I have a colleague at my office who has, gradually over time, gained knowledge of my kinky side. Whether it's from his occasional strolls into my den where he'll catch me gazing at a glossy image of some ball-gagged and bound gal in shiny black latex or he'll remark about my grasp of sexual slang like "Cleveland steamer" or "going Commando". When he sees the image blazing up to his eyes from my screen, he wants to see more, but i know better. I always decline his requests because i know that what i possess on my computer is considerably more perverse than a glossed-up rubber doll, and two things will happen should i take him down my rabbit hole.
The first being that it will shock him, similar to coaxing someone, who has never experienced it, to leap into the ocean in the dead cold of winter. It will attack their system. I've learned that in order to really allow someone to have a substantially beneficial experience with SM, you must gradually, slowly introduce them to the concept and its practice. Otherwise, flashing him a bunch of material would merely serve to startle him which is not at all interesting to me. It's bad enough that he thinks to send me every bizarre news story about some dominatrix arrested in Boca Raton, or makes a whipping reference ("we need to really whip them into action...") during a meeting and looks directly at me as if i should appreciate it. I don't really want to be someone's kink ambassador, let alone this guy who succinctly gets on my nerves more than anyone else in the workplace.
The second , and much more serious thing that would occur would be the potential loss of anonymity. I hold a place in my industry and my community that should my authorship of "The Lustful Quality..." be found out, my life would be dramatically affected. In fact, i had a recent scare where i was certain that someone at work had sniffed me out. I monitor, fairly regularly, the tracking software i initially installed on this site. One morning i came across the footprint of someone who had accessed this journal from the very same work IP address and domain that i use. Immediately, i thought it was the aforementioned irritating gentleman. I got very afraid. I printed out the web page of evidence, and then carefully stalked around my high-rise office floor, fully anticipating that at any minute some colleague would come up to me and offer me their sarcastic greeting:
"Hi, Deity."
For the record, it never happened. I can't explain how the tracking system indicated that some underling had landed on transformher.blogspot, but it brought up a larger point that i never forget, but sometimes don't address as much as i should.
I've been writing in this space for over a year now (yes, i recently, discreetly celebrated my one year anniversary) and while i'm mighty proud of the interaction, the community and the somewhat mildly heralded niche i've carved out in the land of kinky web journalists, i cannot for sake of my own longevity, share this with those in my everyday life. Basically, i hide beneath the cloak of a theistic honorific in order to explore what is essentially a prime component of my base material, but because we live in the society that we do, i must conceal this quotient of mine. Recent happenings in the UK offers further reason why those of us who regularly practice SM are not safe.
If you haven't heard about these developments, the usually forward thinking folks of the United Kingdom are on the precipice of vaguely outlawing any pornography that features bondage or, especially, corporal punishment (i.e. spanking and flogging). This saddens me on a personal level, because i believe that it is a drastic, albeit perhaps too late, response to some tragic events that happened which were loosely connected to the exploration of SM. On a larger level, it frightens me. It offers further reminders of the intolerant and misunderstanding world i live in, but more importantly, from which i must hide a certain significant part of myself.
Friday, May 30, 2008
Tuesday, May 27, 2008
Form vs. Function
I am blessed with the reality of a full-time power exchange. My girl and i have lived together for over two years, and i have been controlling her dress code for close to five. Simply stating this fact out loud to this digital ether grabs my attention and shakes me. In some ways, it is very difficult for me to grasp that i've been controlling how someone appears to the outside world for a half decade. On occasion, i allow myself the liberty to think of this "project" as an extended art exhibit i have curated - i know what i want to see, how it should look, to the finest detail, and i have fought hard to ensure things appear as i insist. Of course, my girl is not a project, but instead a living, breathing interweave of hormones, rapier wit, stunning beauty and a blessed need to be controlled.
I've spoken about how the practical application of a 24-hour SM relationship must confront certain fantasy-less realities. The mechanism that churns and hums at the House of Deity does not run non-stop or even without hiccups. As i relished the recent post-holiday bliss, i found that the power dynamic between my girl and i had taken a step into the background, acting more as a gesture than an overriding manifesto. It's as if the fingerprint our dynamic has made on our relationship had suddenly lost its dimension, and instead existed as a two-dimensional relief of what it was before we left on vacation. But yet, when you examined the skeletal structure, the simple things we'd established, the dress code, the bed time, you could see that it all still remained. I needed to examine the fingerprint from the perspective of the imprinted rather than the imprinter.
