if it's about patience. Sometimes, I think my analytical side is detrimental to the intuitive me. I can toss things around and exercise energy attempting to figure out, do it correctly, be objective. My other option is to...breathe. Breathe and feel it.

Three attempts. I’ve tried three different times to write and somehow can’t seem to do it. I’m dealing with something very large. What you see in this blog are snippets. Or better yet…you see the periodic steam come out of the pressure cooker. But I haven’t taken the top off, and so you really can’t see what it’s like under the cover.

How do I write about what is bothering me without giving specific details? How do I keep it general enough and yet not have a page filled with empty words?

I’ve been thinking about transitioning. It’s not a new thought. I’ve thought about it on and off for the last few years. I don’t see it as a great solution, but a solution nonetheless. I know I will still be who I am after hormones. I know we all carry our personal suffering no matter what choices we make in life.

I’m proud of who I am. I enjoy being a fighter and someone who stands strongly for what they believe in. I relish bucking and challenging the system…whatever that is. I don’t do it mindlessly or simply as a game. But if I believe in something strong enough, I do question and attempt to create my own niche.

Sometimes, though, it gets difficult. Sometimes, I feel I don’t have the energy to continue standing alone in the face of what appears to be the rest of the world. Sometimes, I want to lay down and give in to what is. That’s when thoughts of transitioning come back to me. For myself, (note I didn’t say for everyone), but for myself, I do believe that transition would be the coward’s way. I feel I’d be selling out on myself. But when I’m feeling pretty bruised, I do think about it.

Our world insists, no…it demands that we are one gender or the other. Of course, what takes precedence is how we are born. And then, it challenges us to pick our sexuality as well. And yes, it approves of some orientations over others. Everything is boxed in. Tidy, little labels. It’s comfortable that way, isn’t it?
So when we have the ability to make a choice, create change, sometimes that choice is simply the lesser of two evils, and not really the ideal for an individual.

On a good day, there is something absolutely glorious in standing on a mountain in shades of gray. Have you ever seen how much color there can be in grays? It's an exhilaration I don't experience in anything else. Knowing...you aren't a Muggles, or better yet, knowing, as Hannah Blank would say, knowing you are a question mark, for the rest of the world. There's power in creating paradigm shifts all over the place.

But today's not a good day.

On my way home from work, I was thinking about bisexual men, and the article that I previously posted the link to. The first time I ever stepped into the Eagle was enlightening. I had some great play, and a bunch of it. Many blow jobs, boot play, some whipping and hot kisses. But I remember after sucking one guy's dick, some boy came up to him, and was upset that this guy let a girl suck the same dick that the boy wanted to. That kind of ignorance pisses me off. And yet right after that, the owner of the Eagle went up to Sir and told Him that I was welcomed anytime. Bless you.

One time, a few years back, Sir and I played at a large party. Afterwards, a few boys came up to Him because they were upset He had played with me. Sir relayed the experience to me and essentially said He told them that He’s not into playing with boys with such attitudes.

It is those very attitudes that keep bisexual men quiet. And, it’s the same in the lesbian community. I’ve experienced it and seen others attacked as well. Now interestingly, in the straight kinky community that I’m somewhat familiar with, it appears to be cool to be bisexual. It is a different energy than queer energy, but they seem to be enjoying a freedom in exploration. They are having a good time. And I am all for everyone having happy, healthy play lives. It’s important.

What confuses me is how threatened people are by something different...threatened enough to have to attack. How about reveling in the fact that folks are getting off? What’s the problem with relishing that people can be sexy and not have shame around it?

If our world were filled with people living without shame…imagine…wow! I believe much of our fears, prejudices, and judgements come from our own personal shame.

Singletails wrote a while back that maybe he and I were cosmic twins.
I just read his new entry for today.

I concur.

Questions~

Where are all the bi boys, the boys who would rate themselves about a 4 or 5 on the Kinsey scale? The bi boys who actually are into getting emotionally involved with men…and the occasional female.

The Invisible Men

Why is it that when someone wants me at a party, they feel the need to include other women? What’s up with that? Why can’t you have a non or mixed gender party with one girl? I tend to find it insulting. It means that I'm not being seen for who I am, yet instead for what I am on the outside. Egads. Do you also make sure to have your quota of brunettes, blondes and left handed people at mixed parties also?

Why can’t there be guy only events, and mixed gender events, and the guys and me events? Isn’t there room for all? Isn’t there room for me?

I’ve been to a few parties with all guys and me. And I’ve been to a few that were mixed gender. Personally….I prefer the all guys and me parties. They are somewhat more sexual. At the mixed parties, the guys were told to at least have jocks on. Geesh.
It’s all about seeing beautiful dick, isn’t it?
Why is this society so phalliphobic? (is that a word?)

At the mixed parties, I’d hang out in the dungeon with the guys where the smell of sex was a thick stench. I would bask in it. I was home.

What happens to the occasional female that’s been told all their life they are too sexual? I remember in my vanilla days, so many times my long ago female friends would be shocked because I could fuck without dating. There were times I wouldn’t even allow some into the bedroom. And I’d kick them out after we were through. They could not spend the night. That was intentional. I had to set clear, hard boundaries. My friends thought I was cold and calloused.
Sometimes, sex is sex. It’s like eating and sleeping. We need it. I don’t understand why there needs to be so much wrapped up into it.

It’s a matter of smelling sex and going for it.

What happens when one is a female on the outside, yet their sexual orientation is gay male?

This chick is into sucking. Getting my ass fucked and fisted. Getting beat and pissed on. Slapped and punched. Whipped and caned. Caged and bound.
That’s what my sex is about.
It’s about boots. It’s about service. It’s about raunch.

I’ve become so much more than what traditional ideas of sex are. Yes, I can and will do it. I have the occasional play partner and we tend to have traditional sex. But there’s currently a big gap in my life.

Where can this female find lots and lots of sex and play partners?
I have no desire to do breakfast in the morning. I have no desire to be taken out to dinner. I have absolutely no desire for a traditional relationship. I’m not into Valentine’s Day, and Hallmark cards.

Where are the places I can go to meet these guys?

What’s annoying is, I get the straight guys who’ll come up to me. And they don’t get it. It’s about being queer. I’m queer. There is an energy that comes with being marginalized and that’s an integral part of the turn on. The other turn on is brilliance and sensitivity. Creativity.

Am I asking for too much?

Can you tell that my hunger to play has fiercely returned?

Wow. Where did the time go? I can’t believe it’s Sunday already. The last time I blogged was Thursday. Trust me…I was filled with good intentions about writing each of these last few days. I even have a big blog begun…and saved in a word document. I’m attempting to write my views on erotic art in less than 500 words. Did I mention I was a masochist?

By the way…. here’s a warning. I’m writing after having had two margueritas, with dinner, which was my first meal since last night. Yes, I’m a tad buzzed. Who knows where this ramble will go. Sir, and BT (bondage top) and I went out for food. BT came by to spend some time with Sir. I saw him on Friday, and we talked about playing again. Interestingly, it seems we connect, play wise, once a year…each August. And, it looks as if we’ll be running true to form. August it is.

