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My Hair, My Life (Completely narcisstic whittering)
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Mar 16, 2006 1:36 am
414 Views
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I had a rather traumatic winter. For no apparent reasons doctors could discern, my hair started falling out. Not a few strands; we're talking in clumps here. As I've always had hair as thick and long as Diana Ross, it was a traumatic experience, almost as traumatic as the time I dyed my hair bright blond in support of a friend going through chemo (and the looks I got then weren't complimentary, but I know a bit of what she must have felt walking around California while entirely bald). As hair=beauty to many people, a woman without hair garners quite a few negative reactions, both in other people and in oneself. I spent more than a little time trying to sort my hair and scalp out to save what I had left. Thankfully, it's grown back in, but due to toddler-minding and other pursuits I've no time to sort my hair out. My hair is the one part of me I absolutely MUST have sorted on any given day, so the fact I just cram it under a hat and forget it most days is really getting to me of late. My hair looks downright mundane. I hate it.
My hair is a huge thing to me. It's my own way of expression. Being interracial, people have always tried to make my hair do something other than it should do; straigtening, perming, adding blond streaks, corn-rows, whatever. Caucasian stylists had no idea what to do with it, and neither did Afro-American stylists. It was always over lyed, under-permed, frizzed and layer cut to try and make it "lie down" or pimped up into a fro which never stayed put because it "lay down too much". And of course the things I did want to do with it, I couldn't because no-one knew how. Or because mixed-race kids shouldn't want to look like Cyndi Lauper.
I just started doing my hair myself after a point, and would double process the hell out of it to dye it. Special Effects was my god. Bright candy pink, or blood red, or blue black, or black with purple streaks, or rainbow tri-mohicans. Name it, I've probably done it. What I didn't do, however, was go in to get it processed. Those curls are completely natural. Suddenly, I discovered the hair I'd always wanted to have was already existing on my head - curly, bouncy, and whatever colour I chose that week. I was overjoyed.
The downer with the dyeing, however, is it's very high maintenance and with a toddler to mind, just doesn't work. Combine that with the winter hair-trauma, and I've had to let my natural colour come in - a rather boring reddish-black. About the only thing giving me joy was a few silver hairs I found as well.
Silver hair giving joy? Well you'd have to know about Afro-American culture and White Irish for that. I've got both of those cultures to claim along with several dozen others, and the one thing all my cultural ancestors seem to be able to boast about is the most beautiful silver hair when they age. I don't mean wooly grey, I mean SILVER. Truly silver. Like spun metal, thread fine, growing out of one's head and soft as silk. I rather hoped I'd get that, and lo and behold it seems I will do. I may be the one woman on the planet who is looking forward to going grey.
I've digressed - back to the present dilemma. What do I do with my poor abused head? I recently discovered braid extensions, which solve quite a few problems: one, I don't have to style my hair in the morning; two, my hair stays out of my way and; three, I can put all sorts of funky colours in and somehow it's acceptable, where just my normal hair dyed the same colours isn't. I've had blue with black, blue with purple, straight black, and black and red. Easy enough to sort. Thing is, everyone walks around with braids these days. With my current rather mundane-ish look, I'll probably be mistaken for someone who listens to R&B *shudder*. So, it's not my first choice but will do in a pinch.
Lately, I've been looking into dreadlock extensions. They've almost become cliche. Look for any freaky person round town and make the checklist up. Piercings? Check. Tattooes? Check. Fake Dreadlocks? Check. While they're even less maintenance than braids and certainly look freakier (and in my world, freaky is GOOD), dreadlock extensions are a bit too common for my tastes.