As a testament to her fiery spirit and ferocious grasp of her personal worth, my girl has sometimes questioned what she has seen as a disparity that exists between us from time to time. I don't blame her for doing so. Frankly, on paper, someone who must listen to another person's demands, must abide by their rules, and ultimately doesn't have the final say, does come off as academically unequal. But that's as practical as comparing the gait of a carriage horse to the road upon which he rides.
It is really a simple matter of Form vs. Function. I have said to her many times (to the point of needing to declare it as our house "mantra") that we have two separate (not equal, not unequal, but separate) roles in this house. She exists to make the house livable, comfortable, and pleasant. I exist to make the house work, function, progress. One purpose does not have greater importance than the other. This house cannot satisfy us if it does not provide a congenial way of living, and a congenial way of living cannot exist if a solid structure isn't in place and reinforced regularly.
To put it into explicit, enumerated terms, she provides the extremely necessary:
- Decoration and general home aesthetic
- Flavor found in our food, plant and animal life
- Her infallible beauty and impeccable appearance
- Culture such as outings and recommendations for theatre, opera, museums, music, cinema and other local artisanal exploits
I offer:
- discipline, both detail-oriented organization of the home or regular physical corporal correction
- establishing a limit on how much she is allowed to feel guilty by undervaluing how much she contributes/gives to herself, to us, to the outside world
- firm and instinctual decision over meals, daily itineraries, her costume
I could easily expand these lists for both of us, and this exercise would not bring us closer to establishing an "equality" between us. It is not an issue that i seek final judgment on because i do not see the purpose of the pursuit. I say this with the implicitly held knowledge that there is much that i do that may allocate the inequality in my direction, but that i ultimately do not care to achieve balance here. The issue of whether or not i pull more weight than her is meaningless to me. I see little utility in attempting to equivocate the genders, and i see even less need to try to balance out what the bottom accomplishes in respects to what the top does.
More importantly, i'd much rather enjoy the beauty she accomplishes when she is free to focus on the rudiments that a submissive girl gets to flaunt.
I've spoken about how the practical application of a 24-hour SM relationship must confront certain fantasy-less realities. The mechanism that churns and hums at the House of Deity does not run non-stop or even without hiccups. As i relished the recent post-holiday bliss, i found that the power dynamic between my girl and i had taken a step into the background, acting more as a gesture than an overriding manifesto. It's as if the fingerprint our dynamic has made on our relationship had suddenly lost its dimension, and instead existed as a two-dimensional relief of what it was before we left on vacation. But yet, when you examined the skeletal structure, the simple things we'd established, the dress code, the bed time, you could see that it all still remained. I needed to examine the fingerprint from the perspective of the imprinted rather than the imprinter.
As a testament to her fiery spirit and ferocious grasp of her personal worth, my girl has sometimes questioned what she has seen as a disparity that exists between us from time to time. I don't blame her for doing so. Frankly, on paper, someone who must listen to another person's demands, must abide by their rules, and ultimately doesn't have the final say, does come off as academically unequal. But that's as practical as comparing the gait of a carriage horse to the road upon which he rides.
It is really a simple matter of Form vs. Function. I have said to her many times (to the point of needing to declare it as our house "mantra") that we have two separate (not equal, not unequal, but separate) roles in this house. She exists to make the house livable, comfortable, and pleasant. I exist to make the house work, function, progress. One purpose does not have greater importance than the other. This house cannot satisfy us if it does not provide a congenial way of living, and a congenial way of living cannot exist if a solid structure isn't in place and reinforced regularly.