I don’t think much has happened the last few days. Yes, I rested. I did some weeding as well. But I’ve been taking things real slow this week. Very little of anything. The biggest exertion was the trip to Port Townsend. Apparently, it was what my body needed.

Oh yeah, I chopped off my hair yesterday - almost 12 inches worth. I needed short again. But, it’s not what I’d call a dykie-doo. I went to the fabulous Leather Bear who tends to my hair…sat in his chair and totally topped. I said, “I need this gone…and gone now. I don’t want to have to mess with it. I need to be able to get up in the morning and leave the house without touching my hair. I do not want femme, or butch. Nothing froufrou. No products, no blow dryers, no fuss.” See how I am? A totally high maintenance request from a low maintenance person. The last thing I want to do is spend time in the mornings messing with me. I am who I am.

The Bear so got it. He needed to visualize, and he listened to my hair and scalp. He followed his intuition. I got into it. I enjoy sitting in his chair, expressing my needs and/or wants, and then trusting him. Total scene, isn’t it? And by the way…I love it. No hassles. It’s a tad messy looking, which is perfect for me. It’s freeing…and great.

What is fascinating to me about long hair is how others get attached to it. It isn’t even a part of the person anymore, but becomes a separate entity. My hair used to go down to the middle of my back. I needed to chop it off in spurts, not for me…but for everyone else! I had to gently get them used to the different lengths. When I would speak of cutting it, the uproar would crack me up. You’d think we were cutting off their hair.

Granted, if I were owned, and my Master had specific desires regarding my hair, that would be a different story. But, I’m not owned and therefore not property. My hair is my own, not my Master’s.

I’m not headed back to work until Tuesday. I’ve decided I will continue to take Mondays off, and work four 10’s. If I don’t, I’ll be working five 10’s plus.
Self care, yanno?

I left for Port Townsend about 8 a.m. yesterday, and didn’t return until about 1 a.m. this morning. Long, good day. The weather was perfect. Sunny, not too hot. We walked around, ate good food, had intense conversations and napped on the beach. I sketched pages of children playing. Their movements shifted about every 3 seconds and therefore are great for loose drawings. How little of the figure can I lay down and retain a sense of movement and stress?

We then went to dinner and afterwards took in a film at the Rose Theater. This enchanting little theater opened in 1907. Love that. We saw the 7 pm show of L'auberge Espagnole. Wonderful, delightful film. After the movie we had an hour drive back to the ferry terminal and napped in the car another hour while waiting for the boat to show up. How much can I pack in a day? Quite a bit at times. I immerse myself so deeply in what's around me - many things at the same time.
It's ADD living.

Is it any wonder why I love being caged? The whole world stops when I’m caged. Or, more accurately, the cage becomes my whole world. All I feel is my body, the sound of my breathing, the hard steel, and the knowledge that, if so inclined, the Top may never release me.

The longest time I’ve ever spent in the cage has been 24 hours. A couple years ago, anytime I asked for cage time, I would generally be left in for about that time. Once Sir locked me in, I really had no idea when He’d let me out. It would happen about once a month.
There is no sense of time in the cage. I couldn't track it by meals.
Day and night becomes irrelevant. Time no longer matters.

A little food, water, an itchy wool blanket, and a urinal.
What more does a girl need?

Sometimes the big black dog would wander down to the dungeon, and stand beside my cage, poking his nose between the bars. I was his captive audience. He had me where he wanted me. What else could I do but give him attention and affection?
In those moments, he knew who was alpha dog.
That’s a big part of the appeal. Animal.

It is good.

We are animals. I believe that we do not touch that part of ourselves enough. We must be in control, we need to act appropriately, yadda, yadda, yadda. I wholeheartedly agree.
BUT, that’s where the cage is perfect. It is an appropriate place for animal.
And animal needs its time for release.

I would like to experience 3 days in the cage. And then, one week. Slowly increasing the time. I'd like to play with the edges of insanity and reality. I often wonder how long I could immerse myself in animal and retain it. I wonder if I would come to a place where I no longer remember human. I wonder what that edge feels like.

I can’t even attempt to explain what being caged does to me. I’ve tried to write about it and continually fail. Sometimes, things hit my belly so deeply that words aren’t accessible or necessary. And even if I attempted to describe it, your experience via my words, will be…well...your experience, not mine.

What a month!

First, gay marriage in Cananda. Then the sodomy ruling. And now, Walmart adds policy to protect gay workers.

I'm off to catch a ferry to spend the day playing tourist in Port Townsend.

I'll write more later!

Just received this week's issue of the Village Voice in my inbox.
Check out this article regarding last week's sodomy ruling.

Before I was introduced to this lifestyle, it was never in my realm of vision. I didn't fantasize about it or read about it. I listen to others say how they loved to play power games when they were little. That wasn't my experience.

But a month ago, a memory came back to me. I was about 4 years old. The downstairs neighbors had a teenage son. He was like our big brother, for my sibs and I. One of my favorite things was getting stuck in the garbage cans (without garbage). When the can was empty, I'd beg him to put me in, put the cover on and not let me out. It was my favorite game.

Guess my love of bondage came early.

I'm curled up on my couch. My deck door is open. The air is fresh and cool. And even better....I am catching the strong smell of salt air...ocean air. I tend to smell it in downtown Seattle, near the water. But my apartment is not near the Sound at all. This is the first time in this apartment that I smell it. It's one of my favorite smells. I love the ocean. And it brings back so many amazing memories. That's my treat tonight.

Want to see some art? Sure you do.
I stumbled upon this painting a few weeks back. I'm not familiar with the artist. I fell in love with this piece. I don't want to own most of the art I see. But I really want this one. I'm captivated.

Look at the light. The quality of the light is ethereal. There is an energy that's poignant, and absolutely lovely.

I find myself at a loss for words when I see art that moves me. So take a peek for yourselves. The artist is Marc Bohne. The painting is: Daniel

I’ve discovered a result of being on this vacation. Stuff comes back – feelings.
Last week, although I wasn’t working my day job, I was spending more time at Sir’s. Between weeding and assisting with some construction I kept busy. But each day, I found myself working less. I know the weather had something to do with it. It was incredibly hot. Mid 80’s and a few 90 degree days are not the way to pump me up.

The more I slowed down, the more I felt. Feelings from the past year came back. Mourning, grieving….having my heart hurt. It’s not the hurt from romantic breakups. But a hurt from feeling the suffering of life and how that suffering affects those you love as well as yourself. I believe I subconsciously kept myself so busy over the last few months not to feel that. And now, it was washing over me. Again.

Also, by the end of last week, I was feeling invisible. Have you ever experienced the blackness that comes with believing you are the only person in the entire world? You see yourself in the store, or driving down the road or engaging with people. Yet, you feel they aren’t really seeing you. It’s incredibly uncomfortable and bleak. When the feelings get big, then my head kicks into gear and concocts stories as to why this is happening, or why I feel this way. I seek justification. Of course, it’s a great way to create fantasies. That’s the time it becomes “them against me.” When I saw myself immersed in such fabrications I realized I needed to stop, and shut off my head. Let myself feel with no explanation.

I took 3 days off from gardening and spent time on very long walks by the water. Then I’d come home and crash, having physically tired myself out.

