Scene it all

As you make your way through your own sexual discovery, you tend to spend the initial stages of this exploration within your mind. It's not common that you share this embryonic experience with others. Not yet. You play with the new sensations in your head. Flexing the new connections between stronger, fortified and maturing muscles. When you are ready (or more likely when you aren't), suddenly presented with a partner (or partners), you venture into an experimental stage with others. It's from this point where you forge deep, intimate connections with these individuals who share similar appetites as yours, each of you uncovering new forms of expression that broaden a nascent language of the skin and senses. If you are blessed, you look around this new world, and see similar souls, each seeking the same sexual sustenance - synchronicity, symbiosis, singularity.

But what happens if you are not fortunate enough to find those "others"? What happens if you discover that your sexual desires do not match the oft-repeated examples from society and culture around you? Do you start to doubt the authenticity of your needs and hungers? Do you embark on a long voyage of self-betrayal, doubt and denial?

It's been nearly 20 years since I saw my first fetish images from the unsanctioned use of an Internet-enabled computer I was stationed at for a mindless temp job (back then, "Internet-enabled" was in fact a very common thing). What I felt as I clicked through a seemingly endless assortment of grainy images of women clad - head-to-toe - in shiny rubber was a pulse that throbbed in me unlike anything else up to this point. It triggered alive some sort of contraption in my body that sought a source of fuel and energy not easily found, and more importantly, one that my then-current environment labeled as perverted, wrong and unacceptable. I was forced to take my sexuality deep underground.

This subterfuge led me to relocate to a different city, a much larger one, with the promise that I'd find other like-minded souls operating in a world where I could satisfy and explore this erotic currency much more freely. Since my emigration, there have been many unconnected experiences that have fulfilled, but even today, I cannot ignore my deep dissatisfaction with "the scene". As recently as this past Halloween, my girl and I went to the self-proclaimed "Premiere Fetish Play Party" in Gotham, only to be incredibly let down at how enormously disorganized and scattered this world was. I won't go into detail about what we encountered, only to say that if this is the preeminent celebration of kink in this metropolis, fetish is unattractive, sociopathic and rude. After an evening of extreme letdowns, I had to come to grips with the fact that in this massively chaotic and unbridled city, you still are not able to find the environment that permits you to foster the deep kind of intimacy you'd think a playground of this size would allow.

I wonder if those of you reading this have found similar disappointments. I invite you to share your experiences in the comments to this post. I'd really love to hear your successes and your misfortunes. Perhaps here on these pages, we can have a dialog over what sort of landscape we'd hope to find. Perhaps, we can find ways to not feel totally isolated and alone.

Reason #48 for my anonymity

I had so many other things i planned to write about. Much more enjoyable things. Juicy. Tawdry. The kind of things that perhaps are the sole reasons most of you come to visit. But no. Instead, i had to read this article.

Anthrax. Whoa. Dangerous stuff, sure. But why exactly is it being mentioned on these pages? When i first read the article several days ago, it brought back many memories of 2001. Of that time, living in my city that had been attacked by terrorists. How we were just starting to adjust to the new landscape, how we were just starting the work we needed to do in order to heal and then - POW - those letters delivering their vicious white powder landed at several Broadcasting HQ's here in Midtown and at the doors of several U.S. Senators down in Washington D.C. More panic and terror set in. We didn't know how much we would need to recoil and fortify against the evils out there. It was genuinely a very scary, completely unsexy time. But it's not those memories that push me to write on this article. No. The reason came further down the page, when i came across the "profile" the journalist decided to fabricate of the alleged anthrax mailer:

They discovered his penchant for taking long drives at night, sometimes mailing letters and packages from distant spots under assumed names. They discovered his obsession with a sorority, Kappa Kappa Gamma, and with images of blindfolded women, hundreds of which were found on his computer, the report says.