To put it into explicit, enumerated terms, she provides the extremely necessary:
- Decoration and general home aesthetic
- Flavor found in our food, plant and animal life
- Her infallible beauty and impeccable appearance
- Culture such as outings and recommendations for theatre, opera, museums, music, cinema and other local artisanal exploits
I offer:
- discipline, both detail-oriented organization of the home or regular physical corporal correction
- establishing a limit on how much she is allowed to feel guilty by undervaluing how much she contributes/gives to herself, to us, to the outside world
- firm and instinctual decision over meals, daily itineraries, her costume
I could easily expand these lists for both of us, and this exercise would not bring us closer to establishing an "equality" between us. It is not an issue that i seek final judgment on because i do not see the purpose of the pursuit. I say this with the implicitly held knowledge that there is much that i do that may allocate the inequality in my direction, but that i ultimately do not care to achieve balance here. The issue of whether or not i pull more weight than her is meaningless to me. I see little utility in attempting to equivocate the genders, and i see even less need to try to balance out what the bottom accomplishes in respects to what the top does.
More importantly, i'd much rather enjoy the beauty she accomplishes when she is free to focus on the rudiments that a submissive girl gets to flaunt.
Saturday, May 24, 2008
My voice is horse
I owned my first pair of cowboy boots at the plum age of three. I'd squeezed milk from the teet of a dairy cow no later than my eighth year on this rock. I've chased many a goose, chicken, llama, rabbit and sheep in attempts to corral them into their pens (i have subsequently been chased by several hogs who had it in their mind that they were more intelligent than my young adolescent self).
Growing up, i spent great amounts of my developing years working on any one of my father's mountain ranches. I've stepped in manure, used it for ammunition in fights, and have come to develop a kindred reaction to it when i stumble upon its forceful scent - it reminds me of a time when i lived off the land with comfort and ease.
I've attended many rodeos, stockshows and state fairs where the center stage event was to examine the different heffers and bulls lined up, chewing cud. Always on display at these events were the amazing ropeworking skills the average rancher had to master. Over time, i learned how to hogtie a young steer in 15 seconds or less. I learned the proper technique to lasso a runaway, and secure the rope effectively to the horn of your saddle. Of course with a lack of practical use, most of this learning has migrated from the contact of my fingertips to the recesses of my mind. It's all still in my blood, but they are skills i don't necessarily use with regularity.
I've ridden hundreds of horses, through well groomed trails and over rocky terrain that lay above timberline. In my youth, i grew quite attached with some of them. Whether it was taking off or putting on their tack, brushing their coats, or just watching them eat something i'd shared with them from my own lunch. I recognized the connection i made with this animal, this beast that allowed me to situate myself on top of it, take its reins and guide it where i wanted to go. The level of trust required never ceased to put me in awe.
When i had my first adult encounter with pony girls and pony play, this rural part of my background came into direct conflict with it. For someone who has acquired several bit gags, a tawse, numerous whips, and one or two floggers, you'd think that the art of turning a girl into a pony would fit well into my 10-gallon Stetson. But when i see the plumy costumes employed and the intricate dressage these ponies have been trained with, i tilt my head in bewildered curiosity. I do not get any erotic stimulation from it. This is not to say that i don't still consume media depicting it. I find a great deal of it beautiful, stunning and odd - from the incredibly inventive hooven boots to the horse-tail buttplugs. But none of it gives me a surge of tingles and energy.
Growing up, i never hitched a cart to a horse, or any animal for that matter. They worked for me, but always in a way where i led them by either riding them or giving them commands to herd a confused flock. I never paraded them, nor even tried to train them for show. My dominance over them was more private and integral to the tasks we joined together to accomplish. They looked to me for guidance but also some boundaries, and once provided, they would exhibit the strength and technique of a well-handled animal. For my part, i'd sit back and enjoy the ride.
Growing up, i spent great amounts of my developing years working on any one of my father's mountain ranches. I've stepped in manure, used it for ammunition in fights, and have come to develop a kindred reaction to it when i stumble upon its forceful scent - it reminds me of a time when i lived off the land with comfort and ease.
I've attended many rodeos, stockshows and state fairs where the center stage event was to examine the different heffers and bulls lined up, chewing cud. Always on display at these events were the amazing ropeworking skills the average rancher had to master. Over time, i learned how to hogtie a young steer in 15 seconds or less. I learned the proper technique to lasso a runaway, and secure the rope effectively to the horn of your saddle. Of course with a lack of practical use, most of this learning has migrated from the contact of my fingertips to the recesses of my mind. It's all still in my blood, but they are skills i don't necessarily use with regularity.