I’m coming out of the bleakness. Yesterday was a joyful day..at Pride. In addition to the energy there, Sir introduced me to two other artists. Now, having been introduced, I’m in a position where I can contact them and see if they’d like to get together.

And a little while ago I finally grabbed my gutts and called this guy to see if he’d like to get together. We periodically bump into each other and will excitedly chat…and flirt. We’ve played a few times in the past couple years. I found out on Saturday that this guy thinks very highly of me. Yet I’ve been nervous about approaching him again, even though he’d encourage it. Silly, isn’t it?

It’s really difficult sometimes. Because I don’t fully fit in one community or another, I tend to be hesitant about approaching folks. I move slow, until some type of connection or relationship is established. I don’t want to offend someone. And I know full well I use that as an excuse to not go after what intrigues me. I mean, even if I were a guy and able to attend all the guy things, I know that I will always find a reason to prevent me from taking a risk. Human nature.

A good friend said something intense to me on Saturday night while we were out. He was talking about my art, and my need to always be physical. He believes that for me, “physical labor is my methadone whereas painting is my heroin.”
That statement hit me hard. I’ve been thinking a lot about that because I believe there’s a whole lot of truth to it. I may very well be afraid to fully immerse myself in my art. Afraid I’ll lose myself.

And on that note, I’m headed into the studio for a bit.

Happy Pride everyone!

I just got home from Pride. I'm beat, so I'll keep this short. But what a good day it was.

Sir, another boy and myself went together. We kept it informal. Ran into the Leather contingency before the march and we were going to march with them. Last year, WA State Ms Leather 2002 made a massively huge leather pride flag that was carried in the march. It takes about 18 people to carry it. Folks along the parade route throw money into it, for different charities. This year, Sir, boy and I volunteered to assist carrying the flag.

Over the years, I've been on both sides of the march, as audience and participant. I prefer participant. It fills something within. For me, it's a more active way to remember why we have Pride.

Totally unrelated - I'm watching the news as I'm typing. Katharine Hepburn, 96 years old, died today.

Followup on Thursday's historical ruling-

Of course we'd expect the radical right to be up in arms. Check this out: Extremist Thugs Respond to Supreme Court Ruling

And on a brighter note, here's a positive example of how the ruling affects us. This article gave me chills:

Justices Extend Decision on Gay Rights and Equality
By LINDA GREENHOUSE

WASHINGTON, June 27 — "In an immediate application of its new protective approach to gay rights, the Supreme Court today vacated the sodomy conviction of a Kansas teenager who received a 17-year sentence for having oral sex with a younger boy...

...Matthew R. Limon had just turned 18 when he had consensual sex with a 14-year-old boy at the residential school for developmentally disabled youths where both were living. Had the younger child been a girl, the sentence would have been no longer than 15 months, instead of the 17 years for Mr. Limon."
Read the entire article


Whoa! Gotta love that!

Supreme Court strikes down Texas sodomy law

I love how timely this is, considering Pride is this weekend. I'm transplanted back to my very first Pride Day, in Boston, in 1985 or '86 (can't remember which). I remember standing at the beginning of the parade, near the dykes on bikes. It was the first time I was surrounded by so many queers. The march began. Tears came to my eyes. I felt proud. So PROUD! It wasn't only a fun day, a parade, a festival. It was about coming together in numbers, in unity.

I remember my summers in Ptown. Each time I'd arrive, I'd let out a long exhale. I could finally breathe. Returning home would be culture shock. I could literally feel my Self crawling back into my skin...knowing it wasn't physically safe to be too revealing.

I remember the times where I would become a chameleon to obtain an apartment. I remember remaining silent about who I was to keep a job I loved. I remember having to walk into the local gay bar in large numbers, because it wasn't safe to even approach it as a couple or a small group of 3 or 4.

I've been fortunate. Since that time, I've lived in areas that were liberal pockets of free thinkers. I haven't needed to hide. At dinner last night with the boys, we went to a restaurant, and looking around, I saw that hets were the minority. We were sitting at a table near the sidewalk...the doors of the restaurant all opened onto the street. Everyone was out. And, it felt great.

There are many who aren't as privileged. I hear stories of children...children...13, 14, 16, thrown out of their homes by their parents for being queer. A young boy was sent to the "big" city to live with relatives because it was no longer safe for him to attend his local high school. His parents didn't want to see him continually getting attacked by neighbors and kids.

Last year, at work, I received a phone call from a 15 year old girl, seeking assistance for her 13 year old sister and herself. Their home was in CA. The 15 year old had come out a few years back. Dad wasn't pleased...but left it alone. When the 13 year old came out, he became angry. He felt she was "converted" by her older sister. He asked the girls if they'd like to visit their cousins in the Seattle area. They thought it was a fabulous idea. The girls arrive in Seattle...no relatives. The cousins had moved away. And the girls then realized that the bus ticket was a one way ticket. Their father didn't even have the balls to be upfront about kicking them out.

They were looking for a place to stay for the night. Homeless, street kids. I referred them to a fabulous agency in town that helps with gay youth. Those girls haunt me often.

A sodomy law repealed. But work still needs to be done. No matter how many laws we change or create, it doesn't change people's hearts. That's where the greatest activism needs to take place. Changing laws is reactive. Important and needed. Changing minds, which can only happen by a shift in the heart is proactive. Therein lay longlasting change.

Art and Sex

Well….yesterday morning I finally cleaned out my studio…and set it up. I know I’ve been talking about it for a while….and I’m about a week late from my original plan. So crucify me. No, wait...I’m a masochist. I would enjoy it too much. :-)

My easel is set up. My brushes are out. And, I decided to pull out my charcoals. I’m going to begin warming myself up with large charcoal drawings of paintings I’m currently working on.

I love charcoal. I believe it’s also the medium of painters. It’s as messy as painting. I like the feel of caked on, black charcoal on my hands. I use black pen in my little sketch book. But that’s a different type of drawing. With charcoal, I’m using large arm movements…more of my body. Big chunks of charcoal…wide, thick. It doesn’t allow me to get detailed. I’m continually touching the paper as I draw. I tend to hold the charcoal, close to the edge so I feel the paper with every motion of my arm. When I’m really into the drawing, I end up bleeding on the paper from the constant motion. Large sweeps of blacks and greys. Blocking in light and composition. It’s a continual building of volume and form. A crescendo of mark. Fuck. I’m getting exciting just thinking about it.

I’ve been doing some research into primitive and ancient art. It’s something I’ve always been drawn to. And, it again reminds me how sex and eroticism has always been a natural part of art. It never needed to be split into a separate category, “erotic” art. Ugh. That’s a very brief touch into a longer, highly opinionated rant.

Also, from looking at lots of art over the ages, I am again reminded how our S/M is nothing new. It’s been around forever. It reminds me how human sexuality is basically unchanged. What continually changes is our reaction to sexual behaviors.

I saw images from the 14th century of a woman’s ass being flogged. I have an image from the 18th century of scat play. Looking at ancient Greek art, there are many depictions of bestiality. And we think we are cutting edge? Arrogant, isn’t it?

Well…so much for the boots piece I intended to write about. My head is immersed in lusty, sensual images.
And so I’ll share some with you. Here’s a gallery compiled of penises throughout the ages.

