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Insert something witty here....
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Dec 9, 2006 2:38 am
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I am literally too tired to think of anything pithy to say either in comments or in blog. Anyone expecting correspondence from me is gonna have to wait a few days.
And now back to my shift, as it seems the Ex is incapable this morning and has gone back to bed.
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Desire Unbound
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Dec 8, 2006 1:39 am
766 Views
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In an effort to stay awake - was just waiting to make the calls to various nurseries to cancel attendance today, have put Wumpy to bed, and about to do so myself - I was browsing blogs and profiles. I came across one in particular, one I'd seen a few days ago.
I opened up the self-torment all over again.
He's got a touch of the Kryptonite Blue, he's not a musician or artist, and he says he isn't a writer, but gods be, he's got the soul of one. There's a touch of a beast there as well, enough to have my bloodlust up where I want to ask Will you pay? but I don't have the guts to dare. Yes, yours truly is wimping out in a big way. I want to rant like a Barbwire Rose, because here's another amazing fellow whose image has me catching my breath, whose words make me feel like I'm being kicked in the chest, who I'm certain I'd never interest even remotely, but I can't just let it. Fucking. Go. Like Celine...who was and always will be an aspect of me, that tormented artist I'm half embarassed to admit to, and half proud I possess.
For some stupid reason, I can't write him a proper email. Like a teenager, I'm so certain I'm going to write something completely idiotic and adolescent, I'd rather just keep silence than encourage contempt. The contempt would be worse. I'm so irritated at myself I could just scream...but I still can't write the damn email.
So I do the one thing I've always hated when people do it to me; I build a lovely little fantasy in my head and torment myself with something I more than likely can't have.
How artistic and gothic, eh? Something I seem rather good at...hence I quote writings from the past rather than write something new, because it boils down to the same thing; pining from a distance is easier than rejection up close. So much for staunchly supporting my anti-masochist angle - I seem quite capable of torturing my own spirit, and I seem to enjoy the pain.
I'm going to close the profile browser now. Enough torture for one morning. I need to sleep.
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Poor Wumpy
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Dec 7, 2006 9:48 pm
722 Views
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His Infernal Slyness, The Archfluke von Wumpy (sometimes just "wumpy", or the Toddler Formerly Known as Wigglefuss, (parents make up utterly stupid names for their children, it's part of the perks really) is poorly today, so I'm not going to be on much. That and I'm bloody exhausted anyway due to an entire week of less than enough sleep.
Now taking offers of footrubs, making the tea, and laundry folding as there's no bloody way I'm getting to it today.
Carry on.
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Will you pay?
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Dec 7, 2006 5:53 am
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I remember reading a passage from my favourite author, Tanith Lee. To enter the lower recesses of a wizard's temple to find and release her mad lover, a young witch leaps into a vertical well. At the bottom, there is nothing but mirrors. It's too narrow to move, too steep to climb. Here was a test, a test she had to endure.
"Will you pay?"
She didn't know the price, but answered "I will pay."
A sword slid out of the wall, slicing at her skin, over and over again. She endured - endured for him, because she must, and then walked out even more whole, and strong enough to break the spell, because after what she had endured, what could be more difficult?
Edge play; should I even admit I enjoy that sort of thing? Admit to the flutter in the belly that half feels like sickness, but is actually just plain excitement, when I manage to push just far enough to see that first ruby bead form on skin, just enough to dab the tongue in that iron-salt.
Yes, safety, yes, HIV, blah blah blah, we know. But give me the proper person, who can take a little pain, and a little more.
Show me how much you love me, boy....
This is my badkitty side, the feral nature. Kali-ma, Sehkmet, Coaticlue, Oya. I can nuture, and I can destroy. Blood is life, and that's what I want from someone, whole, near and dear, my one and only.
Show me how much you love me.
If you want to show me your devotion, show me in blood, in pain, in how much you can endure. I have had men pour melted beeswax over themselves, one candle after the other. Flagellated their own genitals. Howled, moaned, writhed, and kept up the pressure, flogged harder, poured more molten wax, or raised the razor for another cut across the chest. I've only done blade-play with a few, a very few, and never actually drew blood myself. Most didn't know what it meant outside of their own fetish and fantasies, except for Feral Boy. It always meant a whole lot more to me than to them.