I've ridden hundreds of horses, through well groomed trails and over rocky terrain that lay above timberline. In my youth, i grew quite attached with some of them. Whether it was taking off or putting on their tack, brushing their coats, or just watching them eat something i'd shared with them from my own lunch. I recognized the connection i made with this animal, this beast that allowed me to situate myself on top of it, take its reins and guide it where i wanted to go. The level of trust required never ceased to put me in awe.
When i had my first adult encounter with pony girls and pony play, this rural part of my background came into direct conflict with it. For someone who has acquired several bit gags, a tawse, numerous whips, and one or two floggers, you'd think that the art of turning a girl into a pony would fit well into my 10-gallon Stetson. But when i see the plumy costumes employed and the intricate dressage these ponies have been trained with, i tilt my head in bewildered curiosity. I do not get any erotic stimulation from it. This is not to say that i don't still consume media depicting it. I find a great deal of it beautiful, stunning and odd - from the incredibly inventive hooven boots to the horse-tail buttplugs. But none of it gives me a surge of tingles and energy.
Growing up, i never hitched a cart to a horse, or any animal for that matter. They worked for me, but always in a way where i led them by either riding them or giving them commands to herd a confused flock. I never paraded them, nor even tried to train them for show. My dominance over them was more private and integral to the tasks we joined together to accomplish. They looked to me for guidance but also some boundaries, and once provided, they would exhibit the strength and technique of a well-handled animal. For my part, i'd sit back and enjoy the ride.
Wednesday, May 21, 2008
Something new about the old
This post has been harder than i expected it to be.
I've been away for the past few weeks, relaxing in the oh-so-easy environs of Mother Europe, having returned just a couple days ago. In the time since i returned, i've logged into this here web portal many times and primarily gawked at it and the activity that has blossomed in my absence.
I just haven't been able to muster the proper meter and timbre that befits a TransformHer post, falling short of my own admittedly lofty standards. There are many reasons for this. When you leave for such a long time, it's difficult to fit yourself back into your regimented routine. I'm finding it hard to settle into any regulated aspect of the life i led before i left on vacation, let alone manning this outlet. Some responsibility for this falls on the incredibly relaxed lifestyle i grew accustomed to across the Atlantic. Right now, the pace i customarily sustained in the big metropolis feels alien, and that makes nearly everything associated with the lifestyle i carved out of the local grindstone harder to relate to.
I've no doubt that the passage of time will gracefully escort me back to the seat i occupied before i took my leave of absence, which leads me to not suffer from any panic at my current disembodiment. In fact, it offers me a kind of liberty. I'm able to look at the world that i had grown so accustomed to viewing as the default with a freedom of perhaps learning something new about the old.
---------------------
I'd like to thank Stormy for her caretaking during my vacancy. Reading her posts upon my return had me honestly wondering if i should remain or if perhaps i should check to see if there were any, as yet, unfilled rooms at the Venetian villa i spent the past few weeks reclining. Alas, i shall stick around these parts while offering my eternal gratitude for her stewardship.
I've been away for the past few weeks, relaxing in the oh-so-easy environs of Mother Europe, having returned just a couple days ago. In the time since i returned, i've logged into this here web portal many times and primarily gawked at it and the activity that has blossomed in my absence.
I just haven't been able to muster the proper meter and timbre that befits a TransformHer post, falling short of my own admittedly lofty standards. There are many reasons for this. When you leave for such a long time, it's difficult to fit yourself back into your regimented routine. I'm finding it hard to settle into any regulated aspect of the life i led before i left on vacation, let alone manning this outlet. Some responsibility for this falls on the incredibly relaxed lifestyle i grew accustomed to across the Atlantic. Right now, the pace i customarily sustained in the big metropolis feels alien, and that makes nearly everything associated with the lifestyle i carved out of the local grindstone harder to relate to.
I've no doubt that the passage of time will gracefully escort me back to the seat i occupied before i took my leave of absence, which leads me to not suffer from any panic at my current disembodiment. In fact, it offers me a kind of liberty. I'm able to look at the world that i had grown so accustomed to viewing as the default with a freedom of perhaps learning something new about the old.