A Gallery of Intact Penises in Art

Rats. I just learned something new about Blogger. I spent some precious time (because I need to get into the studio) working on a post about boots. After typing the last sentence, I needed to find a link that I was going to share. It accidentally opened up in my "edit" window. So of course, when I went back to return to posting...my words were gone. Shit.

Well....you'll need to wait for my boot words. I don't have the time right now to compose again. But one thing I will say is that it appears to me that in this day and age, we seem to get so caught up with the present and the future, we tend to not think very much about the past. And on that note, here is a link I discovered regarding the history of boots.

Full weekend. I spent both days working outside in gardens. Saturday was for Sir, and today was for a friend who is going to sell his home and begin a new life adventure. My hands haven't come clean in two days. I hate wearing gloves when I weed. I like being able to feel the plants between my fingers. It's one of my fav sensual feelings.

Both nights, all I could do was come home and crash. I was too beat to go out.

Tomorrow morning, I plan on cleaning my studio. Remember a week back when I mentioned I'd clean it before vacation? It didn't happen. So I'll do it in the morning. It'll be my little ritual to really herald the start of my vacation.
Painting...weeding plus other service...reading....napping with a big black dog in Sir's yard...catching up with friends I've neglected due to lack of energy, and hopefully some play. That's what I'm looking forward to.

Sorry I'm not writing about hot, leather action. But there are many moments I will not discuss here. Absolutely sacred, magical times need to stay behind closed doors. There are a few, from the past years, I've written about in generalities. Normally it's how I felt about it afterwards. I won't be doing play by plays of certain types of intimate scenes. Although...I've written about service. And I consider service to be extremely intimate. Hmmm...feels like a contradiction to me.

Blogging is interesting. On one hand, I feel the personal challenge to open myself up. Being part of a marginalized segment of society, (and I'm not talking strictly about the leather and/or queer community), I don't have the same opportunites to connect and meet folks. I'm queerer than queer. And it's okay. Actually, I wouldn't change who I am inside for anything. The more I get to know myself, the more I accept myself. Within the last year...I've really been falling in love with me. It's a nice feeling.

Physically, if it were possible, I would give myself one change. I'd have a working dick in addition to my cunt. Why lose a hole? I am a pig. Oh yes, I would change one other thing. I don't believe that women who choose not to have children should be stuck with uteruses. There is something quite unjust about that.

Back from my tangent....there's something about this type of social interaction...albeit weird in many ways. Can it even be called a social interaction? It's a public, private podium. Bizarre actually. I feel that blogging is a huge contradiction in my life. On one hand, it's been really good for me. And on the other, I wrestle with an aspect of me that doesn't reveal myself to most people. In the last few years, I've become very private, and very particular about what I will share and with who. Yet, here I am, publicly blogging, and exposing myself. Maybe one day I'll figure this all out.

I'm on vacation....!

Sir called this morning to say "congratulations on your vacation".

A huge, massive rock fell off my shoulders when I walked out of work this afternoon. I couldn't believe I was free for 2 weeks. Yeah, I believe I've been suffering from a serious case of job burnout. I love my job, but I'm bone tired. Many days I fantasized about going back to work in the warehouse. There was something fabulous about unloading semi's all day. I was getting paid to work out. And, it didn't strip me of my creative energy.

Anyway, I'm going to leave you with this silly, fun link for tonight. Just click on and off each horse for some coolness.

Nothing heavy from me right now. It's the first day of my vacation. ;-)

One more day….and then I’m on vacation. Yes!!!!

I’ve been intensely and intently working on a project that happens once a year. I hoped to have it all finished before I leave, but once again my eyes were bigger than my belly. It happens sometimes. Okay, okay….it happens most times. I have this tendency to be a tad overambitious. I’m doing something new this time. I realized today that I won’t be able to finish it all, although I’ll have it 80 percent completed. I’m letting go of my ego driven desire to be superhuman, and instead, tonight I’m saying “c’est la vie.”
I refuse to have 2 weeks off filled with guilt, beratings and self-recrimination because I concocted some idiotic idea to accomplish way more than one person could in the time allotted.

That’s that.

My co-workers and I did something really cool and quite extraordinary today. One of my responsiblities are handling requests from donor advised funds. That’s where donors will set up large funds or endowments, and periodically recommend grants to other organizations throughout the year. Then when approved, the checks get cut, I write the letters and send out the money. One of our donors requested two good size checks, to go to two agencies in town, one targeted toward women and the other toward men. Cool, huh?

We knew that both organizations were struggling. And we knew that they had probably never received a donation that size from an individual donor. So all of us decided to personally deliver the checks today. We thought it would be fun. We bought party hats and noisemakers. We piled out of two cars in the neighborhood where both agencies were, wearing our hats. There were 8 of us. Walking down the street, being silly and having fun, we walked into the first agency. Imagine being on a business call and having 8 heads in brightly colored pointed paper party hats poking into your office. The executive director quickly hung up the phone. We brought the camera and while someone had it pointed at the ED, I made the presentation about the gift from the anonymous donor. This ED was shocked. He then opened the envelope and was floored. Hugs all around…and then tears came to his eyes. This group had a very difficult and painful few weeks. The timing was perfect. This was the validation he needed that his organization still had strong supporters.

We left them with the party hats and noisemakers so they could play, and went to the next office. On the way, we stopped at the car to grab our second set of hats and toys. This ED greeted us at the door, puzzled, because she was afraid we were celebrating her birthday. And it wasn’t her birthday. We repeated the process…with the same results. This so fuckin’ rocked! As staff, we needed to do this. It was a glorious reminder of why we work so damned hard sometimes. And for the organizations, it reminded them they were loved.

This afternoon I emailed the donor and told him what we did. I thanked him for the opportunity, and enclosed the pictures of the ED’s from each organization opening the checks as well as the group photos of everyone in their silly hats. This way he could share in the moment as well.

Have I said recently how much I love my job?

I'm still pretty tired. It was another 12 hour day. I have 2 days left before vacation and lots to do.

In addition to work stuff in my head, I have lots of thoughts regarding service, S/M and ritual, bondage and loads of other stuff. Some of the bigger thoughts evolve around "erotic" art and my feelings about that. I guess what I'm saying is, I have lots of opinions to share. And the actual act of getting it down helps clarify things for me. Yet...I've been too busy. It does create frustration in me. I'm too tired to really write and release some of the clutter and yet it's the clutter in my head that assists in creating the fatigue. Make sense? Vicious cycle.

I do hope (keeping my fingers crossed) that the next two weeks will help to ease some of this.

But something did come to mind today. There has been a sideline conversation around Master/slave relationships. I've enjoyed hearing a variety of voices. This of course, gives me more to think about.

I know that everyone's journey is unique and extremely personal. What works for one may not work for another. I believe the best decisions come from being open enough to look at various ideas and then listening to one's own spirit, the home of personal truth.

Meeting with my therapist this morning, I was speaking with him about Master/slave relationships. And then something came to mind. It's two pieces of writing that I read for the first time about 4 years ago. I promised my therapist I'd email the links to him, and will post them here as well. They are written by Master Steve Sampson

Heart of Master

heart of slave

There are so many thoughts whirling around in my head and not enough brain energy to even begin to formulate a written whatever on any of these thoughts.
Sigh.