I can understand the relevance of mentioning his penchant for taking long drives at night wherein he would drop something in a postal box several miles away. It establishes a pattern of behavior that can explain his ability to send those anthrax-laden envelopes from Princeton, NJ. I can even vaguely get why they divulge his obsession with a sorority (although they do not say which campus - i can't imagine he was just obsessed with this particular sorority, nationwide, but i digress). What i cannot understand for the life of me is why this journalist saw fit reasons to mention his "obsession" with images of blindfolded women. WHAT RELEVANCE IS THAT????!!??

I was so incredibly perturbed when i came across that part of the article. Of course they had to find some S&M aspect to fully complete the psychotic character that would commit such heinous acts. I closed the article. Forgot about it as best i could, and went on with my day.

But this bullshit statement wouldn't let me rest. It kept popping up in my head. Shoving its way into my eye, poking me. Causing me to grow increasingly irritated. I even tried my traditional methods of relieving anxiety and frustration: Run Like Hell. The weather has been gorgeous, so i took to the park and ran until my sides screamed. And yet, it didn't seem to do the job because i could still feel anger for this journalists irresponsible words in between my gasps for air. This wasn't just some pandering tabloid, looking to jolt its pages with some scandal. No, this was the New York Times, the supposed standard of journalistic excellence.

Why is it that whenever a beat reporter is looking to fill out his column, he sinks into the muck and chooses to capitalize on the alleged's collection of S&M porn? Why in articles about great men who have accomplished heroic deeds, we do not hear that they too had a vast collection of images of blindfolded women.

"In addition to raising millions of dollars for relief efforts in Haiti, George Clooney likes to relax and let off steam by picking through his sizable anthology of women gagged by rope."

I can quite easily say that i have way more than hundreds of images of material that, should a journalist with half a brain find them, could paint me as the Most Dangerous Man Alive. It's articles like this that remind me that it's not safe to express who i am in a public forum. That it's not safe to attach myself to these acts i depict on this site, despite the fact that every one of them are of a consensual manner. This is why i must be anonymous, despite my efforts to present SM as a responsible and loving expression of intimacy and vulnerability.

And to be honest, there are days i don't think it's worth it.

The illusion always has an explanation

The average visitor to these pages comes across "TransformHer" for the first time, having never stepped foot into my shadowy lair ( i know this because there's a reason i get so few comments but a healthy albeit humble turnstile count). As i've come to notice, most random, brand new visitors find my black and orange-hued corner through image/content searches for "venus corset" or "neck corset" (and especially these two posts: one on Venus corsets and the other on my neck corset obsession). The latter post being over a year old, and yet it still seems to snag a gigantic portion of my visitors. In fact, were it my sole goal to accumulate the largest number of visitors my particular bent could muster, i'm convinced all i'd need to do would be to post an entry filled with a run-on sentence that consisted of four words: "neck corset venus corset"

neck corset venus corset neck corset venus corset neck corset venus corset neck corset venus corset neck corset venus corset neck corset venus corset neck corset venus corset neck corset venus corset neck corset venus corset neck corset venus corset neck corset venus corset neck corset venus corset neck corset venus corset neck corset venus corset neck corset venus corset neck corset venus corset neck corset venus corset neck corset venus corset neck corset venus corset neck corset venus corset neck corset venus corset neck corset venus corset neck corset venus corset neck corset venus corset neck corset venus corset neck corset venus corset

and so on...

In actuality, my number one goal has not been focused on me luring the largest number of interested readers (i.e. quantity), but rather me presenting a viewpoint that sparks dialogue, debate and conversation about topics that too frequently get treatment as pure fantasy (i.e. quality). By this i mean i want to take the "Gor" out of SM, the forced honorifics and protocols that seem to muddle up what anyone who seeks a power exchange is really looking for - a connection to a like-minded spirit (i speak out against the fakery out there in the SM world, and yet i still pen this entry under the fictional name of 'Deity'. Yes, i recognize the irony in this).