---------------------
I'd like to thank Stormy for her caretaking during my vacancy. Reading her posts upon my return had me honestly wondering if i should remain or if perhaps i should check to see if there were any, as yet, unfilled rooms at the Venetian villa i spent the past few weeks reclining. Alas, i shall stick around these parts while offering my eternal gratitude for her stewardship.
Saturday, May 17, 2008
Sugasm #130
Sugasm #130
The best of this week’s blogs by the bloggers who blog them. Highlighting the top 3 posts as chosen by Sugasm participants. Want in Sugasm #131? Submit a link to your best post of the week using this form. Participants, repost the link list within a week and you’re all set.
This Week’s Picks
Gross Spelling Errors Turn Me Off
“Here are a few other word issues that come up in sex writing that throw me off and drive me crazy.”
L’Artiste
“I want time to sip my whisky, to drink you in as you unveil yourself, as you offer your body to my steady gaze.”
Learning My Limits (Part 1)
“It hurts. It’s gorgeous. ”
Mr. Sugasm Himself
24-Months of AVN Online, $0
Editor’s Choice
The Few, The Proud, The Pornless
See also: Fleshbot’s Sex Blog Roundup each Tuesday and Friday.
BDSM & Fetish
Cut to the chaste
Friday, May 16, 2008
Coffee with Deity
Hi. I'm Stormy, here only in Deity's temporary absence. You'll have him back soon, I promise.
---------
Last year sometime, Deity wrote a post about the day we first met. I thought it was lovely piece of writing when I read it. Seductive and erotic undertones that pulled me as much as the meeting itself.
As his faithful readers know well, Deity has a way with words that make the scary things seem... tempting. Those things that a good girl would never (and should never) ever want, he makes you think "hmm, maybe..."
A dangerous guy.
And so I can't help loving him to pieces because there's something deviant in me - and in you, I think, dear reader. It's something that makes you ponder: "hmmm, maybe..." as he makes his mysterious universe into your shameful temptation.
In my case, I was tempted enough to meet him, and vice versa it turned out. So here is my own recollection of coffee with Deity.
---------
It's a drab afternoon in the city, the sky full with bloated, dark clouds washing out the usual vibrancy into muted colors. The air feels slightly muffled and the city feels as resigned to its fate as I do.
The coffee shop is as he described it, long and narrow, and I spot him right away, though he said later that my glance around the cafe was in search of him. It wasn't. I recognized him immediately, but I have senses like a police officer (or perhaps a criminal?) at times -- my back usually positioned against a wall and quick exits established in advance. Eventually my eyes return to him and I take a deep breath and move to greet him.
Deity described me as awkward that day and I'm sure that's true. From the start I am at the disadvantages of his choosing, my back to the door and in unfamiliar territory. And I'm drinking tea which he's ordered for me, when I feel absolutely certain I should be sipping something like Glenlivet for this introduction. Hell, I should be gargling it.
But no. I'm here in this foreign coffee shop, his own personal lair. The tea is calming my chill but the caffeine threatens to escalate my nerves. We talk about nothing. It's charming, but evasive.
Deity's girl isn't available today, attending some grand event elsewhere. Deity is so very proud of her, both of who she is and her accomplishments. He tells me more about the things that make her amazing to him, and I agree, she is amazing. It relaxes me to talk about her. I am not here to get involved with her man, after all. Simply to meet a close friend I'd never met before.
But that doesn't mean there is no sexuality present at this table. For one thing, I suspect Deity would bring a D/s component into a brief conversational exchange with a 65 year old librarian grandmother, if he thought it would entertain him.
And so for this meeting of ours, he's especially focused.
He wants my attention and he confirms this for himself in small ways, by my obedience. I'm drinking the tea he ordered; I'm wearing the boots he advised me to buy long ago, knee-high with 4" heels that I've finally mastered; I'm fitted in a long, fashionable skirt that I knew he'd approve of; and I've abided some underwear 'suggestions'.
It's surprisingly embarrassing. To meet someone with whom you have no expectation of sex yet to still be their sexual toy. I could have been cheeky and not conformed to these preferences of his, but for what reason? He is dominant, I'm submissive. This dance is part of our natures, and he leads it.
Our conversation turns to less trivial things and the intimacy of it makes me nervous. I should leave, yet I'm feeling trapped here. It might not be sex, but I do feel a bit like I'm getting fucked. God, such a pleasant buzz it is...