Maybe tomorrow. Tonight, I'm off to bed early.

Saturday was spent working in the garden. I arrived at Sir’s, made a latte, and brought it out to the garden, where I could sit…wake up…and enjoy some of the space that I normally work hard in.

I was looking at an area that had yet to be touched. Between sips of coffee I started pulling a weed here and a weed there. I really wanted to work on this spot, but I didn’t know what Sir had in mind.

After my coffee…I went inside to find Sir. We walked out to the garden together and He led us right to where I had been sitting. He had figured out what to do with that spot, and wanted me to clear the weeds. I grinned.

I love it when we are in sync. I’ve noticed that when I’m not anxious, remain present, and remember to breathe….we tend to be on the same page. It feels wonderful.

After working all day, I rushed home to shower and then returned to pick Sir up. We were attending a memorial service for one of the Sisters of Perpetual Indulgence. Sister Hellfire N. Dalmation passed away…ironically enough…on Good Friday.

There was a procession down Broadway which ended at The Cuff for the service.

I was there…in support as a Leatherperson, and to offer support from the organization I work for. In the past, the Sisters have assisted us with fundraisers. They’ve been wonderful…and we love them. It was a joyful, sad, sensitive and touching memorial.

I knew a few of the other folks who had attended. After the service I saw two of the guys I hadn’t seen in a while. I had originally met them last year when they were running for and won NW LeatherSir and leatherboy 2001. They are great fun. It was nice to have a chance to reconnect. They both tormented me…and I teased back. We played for a bit. At one point one of the Sisters looked over at us and jokingly asked why I was having all the fun. It was a good evening.

Sunday is my day off. I did do a little service for Sir, driving a visiting boy back to the train station. On my way home, I stopped at a roadside stand and purchased a big bag of cherries and popped them over to the house as a surprise for Sir and the boys. I then went home and crashed.

Today was full service day. Sir had a huge list of errands. We were on the road about 10:30 and didn’t return to the house until about 5, where I helped with dinner. After dinner I was beat. So I said my goodnights and here I am. Tomorrow…it’s work. I have 4 very long days to finish all I need to before my vacation. I’m sure I can get it done…but it does make me a tad anxious. And I have a dentist appointment tucked in there somewhere. Ugh.

I guess I’m becoming a service slut. Life is good.

Tonight was the closing event for the Seattle International Film Festival. It’s the largest film fest in North America – 25 days long. I had never attended one of the showings before and wanted to do so this year. On Thursday night, I realized that this was the last weekend of SIFF. I sighed, wished I could attend, and then figured…next year.

Friday morning I received an email from another agency. They had lots of free tickets for 3 different showings at SIFF for Friday and Saturday night. Did anyone want them?

YES!!!!! I responded quickly to reserve tickets. I emailed the house, and two other members of the family, knowing it was short notice for everyone. Only one of the boys could make it. So Friday night, I buzzed out of work to pick him up and dash to dinner and then the theater. He and I ended up attending the viewing of "Wild Dogs". When we entered the theater, we plopped ourselves in two seats that were right next to a reserved section. Come to find out, we were sitting right next to the Director/Writer, Thom Fitzgerald and his parents. His mom smiled and introduced herself. And she told us how proud she was of her son. Sweet. We had the opportunity to listen to Fitzgerald speak before the movie. Afterwards, he answered questions from the audience. Keep an eye on him. His movies have won awards...and apparently each gets so much better than the previous.

Regarding the film.....wow.

From notes by Liz Czach:
"The Wild Dogs, written and directed by Thom Fitzgerald, is about a photographer for an online porn site (portrayed by Fitzgerald) who reluctantly travels to Eastern Europe in search of new talent. On the flight overseas, he meets a diplomat (David Heyman) who helps him see the world in a new way.
"They become fast friends, and through the diplomat and his family, the photographer comes into contact with the real beauty and the real strength in post-Communist Romania, which is oftentimes the gypsy children and the beggars," says Shayla Howell, seats' production coordinator. "He turns his camera on them and finds himself less focused on finding porn. He goes looking for a certain kind of porn and he finds the real pornography, which is the way some people are forced to live."
(I italicized the last sentence because I believe in her definition of pornography…and have believed that for a few years now. I’ve been working on a piece about that very fact.)

This experience kicked my ass at least 10 times more than "The Pianist" did. I can't even begin to describe it, so check out the different links I've inserted.

If you have a chance to see it.... please do. Personally....everyone ought to see this movie. I've never had a film that made me so uncomfortable throughout. It is difficult to watch, because of what it pushes in us. It is a beautiful and incredibly humane film.
I would be very surprised if it were ever released in the U.S. It’s very much an “in your face” kind of movie.
I’m keeping my fingers crossed for the dvd in the next few years. I did notice that his two earlier films “The Hanging Garden” and “Beefcake” are now on dvd. I plan on renting them…soon.

HAPPY FRIDAY THE 13TH!!!!!

I am thinking about my studio this morning. I have 5 more work days before vacation. My studio is a mess. When I moved to my new digs a couple months ago, I dumped all my art stuff, easel, and boxes in the studio room. My work table is in the middle of the space and still life objects are strewn all over the place. Bags of rags and buckets of brushes are waiting for a home. Canvasses are on the floor or leaning up against the wall, haphazardly.

I originally was going to wait until my first day of vacation to clean. This morning, I thought better of it. I want to begin cleaning the studio this weekend. I'd like to have it set up, ready and waiting for the start of my vacation. I know it won't take long to do, but many times the idea of a task tends to feel more overwhelming than the actuality of it.

I've never prepped for a vacation before. Normally, there's lots of work catch up. I like to leave a clean desk, and projects done. Traditionally, the first day of my vacation would always find me at work wrapping things up. So when I take my leave, I'm exhausted.

This week, I began taking it easy after work. I'm resting now so I'm not hit with huge burnout on vacation. And if my studio is clean, that will help immensely. Also, I'm sure it will actually motivate me to engage with a blank canvas. The worse is when I'm antsy to paint, walk into the studio and....I can't find the turpentine, or my favorite brush, or I'm out of yellow ochre, or I forgot to ready a canvas...or, or, or.

There is a fear I have with actually working. What if it's bad? What if the work is good? How will I achieve that quality a second time? What if I reveal too much? What if nobody likes it? What if everyone does? What if that means I will really need to live a life of trusting myself? (duh~)

A few years ago, I began a new series. I was attempting to paint my training, what I was experiencing internally. Talk about a challenge.

Oh....I just looked out the window and it's raining! I'm so thrilled. The gardens need water desperately, and this is the first day in about a month. My coworker just piped in that his bananas need water. He has a fabulous, little, very lush, tropical garden, with many intimate spaces.

Sorry for the distraction. But I'm excited by the rain.

Back to my old series. My attempt to paint something so abstract and emotional was and still would be quite the challenge for me. I am a reactive painter. I need to be looking at something....a figure, objects, whatever. From there, I have no problem allowing my heart and hand to go where it wants. But to look inside instead of outside for my inspiration is very intimidating.