This entry really is meant for those first-timers to "The Lustful Quality" or even those semi-frequent visitors who have not lent their voice to this dialogue (i promise to be kind and encouraging to anyone who comments). Should you desire to engage in a kink relationship that takes the structure of a Male Top and a female bottom, i seek to dispel any illusions that this journey is devoid of difficulty, emotional pain or even total miscalculations. I've been pursuing this kind of power dynamic for decades, and i have yet to have still master the day in and day out, and despite what may come across in my entries, there are still struggles between me and my girl that are very human, very raw and very flawed.

I chronicle a regular correction of my girl on these pages that some of you have taken a shine to, but i don't often present the failed episodes wherein my girl does not respond to the discipline i'm dishing out. This does not make her flawed or disobedient, rather it can be chalked up to the regular ruminations of living life. It would be complete folly to expect my girl to take instruction from every single character she encounters in her life like she does from me. In fact, she is a fiery, opinionated, and intelligent creature whose voice is very often sought and relied upon - to insist that this voice be silenced would do an injustice to not only her but the world. That being said, this creature with such a tiny, feminine frame who must fight for a seat on the train ride home can't just disrobe of this armor the instance she steps foot across our threshold.

I've seen many portrayals out there of 24/7 power exchanges where the submissive is able to/expected to immediately assume the role of the bottom as soon as they come in contact with their Top. I won't declare those as being false, but i will say i've had no such similar experience. Just because i call my girl up in the middle of the day, on a day where she needs to be on top of her game, responding to others' needs, juggling others' demands, it would be completely ignorant and unreasonable for me to expect her to assume the bottomness she so beautifully accomplishes in the comfort of our home.

This is a game of psychology, and for the most part sanctuary. I'm not able to, nor should i seek it, to be a Top to everyone i encounter in my business transactions. Nor should my girl assume the role of the submissive to everyone who engages her. When we do come together, there is a considerable negotiation and a certain amount of theatrics that takes place. Sometimes i feel like i'm putting on a production with me as the Director/School Master/Boss character that creates an environment where we are able to assume the roles that slough off the masks we portray in our daily lives. What makes it all the more engaging is that we're not following a set protocol or an ideology, and in fact exploring this journey together, making it our own. Me being who i am, i would be quite disappointed should i discover that i was in fact towing some unseen party line with regards to SM. And quite personally (with all due respect to those who enjoy lines that are rift with parties and ideologies), i'm not sure that's realistically possible.

Working the kinks out

As i write this (and i usually write my posts, instead of type them. I use the typing portion as the editing stage. Did someone say intern?), my girl is in her den click-clacking away on her laptop. She doesn't know that in about two hours from now, i will call for her, wherein she will expeditiously respond by coming into my den. I will be situated in my comfortable chair, exposing a large amount of lap for her to situate her little tummy right on top. Before she stretches herself over my knees, she will lower her panties (perhaps even remove them), and gather her skirt over her hips. There is much i enjoy with taking her over my knee. It paints such a beautiful image.

-the willing and waiting female buttocks prostrated up directly at me, attached to a very vulnerable and pensive submissive girl.

However, it is not my posture of choice for many reasons. And as i contemplated the reality of this upcoming episode, those reasons percolated into my mind, only long enough for me to realize that they represent the hallmark of what is a common compromise with regards to a kinky lifestyle. Albeit a very attractive way to position a bottom, it is very clumsy and a hard one to endure. She must awkwardly plant her hands onto the floor, supporting the weight of her torso, while balancing this with her firmly anchored feet attempting the same thing on her lower end. However, when i strike, her impulse is to pull up her legs, which forces a huge amount of weight onto her frail hands and wrists.