And so I know I'd better leave, but when I come to that decision he seizes my wrist holding me in place.
Everything is quiet as I get my bearings. I slow my breathing, matching that buzz in my head to the calm, dark sky outside the cafe window. Everything feels serene yet threatening.
I'll let Deity finish the story in his words:
Indeed, I was.
Last year sometime, Deity wrote a post about the day we first met. I thought it was lovely piece of writing when I read it. Seductive and erotic undertones that pulled me as much as the meeting itself.
As his faithful readers know well, Deity has a way with words that make the scary things seem... tempting. Those things that a good girl would never (and should never) ever want, he makes you think "hmm, maybe..."
A dangerous guy.
And so I can't help loving him to pieces because there's something deviant in me - and in you, I think, dear reader. It's something that makes you ponder: "hmmm, maybe..." as he makes his mysterious universe into your shameful temptation.
In my case, I was tempted enough to meet him, and vice versa it turned out. So here is my own recollection of coffee with Deity.
It's a drab afternoon in the city, the sky full with bloated, dark clouds washing out the usual vibrancy into muted colors. The air feels slightly muffled and the city feels as resigned to its fate as I do.
The coffee shop is as he described it, long and narrow, and I spot him right away, though he said later that my glance around the cafe was in search of him. It wasn't. I recognized him immediately, but I have senses like a police officer (or perhaps a criminal?) at times -- my back usually positioned against a wall and quick exits established in advance. Eventually my eyes return to him and I take a deep breath and move to greet him.
Deity described me as awkward that day and I'm sure that's true. From the start I am at the disadvantages of his choosing, my back to the door and in unfamiliar territory. And I'm drinking tea which he's ordered for me, when I feel absolutely certain I should be sipping something like Glenlivet for this introduction. Hell, I should be gargling it.
But no. I'm here in this foreign coffee shop, his own personal lair. The tea is calming my chill but the caffeine threatens to escalate my nerves. We talk about nothing. It's charming, but evasive.
Deity's girl isn't available today, attending some grand event elsewhere. Deity is so very proud of her, both of who she is and her accomplishments. He tells me more about the things that make her amazing to him, and I agree, she is amazing. It relaxes me to talk about her. I am not here to get involved with her man, after all. Simply to meet a close friend I'd never met before.
But that doesn't mean there is no sexuality present at this table. For one thing, I suspect Deity would bring a D/s component into a brief conversational exchange with a 65 year old librarian grandmother, if he thought it would entertain him.
And so for this meeting of ours, he's especially focused.
He wants my attention and he confirms this for himself in small ways, by my obedience. I'm drinking the tea he ordered; I'm wearing the boots he advised me to buy long ago, knee-high with 4" heels that I've finally mastered; I'm fitted in a long, fashionable skirt that I knew he'd approve of; and I've abided some underwear 'suggestions'.
It's surprisingly embarrassing. To meet someone with whom you have no expectation of sex yet to still be their sexual toy. I could have been cheeky and not conformed to these preferences of his, but for what reason? He is dominant, I'm submissive. This dance is part of our natures, and he leads it.
Our conversation turns to less trivial things and the intimacy of it makes me nervous. I should leave, yet I'm feeling trapped here. It might not be sex, but I do feel a bit like I'm getting fucked. God, such a pleasant buzz it is...
And so I know I'd better leave, but when I come to that decision he seizes my wrist holding me in place.
Everything is quiet as I get my bearings. I slow my breathing, matching that buzz in my head to the calm, dark sky outside the cafe window. Everything feels serene yet threatening.
I'll let Deity finish the story in his words:
When i feel that you are ready, i lead you through a slow discussion of what you'd confessed to me online. I force you to talk explicitly about the things you want done to you. I demand that you speak at the same conversational level that we were previously. You are made to describe why you believe you deserve to be treated this way, why you have come to meet me at the cafe, and why you know this has to happen.
As each minute passes with you not taking your eyes from mine, i strip you of your vices. I remove you of your hangups. I peel away your vulnerabilities. At a certain point, you'll disappear.
At a certain point, you'll be gone.
Indeed, I was.
Sunday, May 4, 2008
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