I was paralyzed. I didn't know where to begin. Then I remembered something that my profs used to tell me. When stuck, copy. It's a matter of getting my hand to move. And once there is energy put forth, ideas will come. I grabbed my favorite artist of all time, John Singer Sargent and copies one of his Venice alley paintings. I find his work to be very erotic. His handling of paint, color, light is sexual to me. I then took another artist I'm passionate about, Egon Schiele, and painted one of his figures over my Sargent copy. Melding the two into one created a third. Mine.

It's a bizzare painting, which I totally love. It was the first of my series. And it was the first in that series to sell. One of my coworkers fell in love with it. The week I earned my boots, I spent one morning figuring out how I was going to scrape the money together to purchase them. While in the midst of that, J, my coworker, (who didn't have a clue about my boot money problem) walked into my office and dropped a large wad of cash on my desk...for the painting.
It was the exact amount for my boots.
The first painting in the series about my training sold and allowed me to purchase my boots I earned in training.
Poetic? I think so.

Edward Gorey rocks.....'specially the Gashlycrumb Tinies.

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I have a little Zen day calendar at my desk. Here are a few from past months that I've saved...well...just because. :-)

~The next message you need is right where you are.
- Baba Ram Dass

~We shape clay into a pot, but it is the emptiness inside that holds whatever we want.
- Tao te Ching

~One day a student asked Ike no Taiga, "What is the most difficult part of painting?"
Taiga said, "The part of the paper where nothing is painted is the most difficult."
- Zen parable
(I think I'm going to put this one with my list of quotes in the left column)

~To know and to act are one and the same.
- Samurai maxim

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Love this story. It gives me the warm fuzzies, and humbles me at the same time. Sometimes, we are just too quick to quit when things get tough. Man's move from homelessness to honor roll is study in tenacity.

Gay marriage legal in Canada.

(It's a NYTimes article, so you may need to register to read the article. But registering is quick and free.)

When I moved to Seattle, I encountered a few more players who challenged me.
Memories of old scenes, in my “before training” days are flooding back.
I remember a scene where clothespins were applied to the backs of my legs. The top then caned me by hitting the clothespins. I remember a few cuttings, and then a soldering gun applied to the bloody openings. I remember a zipper made of the little black mini baby binder clips that ran down my side, across my pubic area and then up the other. When the top ripped it off…I screamed as never before. The pain knocked me to my knees. Life was good.

I remember a top attaching inflated balloons to my back with needles, and then popped the balloons with their singletail. That scene ended quickly when two needles flew out of my back due to being hit with the whip. We were in a public play space, and it was no longer safe for others in the area.

One simple very hot scene employed no pain whatsoever. Yet it carried an emotional wallop which I felt for the next couple days. I was playing with a bondage top. She’d tried many different types of bondage on me. The beauty of her play is her minimalist quality. It’s simple and luscious….like a Mark Rothko painting. Yet my insides would tend to feel like a de Kooning.

I stripped and she pulled out chains. Large chains. She created a chain chest harness and locked me in. Then I laid on the floor and she continued to bind and lock me in chain. The chain wasn’t attached to anything else. Just me. I remember being very cold from all the steel surrounding my skin. I remember the weight of the chains. That made an impact on me. So heavy. I had to struggle to move my body. I began to relax into the heaviness of the chain. After an hour or so, I started shaking and surprisingly began to cum, simply from the chain. Afterwards, I went home and crawled into bed. When I woke the next morning, I felt unsettled. That feeling intensified throughout the day. I was struggling with the feelings that I enjoyed and desired to be locked in chains. All our societal connotations came to me, and my discomfort was large. But, pain comes from resistance. I needed to stop my intellect versus emotions wrestling match.
Letting go and acceptance is freedom. I breathed into it, and embraced my desire.

With training, I learned about remaining present through a scene. I wasn’t allowed to enter lala land while being beat. I needed to stay aware and alert…feel each attack. Be present. It’s a different way of playing. But, it reminds me that I am always responsible for my actions.
And, somehow this ramped up my hunger for more brutal play.

I am female born. And since training, I predominantly play with gay men. I discovered that a few of the people I’ve played with in the past didn’t want to hurt a woman. They were more comfortable hurting a butchier looking female or a guy than a femme looking female. It’s sexist, whether conscious or unconscious. I can understand where it comes from, and so I don’t fault the ones who do it unconsciously. Upbringing. Yet in addition to the intensity, that is part of the turn on for me. Screw the fucking taboos.

I remember desiring to be slapped. The first time in the dining room. I was slapped, and became excited. Then this tall beautiful boy who was watching entered the picture. He slapped me really hard. Tears came to my eyes, and I came, from the intensity of the slap. It was hot and I loved it.

About 3 months ago, at the Eagle, I was playing with this big mean and gentle-hearted bear. He grabbed my hair and threw me to the floor, my hair still tangled in his fingers. He then pulled me up again, and began spitting on my face. I glared at him and said “slap me”. He did. He hit me so hard my jaw hurt for 4 days. Yeah….just what the doctor ordered. I loved the fact that he wasn’t afraid to hurt me.

There was another top that I had negotiated to play with. He had contacted Sir, because he had an idea of how he wanted to play with me, yet was concerned about the appropriateness of the play. Sir responded with “that’s right up her alley. But don’t untie her until she stops swearing”. The top relayed this to me…and I laughed. His play idea? He wanted to tie me up in a ball with hemp rope and then kick the shit out of me with his boots. Talk about turn on.

He and I had intense, glorious play. Intuitively, I somehow knew I needed to plan for extra aftercare for myself. So before the play date with this top, I asked Sir if I could spend the night after my scene in His cell. Sir wisely agreed.
After playing, I somehow managed to drive myself across town to Sir’s where I was treated to homemade cookies and milk. He watched me while I ate and told me I glowed. It’s the sign of really good sex. And for me, my cunt does not need to be involved to have mindblowing sex.

Sir then locked me in the cell, where I quickly and soundly fell asleep. The next morning when I woke I realized I couldn’t move. I was delightfully, incredibly sore. I spent 24 very painful hours recuperating, still locked up. Apparently, I fought so hard during that scene that I couldn’t move the next day. Every muscle ached. I took lots of Tylenol and drank loads of water, while simply laying on the mattress.

I’m reminiscing. My hunger for play is increasing. And, yet, I’m still kind of weak from this really bad cold of a few weeks back. If I’m not hit with a heavy tiredness, then I’ll have a headache that makes me nauseous, or chills or something else. Ugh. I went to the doctor’s yesterday, and she told me it was all stress. Granted, I’m not taking it as easy as I should. And somehow, when I immerse myself in a project, I’m stubborn enough to finish it even if I am tired or not feeling well. So whether it’s my day job, or service at Sir’s afterwards…I do manage to keep myself busy. I need to continually remind myself that part of my service to Sir, is to take the best possible care of myself. Otherwise I’m not good to anyone else, nor to me. I need to slow down for a bit. And, I do have two weeks vacation coming up at the end of June. It’s long overdue and just the thought of vacation is bliss.

As I’m writing, something just occurred to me. Having not played for about year, cuz of lightning striking all over the place, I wonder if a part of me is afraid to play. I wonder if I am creating this not feeling well, after having set up a play date, as an excuse not to go deep. Wow….