I don't want to tame a man. I do not want him docile. Let the pain and torment build until language becomes growling, the eyes flash and go feral. Endure while I open one tiny slit, then another, and another, and let me watch the fire rise in the eyes. Under such an onslaught, it's only a matter of time before lust takes control. That's when the spell finally breaks and I raise the blade off heaving, red-smeared skin, and cock one brow like I do, and say, "Well?"
That's when the feral sex happens. That's when I'll allow a man to surge off the bed, his eyes gleaming red, fingers digging into my flesh. That's when I'll laugh and allow myself to be thrown back, blood smearing with sweat, growling, biting, howling like a wolf, beyond thinking, beyond anything but the lust of the moment. Yes, tenderness, yes, being held, afterwards, but not right now, not while the blood is flowing and I can taste copper-salt in my mouth.
...I terrify men. I am aware of that. I don't go to this place because of it, because it will be a long time coming before I find someone willing to tolerate it. As a result, most other play is just going through the motions for me. It scratches an itch, and nothing more. I own no blades, because I don't want or need the temptation.
But someday, man....
Someday.
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Dear Self
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Dec 6, 2006 12:15 pm
851 Views
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For fuck's sake, do NOT listen to Tool's "Aenima" cd if you're sexually frustrated. You KNOW better damn it. Just. Shut. It. Off.
*whimper*
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The Angus McBang Project - calling all Scotsmen
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Dec 5, 2006 12:39 pm
979 Views
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Gods, I can't believe I forgot about this. I'll try and type this without laughing, or even sounding too hopeful.
Some time ago, a friend of mine in the US was relating a story to me when a friend of hers came visiting from Scotland. They went out drinking (as you do) and the more pissed the lass got, the thicker her accent became, and the more outrageous her mannerisms. To us in the UK, this is par for the course, but to someone from the States, it's either alarming or refreshing. The Scottish lass went on about the virtues of the Scottish male to my dear friend in a thick brogue; describing how rugged and double'ard they are, "big bloody burly bastards" was the exact term.
"An' they hurl big bloody trees in th'Highland games!" she enthused to my lovely BBW friend, who was already laughing so hard tears were rolling down her cheeks. "Lass, if they c'n hurl a caber, they can bloody well handle a fat chick!"
This whole spiel wound down with her Scottish friend saying full solemn; "What ya need ta find yerself is an Angus McBang."
This became a codeword with us for a very long time. Finding Angus McBang became damn near a mission. It was sometimes rather embarassing whenever I was introduced to anyone with a brogue or wearing family tartan; I was so often either giggling uncontrollably, or eyeing them up and wondering whether or not I'd have to share, or if I could beg off needing to (if the bloke was especially sexy). We'd go over the necessary points for an Angus McBang in our "estrogen circles": python arms, a chest like a barrel (hairy according to taste), a well filled kilt, and a accent so thick we'd require a translator.
When I came over to the UK, my friends set me on task to find an Angus McBang, shag him silly, and then if he wasn't too tired, loaning him out to my friends. You'd have to know my relationship with my darlings - we're NOT joking.
I have from time to time put forth an application for the position. It's as gruelling as any Scottish Olympic Games, requiring stamina, strength, a properly worn kilt, and the equivalent of a claymore in position and at the ready beneath said kilt and sporran.
Besides, any man with the lung capacity to play the bagpipes is probably more than capable for holding his breath for an hour while between a woman's thighs, surely.
Unfortunately, I keep falling short of the mark. Perhaps the men are too short to be suitable - no one warned me about the Scotsmen are Short angle. Or they have a strange, regional lisp - and a scotsman with a lisp isn't something I'd wish on my worst enemy, the audio effect is enough to make your ears bleed. Or they've been entirely the wrong type of Scotsman; instead of being a burly sumbitch who tramps around the highlands covered in blue woading, I find the Scottish businessmen with perfectly manicured nails, who have never touched haggis in their lives and are more likely to drink Corona than scotch.
Now and again, when any of my girls in the US are feeling particularly anxious in a sexual way, we use the code phrase "Where's my Angus McBang?" And I have to regretfully inform them I'm coming up with nothing.