Much about kink has this similar 'form vs. function' debacle. When you're looking at sexy rubber photos, it isn't made clear how sweltering it is to wear latex is (i've seen models at the end of the night, removing their garments, and pouring ounces of perspiration out of them - i know, so arousing!). When you watch an incredibly intricate display of shibari rope bondage, how often do you think about the maintenance in cleaning up after a scene or even the necessary, meticulous care one needs to apply to the conditioning and cleaning of their jute supplies? Corset repair, replacement of stockings with runs, proper sanitizing of anal toys, latex garment conditioning, cane straightening, tightening the bolts and general safety inspection of your homemade St. Andrew's cross - all of it hard work that is happily attended to, but nonetheless an additional burden for those who pursue the kinky path (i believe someone earlier mentioned 'interns', is that still a possibility?).

And what about those who are disinclined to all of that work? There are those who pursue what i colloquially call 'SM lite'. These are the folks who get the furry handcuffs, the ready-made crotchless latex skirt shoved into a cardboard box, the nipple clamps that have very little impact on the victim's anatomy. They are the vanilla (i do loathe to use this word, but in this context it makes sense) seeking a little hot fudge on top of their double scoop. And that's fine. There is absolutely nothing wrong with that. There are times i can imagine how much easier it must be not to have a toolchest full of implements, thwackers, devices and contraband.

But then i visit my toolchest, study its salacious contents and realize i wouldn't want it any other way.

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'd like to issue a correction

I am weary of posting on topics just to publish new material, to fill the midnight veil of my site's background. I do not plop myself in front of this digital Dictaphone to offer empty words that may at best serve as entertaining and at worse negatively influence someone. Because i take my responsibility as someone who presents themselves as thriving in a domestic power exchange, i look to this journal as a portal for me to examine, explore, alter and parody my sexuality as it is expressed in my life. Therefore, i take each post i scribe as a serious and meaningful exercise.

In thinking about what i'd hoped to expound on next, i scanned a list of commenced but as-of-yet unfinished posts and their subject matter. There were other tomes and veins of thought from which i'd hoped to extract their rich materials, but i felt an urge to write about one topic i'd written about several times before. But as i said above, i'd rather not just scribble a play-by-play of a session with my girl for the sole sake of tantalizing those who might wander by to read a "hot tale of over-the-knee action". If indeed there has been flagrant flaunting with no real purpose, i offer my sincere apology to you the reader. I expect you come to these pages with the hopes that i do more with the interesting anatomy than just label the individual parts. I want to accomplish something with my words. I want to leave a product hanging from the walls of my web journal. I want to create, to craft, to transform.

This last thought sat in my head for a few days, while i simultaneously reconstructed a recent evening.

I'd arrived home from work before my girl, which is not a common experience. This allowed me to mentally take over the space of our home, pushing my ravenously dominant-charged psyche into every nook and cranny. You've all seen this, while visiting the zoo, heading to the big cat cages. The feral felines trapped in their lair pace - back and forth - waiting for their next meal. By the time this gentle lamb entered through our front vestibule, i'd worked up an historic hunger.

We de-processed eachother of our individual days. I listened to her gripe about meaningless firing ranges and overpaid incompetence. She nodded and tilted her head as i wove a brief tale about rumors (yet again) of downsizing. But, none of this paid into the eventual events of the evening. I'd decided early in the day where i needed to focus my energy, and from our exchange, my sensors detected in her undertones, in her breath, in the way she looked at me that it was time. She was in need of a correction.

I'd narrowed down to one from a list of over a dozen implements that i'd use to mark her backside. Cutting off the generous conversation, i presented her with two options:

"Option A, which involves more swats. And Option B, which involves harder swats."

I will not feel comfortable if my presentation of my girl leads to the general consensus that she requires frequent and stern intervention. Quite the contrary. She asserts herself with both talent and flair throughout her day in ways that are both just and accurate. Streaming through my mind growing up as i formulated the material i would use in a long-term relationship was the simple image of the man taking his woman over his knee. I am not responding to specific transgressions she commits, thus making my lap the court and my hand the gavel of justice. She requires occasional corporal refinement as much as i require the ability to carry it out. Simple as that.

"Option B."