…wow.
Talk about a lightbulb moment. Well, if that’s the case, that excuse is bloody garbage. I’m not running from this. And, I’m going to make my date again. Geezum…the things we do to ourselves. Humans. Aren’t we great at self-sabotage?

I've always been intrigued with Billie Holliday. I picked up the movie "Lady Sings The Blues" back in 1990, and periodically watch it.

There are many striking moments in the film. But one that haunts me is when she hooks up with a band comprised of white men, and they tour the country performing music. They sought her out. A black woman and these white guys. There's one scene where they stop for lunch.. Their bus pulls up to this little diner and everyone is pretty hungry. The guys get out after taking Billie's food order. As they walk into the restaurant, you see Billie, looking thru the bus window staring at a sign in the window of the restaurant. The sign says "no coloreds".

When I saw the movie again recently, that part just got to me. To watch her, hungry, knowing she'll get fed yet not being able to experience the diner with the others....damn.

I had a day off today. A full day to do anything or nothing I chose. I opted for nothing. The weather even cooperated. It was gray and cool. Well...cooler than it's been this week. So I curled up on my couch, in my sweats, listening to groovy music, and then watching bad tv. I surfed the web. I thought a lot. And I rested. I was supposed to do a walk and coffee with one of the boys, but I cancelled. I was so tired that I didn't even want to talk or listen to anyone. My energy was shot.

Thursday, I worked 11 hours at my day job. It was hot. I went home and melted.

Friday, I worked in the dirt after work. I chose what appeared to be the coolest place, under a very large tree. The soil in this part of the garden was still moist, which surprised me after a couple weeks of no rain, bright sunny days and heat, heat, heat. I cleared this little area of weeds...knowing that it was the perfect size for such a day. (As an aside, back east, the ocean was where I found my healing. Here in Seattle, the ocean isn't as accessible. I just realized that the earth has become my healing space. One of the 4 elements. Still perfect.)

Afterwards, one of my best friends and I went out to find dinner. The boy and I wanted to eat somewhere on the waterfront. Seattle has lots of waterfront. But Seattle does not have lots of restaurants on the waterfront. We spent two hours cruising all around town, from the south end to the east end to the north...periodically stopping, and then realizing we needed to move on. It was 9:30 before we finally grabbed a table somewhere. And yes, we found waterfront. Actually, waterview. We were across the street from the water. So, good wine, fabulous lobster pernod chowdah (see, I haven't lost my Boston speak), fish 'n' chips, warm summer night and great company. I didn't get home until almost midnight.

I needed to be at Sir's at 9 am the next morning, Saturday, but didn't get up until 9. I was so tired. I called Sir to check in and let Him know I'd be late. I arrived at 9:30 to a wonderful breakfast and a latte. Then, it was "tackle the blackberries on the property" day. It was the hottest day to boot, hitting into the mid 90's. I moved really slow. Sir reminded me to take lots of breaks and not rush. Brutal day. Half way through, I stopped and napped. Then finished the job. By 5 pm I was sitting on the steps, looking at the garden. I pulled out my sketchbook and did some raw, quick pen and inks. It felt so good to get my hand moving again. It had been over a week since I pulled out my little drawing book.
The boys at the house and I decided to do dinner and a movie, more to get into some airconditioning. So I ran home to shower, and met them about 8 pm. Dinner was good. We ate at a good little restaurant in Belltown - Two Bells, and then off to the Cinerama for the 10:30 showing of the Matrix Reloaded.

I am so not going to compare this movie to most of what I like to see. It wouldn't be fair. But I will say it's perfect mindless entertainment. And a few of the shots were visually exciting. I did enjoy one song...in the rave, temple sex scene. But while watching that shot I kept thinking, "Why does this movie have couples paired up by race?" Whites with whites and blacks with blacks. This bugged me something fierce. And my other question was "If this is in our future, where are all the queers?". It really annyoed me that I didn't see queer folks in that scene. For some reason, that button was really pushed.

I then began thinking about all the movies we see. Yes, we as queers have come a long way...but have an even longer way to go.
We get excited when queerness is portrayed, because it's still a rare occurance. If the stats are 1 in 10 are us....then Hollywood is really fucking up.

I know change happens step by step. But sometimes, I get antsy.

When I first discovered Leather, I was leery of it. Yes, something about it spoke to me. But I wanted to keep it “light”. Pretty toys, not too much pain. I discovered s/m online. I met a butch in a chat room. We quickly moved from messaging to phone calls which led to phone sex. I think about it now and it feels silly. But, if it weren’t for this, I don’t know when I would have received my introduction to this life. It was never in my realm of fantasy. Ever.

I remember she told me she was into s/m. I said…“what???” She responded, “oh, it’s very light.” I hesitantly asked her about it…and figured, well…okay. That’s cool for her. Our first scene via phone was a walk in the woods. She told me a story, where she tied me to a tree, blindfolded me, and left me. Then someone came up to me and I felt their knife which they fucked with me.

I was excited. Scared and titillated. This was essentially all through the power of suggestion. It felt so real. And I remember feeling a sense of trust like I’d never before experienced in sex, not knowing who the stranger is, and knew the butch was watching, therefore keeping an eye on me. The next night, I graduated to her request that I pull out my large black belt and hit myself with it. I did. I was aroused and extremely excited.
She then asked me to piss. I remember screaming out “no!”, which effectively stopped the scene. I discovered what I thought then was my very first hard limit. We had never discussed safewords. I didn’t even know what they were. But we did after that. Our play continued each night. On the third or fourth night, she pushed me, and demanded I piss. I did. The next evening, she asked me to piss in a cup and then pour it over myself. I did. The night after, I needed to piss in a cup again, and then drink it. I did.

I became a pisspig.

About a month after our first phone call this top came to visit for a week. We discovered that I had been playing harder with myself (from her direction) than she did with me in real time. I found I was bored with her play. I wanted it harder, rougher and more painful.

I had other experiences afterwards with a few other tops, but it wasn’t very satisfying. The fucks were good but I craved pain.
I discovered that many were into sensual s/m…feathers and silk scarves to evoke erotic play. I know that is the preferred choice of many, but it isn’t mine. The realization I needed intensity came quickly. Looking back on it now, I believe, like many things, that this desire was latent. When someone came into my life and unlocked that door, a maelstrom ripped through my house and blew the walls apart. It was a furious force that had been building for 38 years.

It's been way too friggin' hot for the last couple of days!!! This is the part of New England that I do not miss - 85 plus degree weather!!!
Things have been incredibly busy...so I have barely been home, let alone have time to write.

I just ran in about an hour again, and I'm headed out again. We want air conditioning this evening so it's dinner and the Matrix Reloaded with the boys. More soon.

After working in the garden tonight, I was sitting in Sir's dungeon, on the floor. He was painting the ceiling. I was watching Him.

He always knows when I'm mentally working on something. It never fails. Without even turning to me, He says, "so what are you thinking about?". I laughed, because in many ways, He knows me so well. I can be quiet all afternoon. And then, as soon as something large comes into my head and I really start churning, or have big feelings...He's there. "What's going on?", He'll ask.

