Monthly update

With some amusement I notice, that I’ve been posting only once a month or so. Things are strange here in relationship land. Maybe making bullet points will help me get my information together.

● The D/s we are in does not feel very D/s to me, I’ve been thinking on this rather extensively. It’s actually not D/s at all. I don’t feel in anyway that I am submissive. On the bimonthly occasion that we are at a play party I feel like one of his regular bottoms. Not in any way that we have a power exchange.

● I also don’t feel that I’m a very good bottom for him. Our play feels hollow to me. I think in part because there is no power exchange.

●I don’t enjoy “bottoming” I crave to submit and I don’t feel like I can do that to someone who isn’t my Dominant. Bottoming, for me, feels like a facade.

● I’ve recently questioned literally all of the things I’ve thought were my kinks. Making this list is shedding light on a primary issue. M is a sadist, pure and true. I don’t hurt for people I’m not the little “s” for. If I’m being hurt for pleasure during sex, and there is no D/s, I feel violated. Not stimulated.

● My sex life is a barren field. Because of the faulty workings of our attempted D/s I’m shutting down.

● I’m starting to shut down everywhere actually.

● I don’t know how to have this conversation.

Monthly update

Poetry of Submission

I started with an idea for this post, maybe with a few minutes of writing it will return to me. Over the last few weeks as my relationship reaches its own rhythm, we have learned plenty about one another. Because of my service nature I’ve kept track of small things, how he likes his pillows, the right amount of ice in his cup, vegetable to protein ratio on his plate. I try to log these things, I work towards making my presence useful and appreciated. I serve.

In my domestic service at times, the sexual submissive wiggles her fingers wanting recognition. So used to being rewarded with sexual gratification, so trained that way in the past. Training that you believe in/enjoy, turns out to be a difficult habit to break. At times disappointment has caught up with me that this relationship does not reflect others I’ve enjoyed. That there is no punishment/reward system. That there is no task assignment, and at times my schedule and our life wouldn’t allow it anyway. Further reflection provides that this just isn’t the nature of things at this time. It may never be.

But, it makes me no less submissive. It makes my service no less important. In a small way for me, the lack of “rules and regulations”, the missing “reward” system makes my continued dedication to service that much more important for me. Knowing I am providing without overstepping, a quiet support. Enjoying the times of power exchange when they do happen. Remembering that it is unfair for everyone involved to compare our relationship to someone else’s. It is damaging to measure it up against the “perfect idea of D/s”. Because what we are doing right now is what works for us. There are frequent conversations about how we can improve our relationship. Not just with ourselves but with the community. How we can help, even in the face of whatever obstacles lay in the way. Moreover when that obstacle is one we have laid out because of our own issues.

There has been so much talk lately of cute submissive rebellion, it makes my relationship choices feel unpopular. Especially in the reality of less regimented D/s. It makes me forget the importance of my submission, both for me and for my Sir. Even when days pass and he hasn’t noticed that Ive not done the laundry or swept the floor. A part of me realizes that many people may read this and stand in defense of either one of us. That is not the point of this writing. I believe in a learning community of like minded individuals. Reading this may in fact give someone, D or s (or any of the other wonderful categories we fall into), a moment of thanks that they aren’t alone. That BDSM is not always all about the whips and canes. The rules and regulations. We are real people with real lives. Doing the best we can with what we have.

Poetry of Submission

Better alone

Paying very close attention to my behaviors has proven to be a worthwhile endevor. Since January and the beginning of my relationship with MC, I’ve notice some things within myself. A breaking of self confidence, independence, faith, fun.

I dedicate so much time to my partners. I believe truly in giving what you’d hope to receive. Attention, affection, compliments, desire, sharing of life, dreams, fantasies, hopes, aspirations. I believe in unity. It has never happened that someone has ever responded in full.

I am and always have been polar opposites for some people. Simultaneously too much and never enough. I want to much attention, sex, affection, compliments. I require too much maintenance. Or I simply am not enough in regards to intelligence, social standing, career prospects, beauty, physical aesthetic.

Whatever the case may be, or however you view me, one word always rings true. When I am a partner in a relationship, I’m overwhelming. That word slices through me. It opens me up and allows everything to spill out. All of my hurts and scars. An eviseration of horror. Which in turn only leads to more overwhelming sensations for my partner. Because really, no one wants to see the beasts living in your darkest most closets.

All of these thoughts accompanied me in my trip to Lafayette yesterday. As I approached the familiar roads of the city I grew up in, the truth came to me. I am so much better when I’m alone. These relationships take so much work. I have someone who expects me home in the evenings. Someone who expects me to do the laundry and feed the dogs. Likes when I shave my legs.