In my spelunking about for hair-joy, I found something very unique. Transitional-colour dreadlocks. As in they start one colour at the roots and then fade into another, with brilliant effect. This style of dreadlock extension is done by a salon in the UK called Braidstorm, and they're brilliant. You can see an example in the pic below. I have NO idea how they manage that but I certainly wouldn't complain! I've not seen anything like these before, and so they appeal to my unique nature. These can just as easily be part of a clubbing outfit as an everyday going out thing without freaking out mundanes as much as, say, plastic tubing. Perfect for me, essentially! I have just written on a quote, and now it's just a matter of choosing some colours (I'll probably stick with my usual colours, i.e. black with purple, though I think I may go for a UV purple for kicks) and also trying to figure out where I'm going to get the cash.
I've been relatively good this year so far. Thirty-five pounds off after last count, still doing my drills and working on other things, so a reward wouldn't be untoward!
Now if I can just find an outfit....
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Assumptions, assumptions
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Mar 15, 2006 6:07 am
425 Views
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I get a lot of weird looks on a regular basis - even more so of late as I've not any proper "goth" clothing. My clothes are very mundane, more to cover me up than to look sexy, so the septum piercing tends to throw people off. I can see them visibly try to come up with a ticky box for me in their own heads as to why someone wearing an Adidas cap would have a septum piercing (It's not even my hat, it's my husband's). Combine this with my winter coat finally giving up the ghost and having to wear a rather crap brown lining instead as a coat, never having time to do anything as simple as do up my hair, or makeup, or anything even remotely girly, and I look on most days pretty dog-rough. I look almost downright chav, which terrifies me no end! A classic assumption and will earn me an immediate smirk is the struggle up the hill with son in tow. I take it at a crawl. Most people give me a faint sneer as they pass me as, naturally, I'm a fat bird because I never exercise, and my huffing and blowing proves it. The reality? I don't drive, and my son's nursery school is 1.5 miles away from my house. Thus, I walk three miles a day, going up the hill, twice, usually after running around shopping and other running-about things. All told? I do about 15 miles a week, not to mention my bellydancing. I don't lose weight by doing it because my metabolism is buggered and no doctor can figure out why. But fat=never exercise to most people's minds. And the assumption sticks.
Today I went down to my allotment - yes, you heard me right, allotment. Even kinky people like organic veg - and I was in my usual allotment gear. There's no way to dress up when you're carrying a compost bucket and a trowel - unless you're into that sort of thing, but trust me, working on an allotment bed would be a bitch in stilettoes. The looks of amusement or downright shock from people is rather interesting, but something I'm used to in one way or another. However, I wonder how people on this site would react to seeing me in such a getup.
We're real people, you see. And real people aren't trying to be fantasy people all the time.
I don't wear Domination/submission gear all the time. As a matter of fact, I don't wear the stuff at all. I have a penchant to cram my hair under a hat in the mornings, and I don't think my son's nursery has ever seen me without one. The reason I put my hair in extensions is not to fulfil someone's fantasy of the black woman with braids, but because it's a hell of a lot easier to cope with extensions when chasing a two year old. I get dreadlock extensions because at least then I can feel like I'm being a bit more expressive.
My kinky friends, as beautiful as they are, aren't kinky 24/7 either. I've been known to chat online to them while they were makeup free, wearing glasses. Sometimes with a facial masque on. We have our favourite pair of crap jeans which have holes all over, but not in naughty sexy places. We dig in dirt. We chase our kids around. We go on the rag and bitch about it. We get spotty sometimes. We get sick, and we blow our noses in great honking blows. Kinky sexy people can get sinus infections too, you know. That's reality.
One of my Divas did the pro-domme circuit for a while. One of her clients wanted her to write about her viewpoint on one of the scenes she did for him. I guess he thought it would be peppered with the typical "Oooo it makes me so hot to do this to you, oooooo baby." Instead, she did a very candid write up: about how she got her period that day and her hot pants wouldn't zip up, but she had to wear them, and breathe in short gasps, how she was cramping like mad through the entire scene, how she had to actually leave him in the main room and go throw up because smoking was part of the scene he wanted, and she hates smoking -and so on. Definitely NOT what the sub wanted to hear, but come on. Sometimes pro-dommes deal with a client only because they need the money. And that's it. Considering people go to a pro-domme because he or she wants to get off, I don't understand why clients are so shocked the domme isn't writing in lust over having to make their client eat porridge as their entire scene (and yes, I've heard of this one before).