Thing is, while sitting on the floor, last night's dream came back to me. I told Sir that I had dreamt of His dungeon. He asked me about my dream. "I don't remember specifics Sir, just the feelings".

He continued painting. I sat there. Next thing I knew, my eyes were wet with tears. And, they were streaming mostly from my right eye, running down the right side of my face, and down my neck. I chose not to wipe them away.

Sir told me a few months back that sometimes we simply need to cry. And, if it's an appropriate place, don't stop it, and don't wipe them. Let 'em be. They need to run.

So I did.
There wasn't any sobbing or even muffled crying. It was simply a quiet flow of tears.

I was feeling lost in a way. I missed the old space. Due to training, I had really attached to it.
The new one isn't quite ready. So it's an inbetween worlds kind of feeling.

There was also a scared feeling. I can feel so powerful and frightened at the same time.
I know I can change the world, conquer mountains and yet still cower in the corner because I feel lost.

Each intake of breath is a step of faith. Each exhale is a commitment to do it again.
There are moments when some of those steps remind me how we are simultaneously large and little.
And sometimes it hits hard. Tonight was one of those times.

I took a different route to work this morning. Driving down a certain road, I flashbacked to my first Christmas here, about 4 1/2 years ago. I was headed on the same road, seeking a friend's house. I remember how difficult it was attempting to learn my way around Seattle. It took about 6 months to be able to comfortably orient myself by landmarks - Mt. Rainier to the south, the Cascades on the east, and the Sound and the Olympics on the west.

I thought back to what led me to Seattle. I had previously lived on the seacoast, in NH. I loved my town. I LOVE the ocean. That's where I would always run for healing. Although the landscape captivated me, and still does, I was beginning to feel dried up. There wasn't anything challenging me there.

An ex had recently moved to Portland OR. She and I were still good friends, and so would email. She kept insisting that my personality fit better with the Northwest than New England, being a warmer, friendly area. That planted the initial seed. I had never been further west than Colorado and Wyoming, but I was intrigued. For some odd reason, I could see myself moving to the northwest.

Keeping these thoughts to myself, I began to think very seriously about moving. Something was calling to me. And it wasn't my ex. It was something very deep. It came to a point where I couldn't imagine staying in New England another year. Although I didn't know what I would be headed for, it felt like the most right thing in the whole world.

Even though my friend lived in Portland, I began looking at Seattle on the map and researching it online. I saw it was surrounded by water, which I needed. Portland was closer to the ocean, yet Seattle was all about water. One day I popped into a chat room and the first words I read were "Seattle is the place for an artist to be". That struck me.

I then went to an art opening a few weeks later, and was introduced to someone. They said "I know you. We met in Seattle". I was floored. A week later, I walked into one of the bars I'd frequent, near the tugboats, and this stranger struck up a conversation with me. He said, "You come from Seattle, don't you?". Mind you, I had not told a soul about my idea to move. I intuitively knew that I couldn't share the idea...and needed to wait until I made up my mind. Who would understand?

The job I had at the time would transfer you to wherever you wanted to be in the country. They couldn't guarantee the same position, but similar pay. So, I called the district office in Portland (seeing that's where my only known contact was), and they said they would find a place for me. I then called the district office in Seattle and they jumped all over me. They said they needed me, and that office didn't even want to tell the other locations in Seattle because they really wanted me at one particular store. I was working the warehouse at the time, and really enjoyed it.

That did it. I decided to move in August. In June, I told my friends and family. God, the ruckus! They thought I was out of my mind. I had never seen Seattle. How would I deal with the rain? I didn't know a soul there. Where would I live? I must be crazy.

The pull to go was so strong, and I couldn't conceive staying, even though I loved the area. I loved my friends and family, yet something big was missing. What impacted me the most was the fact that our minds can pretty much imagine anything. Creating, fantasizing, is one of the gifts of being human. Yet, I came to a point where, as hard as I tried, I could not imagine staying in New England any longer.

Once my friends got somewhat used to the idea, they told me I was incredibly brave for making the move. I still don't understand that. Because at that point, leaving felt like the most natural thing in the world. I don't know how I could have stayed. I felt that by not moving, my spirit would have been smothered and then extinguished.

Two weeks before my leave date, I met two tops online. And both lived in Seattle (which I didn't know when we first hit it off).
They became my first connections in town...one helping me with an apartment, while the other was a connection into the s/m scene.

I went through all the stuff I had accumulated, in my adult life thus far. I sold pretty much all of it. I had a massive art sale, for the things I wanted to sell. And, I filled a dumpster halfway, with drawings and paintings that I tore up...because I did not want those around for anyone. They were no longer meant to be seen.

I packed up all my books and brought them to my parents. I would ship them to myself later on, when I was settled. I left other paintings and a large portfolio of drawings with my parents. I filled up my little Ford Escort with the remainder of my belongings. That's all I took with me to begin my new life.

That began the first big stripping of myself. It was the first conscious letting go of things I had considered important.
I will never forget the feeling. It was an incredible liberation.

I will also never forget the feeling the very first day I drove into Seattle. I cried. I knew I was home.

Strangely, I've yet to connect with the friend who planted the first seed. We emailed and phoned for the first couple years. But we still haven't hooked up. Such is life. And that's cool. I believe her role at that time in my life was to be a catalyst.

Sir brought a photograph to my attention this morning.

It was a black and white, of a person, laying on the floor, shackled and chained...with the chains attached to this filthy, grimy wall.

That image has haunted me all day. I couldn't see the person's face, which was perfect.
The only identity required came from the energy oozing from the photograph.
It was slave.
And it was animal.

I looked at that photo, again and again. I saw me.

oh yeah....and Singletails? I think you did take our nasty weather with you last December. I woke this morning to a grey, cloudy day. I honestly hoped it would rain, because the gardens could use some rain. It's much too early in our season to have such consistently sunny weather. All day I waited...and nothing.
Grey, then sunny, the grey...but no rain.

I...um....have an extra umbrella if you'd like it. :-)

Edge wrote about electrical play today. It reminded me of my experiences with electricity.

My first couple times was with the bug zapper. In case you don’t know what that is, it looks like a badminton racket, in plastic, with room for batteries in the handle. The mesh part is made of wire. It packs a fuckin’ wallop. Just hit the screen to skin, and watch ‘em jump.

Honestly, it’s an evil toy. And it’s one that can consistently cause me to boil. I can rage something fierce with the zapping that thing does. The most intense was when the Top pierced my back with temporary needles, and then hit the needles with the bug zapper.

It’s not a toy I would ever opt to play with. Yet, it’s something I’ll do in submission to someone I trust. So I’m getting off on the submission.

A few years later, my Trainer had me experience electrical play with someone in town who specializes in it. This guy tried it on me. He kept upping the voltage.
I wasn’t impressed. It didn’t turn me on. And honestly, it annoyed me. I found the little stinging sensation to be quite obnoxious.
It was interesting to find something painful that I simply couldn’t relate to, and saw as a waste of time…for me.

But I suppose that maybe for some, part of the turn on is the submission factor. The sensation doesn’t do anything for the bottom, but “taking it for the Top” does. Or, the Top KNOWS the bottom is terrified of electricity, then he’s getting off on pushing edges or into
playing the mad scientist.

Yet...it ain't my cup of tea.