She was not aware nor is she made aware of what i will use to strike her backside. I instructed her to lie herself down on the couch, panties removed, skirt lifted above her hips, and her unmarked buttocks pointed up into the air. I watched as she arranged herself, touched, moved by this pageant of such playful pomp. I then told her i'd return in a few minutes. I went to the closet in the hallway and grabbed one of an assortment of orphaned wire hangers, collected from numerous trips to the dry cleaners. I bent one side of the frame, pulling the two metal pieces into eachother to make a handle. I walked back to the front room where the suspense had built in the air, like so many students crowded around a bulletin board awaiting the test results as they are finally posted.

Standing over her splayed body, i lifted the metallic flogger over my head, eyeing the creamy, white mounds pointed up at me. I thrashed my arm through the air, stinging her flesh with a swipe of the hanger. I held the utensil against her skin. She'd turned her head up towards me, looking to see what it was that had bit into her. When i pulled the hanger off her skin, i could tell she identified what i'd used just by the immediate expansion of her eyelids caused by the shock and anticipation of what option she'd chosen. A deep flipper-shaped auburn outline glowed up from her ass.

"That's one."

"How many more?"

"If you ask, i'll make sure to pad the number."

I landed 20 more blows, striping the once snowy slopes with iron sled marks, sliding down both hillsides. This experience went differently than when i usually employ rigid instruments. The wire was slightly flimsy, and when it landed on her skin it absorbed more of the blow than a cane or bamboo does. So, while i was inflicting a great deal of force upon her epidermis, i too was incurring this force to my hand and wrist. By the end of twenty, the hanger had imprinted a bruise the shape of the handle onto my palm.

Being left with a hand that could not perform normally for three days following made me think about this drive to correct. While i do expend a great deal of energy and focus to impart the most brilliant and well-laid slashes on her body, there have been and will be times where the end result of a flagellated tattoo loses its priority.

I've got a wonderful relationship with someone who responds to my needs, dances where i lead her, and takes the brunt of my insatiable appetite. Unfortunately, i can sometimes overlook that, which is something i am constantly trying to correct.

Public identification

For many years, before this frightful beast called the internet, and once i'd grown tired of the boredom i found in vanilla-type dynamics, i embarked on a frequent search for an SM-consenting female. How, you might ask? Through a gay friend of mine, i'd learned about this thing called the handkerchief or hankey/hanky code. He introduced it to me when in response to him coming out to me about his homosexuality, i came out to him. That is, i told him that i like to spank and tie up girls and tell them how to behave. He was shocked (as are most folks who know me and i inform them of this or meet me for the first time once they've learned of my kink; i just have that sweet and angelic of a face), but not appalled. In fact, rather excited about assisting me in finding some girl i could torment.

I went and purchased a grey handkerchief and began putting it in my back left pocket. I felt silly at first because it clashed with my look. Over time the silliness turned into straight up awkwardness as i found myself on the receiving end of numerous propositions from gay male bottoms. In fact, it didn't yield me a single willing female.

I've often tried to grapple with the establishment of a system of public identification that would streamline the introduction of individuals on opposite sides of the power exchange. I have tired as much at avoiding the drole, "normal" dating world as i have with needing to use the same, few tired portals out there that exist to facilitate finding submissive girls. But, i also sometimes want to be able to publicly let others know about my sexuality, to let others know more about me. There are those days when i want a "Power Exchange" Pride parade. Or even just times when i'm walking with my girl, and someone would see us and could tell that she's submissive and i'm dominant.

Why i pursue this is not always about sex and fucking. Just like being gay isn't just about making out with the same sex. For me, i do not choose how i react to the opposite sex. It is an innate and completely fundamental response. I've tried many times to silence or ignore it, and i can't.

I'm not sure if it's just for sentimental reasons, or because i still secretly hope to see if it would've ever worked, but i still carry my grey handkerchief in my left pocket. I pull it out every once in awhile to wipe sweat off my brow, or to grab a door handle, and then look around to see if anyone's noticed.