It's a common issue, and the one reason I don't do textbook BDSM any more; most subs haven't got a submissive bone in their bodies. Submissive is not saying "oooo, I'd like to serve you by letting you whip me/put me in a chastity belt/use a dildo on me." Excuse me, but the servitude is where in that? When my husband wore my collar, he SERVED. As in, he cooked, he cleaned, he did back massages, he expected nothing. He tends to really shock Dominant women these days as they're so used to the typical "submissive" demands, meeting someone who will give foot massages to an entire room of women without wanting anything else blows their minds. "You're REALLY, seriously submissive, aren't you?" they tend to ask. I may not be carrying the whip any more, but it does put a smile on my face that I trained him properly. He's not just living a fantasy - he IS submissive, right down to the ground. It has nothing to do with 24/7 or anything of the sort, but to do with him really wanting to serve, not just assuming his Dominant is going to be an automaton with a whip. He truly gives a Dominant some joy, even if it's just by baking her a cake when she's having a crap week (like he did last night for his current mistress - she couldn't believe it).
I have a rather mixed feeling about all this sort of thing. There's a point where I want things to be realistic - I want it to be known I laugh, I cry, I get pissy, I have crap days, I make a fool of myself, I am turned on in reality, or completely turned off. And yet, at the same time, I enjoy the fantasy of being whisked away, of living in the sensuality of the moment, of allowing a lover or compatriot to only see that aspect of my life and nothing else, of living that mystery. But I think it would be more useful in the latter sense if it was understood on both sides that OyaD is only a facet of me. She isn't the entire entity. Does this make the rest of me of lesser value? I would certainly hope not. It's a facet worth polishing till it shines...but it's still a mere facet.
And now, I've got to scrub this dirt off my hands. Allotment-Oya is happy for now. Soon I hope Bad-kitty Oya can enjoy herself too...
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Celine
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Mar 14, 2006 12:16 am
415 Views
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I write best when strong emotion is involved. I wrote my Cousins series (about African American vampires) when I got thoroughly disgusted of the idea vampire fiction had to be comprised of Caucasian people. I wrote my first dark fantasy story Lon'Aite out of disgust thanks to the way Disney has destroyed mythos.
The writing of Celine was inspired by many things. By some online roleplay with a man playing a fallen angel, but who originally just wanted to have cyber with anyone who came along. It was also inspired by the seediness of Soho, the noir of Camden, the goth culture, my own experiences, a few fantasies thrown in, and magic. Mostly, however, it was inspired by the writing styles of Anais Nin and Tanith Lee - there is a way to tell a sensual story, to allow the reader to fill in the blanks, and have it still remain erotic without sinking into purely clinical insert-flap-a-into-slot-b. Indeed, Anais Nin was told by her "secret reader" to "cut out the poetry, I just want the sex." Her response was very eloquent, and related one cannot seperate sensuality from the act, or the act becomes meaningless. I heartily agree.
Netherwhere is another world, a parallel one to ours. Only those who become infested with Dark can enter, stepping sideways into Netherwhere, to frolic and release their dark natures, and sink even further into vice.
"Celine" is just one of the many stories of Netherwhere; there are nymphs, satyrs, demons, Fallen, vampires, and all sorts of creatures that wander. While Celine is just a young, disturbed woman learning about the Dark, she's a predator. However, she soon discovers there's some beings even she cannot devour, and thus ensues a wicked dance, each trying to resist the other, as neither will submit.
Copyright reserved, and so on and so forth.
************
...Michael.