In my moments of self reflection and wonder, I begin to debate my effectiveness as a partner. I begin to second guess myself. It’s almost as if I am just around the corner from discovering the actual truth of my life. Believing for so many years, one thing. Just to discover a pure vision of my role in the world. A role where I am none of the things I believe myself to be.

Not a healer.
Not a mother.
Not a friend.
Not a partner.

Not anything I would say I desired to be at some point in my existence. Maybe that the truth of it all is, I’m a an overwhelming vacuous hole of vapid insecurity. A pulsing excuse of a woman wrapped up in too much flesh and desire.

An overwhelming void, better off alone.

Better alone

A division of self

What if every soul on this earth currently had one lesson to learn? Each person’s lesson something different; inner peace, kindness, generosity, becoming more nurturing. What if the pursuit of these things helped us all in the “end”. Our soul lights bringing back the knowledge to share in a vast community of pure beings. So that each of us would learn from the building of our character. Each of us could return to bring more peace. What if this was the way our life was supposed to be. What if we are all part of each other, because over the vast expanse of time and space, my soul has become a part of yours and yours has become a part of mine. What if in the end, we are all just protecting the breath of ourselves in one another?

I’d like to think of a reality where this were true. Where each of us could spot the goodness in one another. Where we could spot the goodness in ourselves.

This weekend was absolutely sickening for me. Ive finally found the appropriate word for how I feel. As if some rare bacteria is eating away at the soul of me. I had such hope for this relationship that I’m in. A foolish child looking into the bright future and seeing only happiness. How backwards my perception was. Of course it would not be. That is my lesson, I think, that not every soul is destined for happiness. Maybe finding peace in turmoil is my lesson. Whatever it is, I’m tired of the tests. I’m tired of feeling like each of my loved ones has a limb in their grasps as someone else pulls my insides out. I am tired of violence. I am tired of the violence within myself. I am tired of feeling like I need to remember that violence because I do not feel safe. I am sick of the fear that comes from being forced to the edge of my reasoning.

Im tired of feeling rootless.

Now, I’m having to examine everything. No longer a person, but a machine for analysis. Every move is calculated, every defense is on the ready. There is only energy for one thing and the focus is not peace. Ive been pushed back into surviving. I feel my two tenuously connected worlds violently ripping apart. Leaving me held in the middle. The cords of my love for each half of my worlds holding me open and vulnerable to the outside force of everything else. My career, my future, my health. Yet, I am unwilling to let go of either side. Making me the barrier between them. As they charge at one another with spears raised, it is in truth, me who takes the impact. It is me who is left bleeding under the strain of anger and resentment and fear. In the end it will be me who fails as my two halves only fault one another.

And what if after all of this, the answer is actually very simple. That if we learn to love ourselves, we can always love one another. Because, I can see me in you. Because the part of you that loves the way I do, is the part of me I know best.

A division of self

A slice of YTYS

My internal gauges are a crapshoot. Hormones, Adrenals, Thyroid, Kidneys, Chemical levels. It feels like a vortex of doom cycling inside of me. Since January the boyfriend and I have decided to move in together, most of it has been exciting. Some minor renovations (flooring and painting our bedroom. Along with fixing the fence so my little dogs can stop escaping.) Some of it has been frustrating, like choosing a paint color we both like. Finally I receded and he chose a color that suited him best. (Its turkish coffee by Sherwin Williams if you’re curious.) Frustrating still that I’m STILL divided in house and home. Some of my things remaining at the apartment, while most of my things are here at the house. With the official move out date looming closer I find myself terrified and aggravated that it isn’t done yet. Forcing me to spend more money where I would prefer not to.

Of course, all of this is happening during a very busy social season in my life. We have two events to attend every weekend. Every. Single. Weekend. When we don’t have that there are the kids, or my sister and nephew an hour and a half away. Im planning a wellness day for next month and trying to keep this business afloat. Im sure some of you are leaning back, your lovely face pulled into an indulgent smile. Yes, things are pretty good. Im too busy to notice, too tired to care when they aren’t. I guess this is what life is, for some people. On occasion I ache for the silence that was my home. For the tranquility of napping on my couch or in the meditation room. During those times I try to slip quietly into my office and take a few deep breaths. To calm my mind and nervous system. To steady myself against the constant stream of activity.