His name burned her throat, burned her tongue and mouth to speak. She couldn't tear her eyes from him and he stood in the rooftop gardens, staring up into the night sky with an expression so ageless, so melancholy. She didn't want to heal him, to make him smile, of course not. She was a selfish child, just like he'd often accused. She wasn't sure she was in love. Who could love a fallen angel? But she was certainly obsessed; he was a drug.
What do you want? The indifference in his voice was wounding; she could be a tree, or a rock, or a bit of wind, or a breeze. She didn't matter to him. Michael had lived for millenia, what difference was a smitten mortal girl to him? His beautiful, seamless face did not change, he did not turn to stare at her with his black eyes. He stood, tall and remote, his hands behind his back.
There were no words, she could say nothing. She wanted to say something, anything, but her tongue was cloven to her mouth. Everything she wanted to say sounded amateur, stupid, and she stood stock still and dumb, staring, unable to step forward, equally unable to turn away. When he spoke again, his voice carried its same apathy, remote, detached, as he stared into the evening sky, the stars spread across the black velvet like diamonds scattered by a casual hand.
You know nothing about me, Celine. You think you do, but you are only drawn to the mystery, to the allure. That was part of our curse. To be pleasing to mortal-kind, to be desired, to fill humans with obsession. Do you know, they used to catch monkeys long ago by putting bright trinkets into jugs chained to a tree? The monkey would reach in and close his fist around the pretty bauble, and try to pull out his paw, but could not. The monkey wouldn't have the sense to let go of the trinket and be free, but would run about, screeching and calling and crying, dragging the clay pot around on its lead, for hours. You mortals, you monkeys are the same clinging, trapped, and unable to let go.
I have stood through millenia, watching the heavens move every night. The Gates of Heaven...I can see them. And they are closed to me. I cannot enter, but must continue as I have always done, wandering the world from its beginning, and thus to its end. I am cursed from heaven for trying to give you monkeys freedom...and have been rewarded with being just another trinket for you to desire.
It was I who bedded Lilith in the First Garden...and though she was not the first of her kind, she was not the last. Her crime was to wish to be equal, and as He in Heaven is the greatest fascist of all, she was cast down. And though her desire was strong, and our cries and moans made the garden ring, she could not keep me. And I was there with Isis, though I had another name then, and guided her through her trials, and granted her wisdom. I miss her...but you monkeys are never happy with your baubles, and her power dwindled and faded into nothingness.
I wore the feathers of the macaw in jungles, and the skins of bears in the tundra. And when these races ended in their power and were cast down into crude facsimiles of themselves, I wandered still.
I have turned cities into salt and rivers into blood. I had turned kings mad at a glance, and burnt out the eyes of women who desired to see me in my full glory. I have spurned the most sanctified and the most wicked in equal measure. I have killed for my Creator and for my brothers, for other gods that came before and after, and even been called a god myself. I have always had one wing dip't in blood. I have led wars, smote entire races from the face of the earth, spread dissent among Men. I have cast pestilence upon the Earth, and turned many a soul to darkness. Tell me, child...how do you think it possible that you can stand against me?
And now he turned turned indeed, slowly, like a sleepwalker, his perfect face solemn and expressionless, his hair falling along his brow in a chocolate curl, his hands behind his back. For all his indifference, she could feel the lonliness, the agony of his curse upon him. The despair, the weariness of thousands of years of vice and sin resting now upon his shoulders. Selfish girl, you only want what he is...you take, not give. And this was true...she desired him, the darkness in him calling to her, though as he had said, what difference did it make? She was a young human woman, tainted, beneath his notice.
Her chest caught again, her lungs feeling so constricted she couldn't breathe. Blindly, she staggered forward, her arms outstretched, his form a blur. Either she would fall onto him, or careen straight off the rooftop and it mattered little to her which. It all felt the same. Falling...falling...