One day, when all I have left are the snapshots in my mind, I’ll remember these days as my favorite. I’ll remember being upset about feeling second and laugh. I’ll remember mourning the loss of friends, lovers, parents, pets. I suppose thats all we can hope for. Right? To remember a life you led and have it bring you joy. If that’s the case, I must be doing something right.

A slice of YTYS


I often wonder if diving inside as often as I do is healthy or not. Arguably, I can indeed provide more complete healing for my clients when I am in a balanced place emotionally.


What a huge word, I’ve never really felt balanced. Especially when it comes to my sexuality. My sex drive in particular. I could, if time permitted have sex 3-4 times a day. Here for sake of ease I will define sex as: vaginal penetration ending in mine and my partners orgasm. In the past I’ve had partners who were up for the challenge, some who were very spirited and our frequent sessions lasted a short amount of time. Others who were open to once a day for longer periods. And those who, unable to provide me with multiple sessions would, spend copious amounts of time spoiling me with affections.

Before the start of my monogamous relationship with MC and the trails of last year, I ended 2013 with multiple partners. It was a perfect blend of hard hitting attention, tranquil sensuality, and exciting interludes. My “bank” was being filled on every single level. *bank here does not mean vagina lol, though that was happening too* I’m posting today with a bit of .. well I don’t know the appropriate word here. Wonder maybe. Because I am wondering about this.

My sexual relationship with MC is something I’ve never experienced before. We’ve waited so long to get here, I had all of these perceptions about what it would be. Now we have all of these road blocks. *Surgery, my screwed up hormones, a god awful haircut that’s further impacting my self perception, hyper awareness of my body, house renovations, combining our lives, not quite connecting in some areas that I thought would be fluid, totally different views on sex in general.* 

Sex isn’t awfully important to him. It’s paramount to me. It validates me. When I’m not getting intimacy, the physical release, the connection, it feels like my energetic person is drying out. Leaving a delicate piece of something in the blazing sun. It domino’s out into the rest of my life. My intimacy with friends, family, clients becomes strained. Because I feel guilty. I feel broken. I feel neglected. I feel unattractive. I feel unworthy. I feel like I have nothing to give.

The tasks of my life become robotic and lifeless. The wild woman in me suffering under the weight of morose feelings. I feel as if my true self is being smothered out. I feel lost.

In these moments I’m not sure what to do. My desires to study more in tantric yoga with the intention of sharing makes me feel foolish. My desire for connection feels foolish. I start to think I’m the one with the problem. I want to much. It makes me feel separate from my D/s, like I’m not in a relationship at all. I fear scenes because of the fragile state of my sexuality. As if I won’t be heard there.

A spinning vortex of doubt.

I wish I could believe that it wasn’t important. I wish I could feel that.



Of all the forums I have to express these words, the appropriate one fails me currently. As I pack up my small two bedroom apartment moments have been bittersweet. Some have just been sad. A few, well a few have been regrets. I have made strides to say I would never live a life I would regret. Yet I find myself here, thinking of the ghosts of the last 18 months.

As my hands touch the very fiber of things i’ve spent 30 years trying to run from.  My mind reminds me that fear and devestation I’ve experienced in the first quarter of my life are dead. He is long gone, though his teachings and scars bind me at times. The gentle healing that my mom  attempted to provide after guilt drove her to action. I don’t have to carry that weeping suitcase around anymore either.

I try to highlight the things that she’s missing. How much she would have loved MC, how I am the things she always loved about me. Gentle, kind, loving, forgiving, and I’m sure for someone my smile still lights up the room. I’m sure they feel like my hand resting on their forearm is a moment of peace. That they look at me and see a million stars waiting to burst. That is the regret. Knowing I won’t ever see her recognize the way I’ve grown.

I think of my lovers here. Who held my head above water in the tsunami of my life. The one who sat with me in my miniscule bathroom and was present with me while I cried in my shower. Just there, a silent pillar of support for me. He helped me believe I was beautiful all the time. Not just when I was made up and ready to socialize. He made me feel worthy, appreciated, loved. *If you read this, thank you. For all of the ways you believed in me. You made me feel hopeful. For myself and my future.*

There are moments when all of the loss feels like total devestation. As if surely one day a board will Crack and the house of my life will implode on itself.

Then I remember that MC is someone who has always been my partner. He has always always supported when my own legs failed. But not so much that I’ve forgotten I have legs. I recognize his flaws. I feel as if I can love him without rose colored glasses shading my view. The feeling is calm and sure. A steadiness I’ve never felt. It’s a new adventure.

While I move forward with the lessons of my past, some of those things with varying degrees of presence, it’s hopeful.

I have hope. Thank you for walking with me. For walking for me when I couldnt.