And his arms went round her and caught her up, strong and as hard as marble beneath the folds and fabric of his suit. Michael lifted her up savagely, bruising her in his arms, and pressed his mouth to hers. It was like dying; warmth and desire from his lips to hers, tasting of honey, and of suphuor. He growled like a beast, deep in his chest, his nails digging into her arms as he crushed her to his chest, fingers twining in her hair, pressing her to him. She could feel the lust in him, the want; this close to him, the mask fell away and she could feel he wanted her as much as she wanted him. Celine understood, in a remote, detached way. He had put her off out of necessity and not disinterest. She would be added to the ranks of the millions of women who had fallen to his allure, and she would burn.
Then let us burn together.
You little fool, he murmured harshly into her ear, his breath hot and scented like cinnamon, nipping at her throat with his perfect teeth, his hands roaming over her skin, scorching it with his lust as she gasped and lolled, swept away by the sensation. You little fool, how I have tried to stay away from you. But you burned into my mind. Once I had caught your scent I smelled it all through London, tracking you like a wolf tracks a lamb. And here is the lamb, leaping into my jaws.
He gathered himself up, and thrust her roughly away from him, turning on his heel, and Celine staggered, the loss of contact an agony. She stared, uncomprehending, as he spread his arms, striding for the rooftop, and -
Stepped off.
He fell, and her scream followed him, fell and fell before his wings ripped free from his back, spreading as big as sails, metal pinions slicing through the air like scythes, sharp as razorblades, embedded in downy black feathers. Up he soared upon the evening sky, fleeing her, and her scream tried to follow but choked and died in her throat.
*******************
This work should be out in September.
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Bitch is not an insult.
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Mar 13, 2006 5:25 am
477 Views
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I get this kind of email from time to time "If you've got a husband, you shouldn't be looking for anything. You want all this stuff but say you're not a golddigger, when what you really are is a spoiled bitch."
Yawn.
Right, let's look at the facts shall we? In the five days I've been on the site:
Profile views:365
Times in the Hotlist in the past 30 days: 9
Matching views: 93
Winks: 36
Seems someone out there likes my forthright attitude.
As far as the "You're married, what are you doing here?" I really must laugh. How many people here are looking for "discreet relations" or "No strings fun"? The difference between them and myself is a) my husband is completely aware what I'm doing and b) he often encourages me to go out and be "a bad kitty". We have our relationship, and there are things he cannot give me, and vice versa. That's why he has one girlfriend and one mistress, and why I'm looking for my compatriot. It's not so much a mental stretch. The mental stretch comes on my end - how in the world is cheating on someone preferable to my own situation?! Get a grip on something other than your dick, please.
Goldigging: uhuh. A golddigger wants diamonds, furs and trips to Europe completely paid. I hate diamonds and furs as I'm a bit more environmentally conscious than the average "seeking a sugar daddy" type, and trips to Europe take too much time away from my other pursuits. Your money doesn't impress me if it's being used in a Gatsby way - merely to impress, not to enjoy. But neither am I impressed by a slobby person whose idea of "dinner in" is beans and sausages. Sensuality is taking pride in what one has and in the presentation. I don't like the way I look in leather and latex, therefore I don't wear it. I prefer tasteful to slutty, thus I'm not likely to appear in stereotyped smutty outfits. A meeting with one's lover should be a feast for the senses, should set the right mood. I would expect candles to be lit, a fine dinner laid out and lovingly prepared, an evening planned in such a way that shows my lover takes a vested interest in me being happy. Too many men seem to expect a woman to show up to their house, immediately get on her knees, give them what they want, and then leave. That isn't me. There's give and take. Set the stage, show some regard for your fellow libertine, and I bloom in ways that tend to dazzle the senses. It's why my former, fellow Don Juan tended to make our monthly meetings very lavish; not for the "I have money, aren't I studly" but out of general appreciation and the way it set the stage.
I know most people seem to think the word bitch is insulting. Women usually get the term "bitch" flung at them when men don't get what they want out of them. If anything, hearing "bitch" tells me I'm on the right track, especially if the term is being used by someone below my standards. I do not just give anyone anything they want. I do not fall over backwards in gratitude because someone decides they like my photo. I don't respond to a "show me ur tits" by immediately complying,and I say so. In short, someone directing "bitch" at me usually gets a smile and a "Thank you". I have had the word used with a wide smile, and I took it very much to heart. To me "bitch" means "You're not giving me what I want on demand". It means "You are entirely too comfortable with what you want, and I'm not it." It means "you know your own mind entirely too well." In the end, laddies, bitch to me is a COMPLIMENT.
So trust me, if you try sending me something insulting in the post, it's not breaking my heart. It's not hurting my iddle, widdle feewings. It's not dashing my self-esteem against a wall and making me drown in sorrows. It's not forcing me to diet or dye my hair blonde. I read, I snicker, I shake my head, I throw the email away and then go and read the other emails or accept another network offer. Save your energy for something else, as you won't be hurting me a jot.
Fellow sistahs, take heart. Demand what you like, when you like. If a man wants you, he better impress you.
And we can all be bitches together.
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My new vice
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Mar 13, 2006 3:46 am
422 Views
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Back from fun in Brighton with a lovely satyristic poi-spinning trickster spirit who can kiss in lovely ways. He's a darling.
I have discovered a new vice over the past few days, which culminated at the Saturday party. I rather enjoy watching men get off. I've never been into voyeurism before, and I can't stand porn movies - cheesy, insincere and usually done for money, NOT pleasure. In any event, I rather enjoyed watching everyone enjoying themselves, adding of course to the fact the Satyr has a lovely singing voice and was singing to "Hurt" while being cradled in a young man's arms. Was brilliant.
I have extended my voyeurism to the site. While interacting or playing online is not new to me, I haven't really found it that enjoyable. I don't talk dirty - preferring to be talked to rather than do the talking - though hearing a man use shocking words in my ear is delightful.
The webcams have been providing me quite a bit of interest for the past few days. Some better than others! However, the one place webcam play fails is in the climax department; very few men cum on the things. After a while, wanking gets boring to watch.
It's sometimes amusing how quickly men shut off their webcams. Did you really think a few gay men aren't going to be watching? Or someone that isn't what you'd consider attractive? Exhibitionists can't always be choosy. That's the prime right of the voyeur however, which is probably why I like it. Being watched myself has never appealed to me in the slightest. Go figure.
I enjoy the way the stomach muscles tense, the panting and the way the hands start to blur when a man pleases himself. There's a point when the participants stop thinking "Oh, I'm being watched, let's put on a good show" and lose themselves in the moment instead. If the fellow has audio, that's really worth watching; nothing beats the sound of a man getting off. When it stops being a performance and becomes the enjoyment, the culmination, the release, is when I find myself enjoying the whole exhibition. It is, however, unfortunate that such sensuality only happens within the brief few moments of climax, but it does tend to make it worth it at that point.
I have been amusing myself of late by corrupting youth - young fellows are often so very well defined across the stomach, and they tend to get hard at a moment's notice. It doesn't take them much before you can see them panting and stroking harder and harder. A simple suggestion of scenarios, allowing their minds to fill in the blanks, does more for them than just typing entry after entry of naughty words and image after image of crotches. Temptation and imagination is sometimes all that is required.
In any event, such is one of my new past-times, in between the mundane-yet-enjoyable things I do on a daily basis. So, lately, my computer screen has the recent bit of writing to be sent to the publisher, and a small window in which someone is stroking off for the camera. Oddly enough the two activities go quite well together.
Don't be surprised if I join your viewers quietly, say nothing, and depart. Sometimes, I may make a comment, but it won't be the comment you expect. And I often leave as quietly as I appeared.
But if you cum, I'm usually smiling on my end.
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To link to this blog (OyaD) use [blog OyaD] in your messages.
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