I will readily admit that, at this point in time, that phrase is coming to the forefront of my brain yet again. It looks like I'm going to have to put out another advert for Angus McBang - naturally I'll need to test for quality control before shipping him to be sexually devoured by my beauties in Seattle.
Give me a caber-tossing, haggis-eating, kilt-wearing, rocks-in-his-mouth-talking big bloody burly bastard right now. As in immediately. This minute.
Just don't drink all my scotch.
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Therapeutic, childish, and sooooo good
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Dec 5, 2006 12:16 am
870 Views
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I did something yesterday I've always wanted to do. Something I wanted to do ever since I graduated. It has been the driving force behind many of the decisions I've made, and the things I've done, good or ill. It may be neurotic of me, but there were few times I looked into the mirror during my well spent youth and thought to myself "Oooooh, what would they say NOW?"
I joined a class reunion site, found my school year, and noted with amusement not a single one of my former class "mates" had a photo of themselves posted. Not one. Very few details even. I guess the reality hurts; life after high school was what counted, and they were all hopeless failures at it. I noted with amusement the names of many a tormentor, the ones who made my life a living hell, didn't seem to be able to walk the Beautiful People talk anymore if the evidence of their addresses and lack of photos could be taken at value.
And so I put up a photo of myself, without makeup because I've never wanted nor NEEDED the stuff - I wear it rarely - and I typed an entry I have wanted to type for over 13 years.
Yeah, it's me, you punks. Remember the girl who you all enjoyed making life a living hell for? The girl you teased relentlessly? The one you always put down and taunted and sneered at? The one you stole a necklace from? The one you stole money from? The one you tried to spray racial slurs on the mailbox for, and like the fools you are, you spelled the word wrong?
The one who's published? The one who lived in England now as a writer/artist/jeweller? The one who started up a masked ball in Oxford where the jet set attend?
Golly-gee, look what happened?
The ugly duckling grew up to be a swan, and travelled the world, and was desired by men who didn't have closed eyes. She learned to be an artist as she wanted to be, and a writer, and didn't give a damn what a bunch of farmer boys and pseudo-incrowd people in a podunk backwater of a cesspool town had to think about it. She made it big, bitches. Big and large.
So where are all you? Too embarassed to actually have a reunion I see. Too afraid to admit all that hair is falling out, and those pounds are on in a big way, and too embarassed to sport that spiral perm that went out FOREVER ago? Yeah, I thought so.
I've been waiting to say this for over 15 years.
Fuck you all.
I made it.
It felt sooooooo good. Is it childish? Probably, but I spent ten years in hell growing up, both in and out of school. I still marvel I didn't take a rifle to school one day - and I guess that is something to be said for having the Golden Rule beaten into me as much as other things were just plain beaten in. Without that I'd probably be doing time right now.
But I've got friends who still have the same crushing self-esteem issues from all their years in high school. You can laugh unless it's you, then it isn't so funny. I hated school. I still firmly believe high school is worthless - it seems only a ground to teach one about pecking order and cliques than anything else of use.
This vitriol was a long time coming - and as bad as it may sound, it still goads me on; the thought I am doing something all those fuckers probably wish they had the balls to do. It pushes me and gives me momentum. So maybe I should thank them...but I won't give them the satisfaction of that.
The only reason I'd attend a class reunion is to come with five bodyguards armed with supersoakers filled with ink, and I'd sit back with a drink in my hand, point, and laugh.
Fuck them all.
I win.
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Stealth Tagged - How to Lose My Interest in Ten Easy Steps
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Dec 4, 2006 2:46 am
947 Views
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I managed to get pwned by this bloody tag via the post today. Curse it, I never tend to fill these out, but I figured it would suit. EDIT: And if you think I'm being too harsh, I have just been winked by a standard member with no photo, with the big title "BORED and looking for fun" - with all of two sentences in his profile.
Cheeerist.
10) Be a standard member and wink me You have just winked a photo. You haven't read my profile, and you're too cheap to pay for a membership to do so. You probably also haven't read my blog either. In short, you want something for nothing, and merely thought my photo was sexy. You don't know the first thing about me.
9 ) Be a silver/gold member and wink me even though it's completely obvious even to a drunken stoat we are uncompatible. Actually, winks in and of themselves are just irritating. There's something about a wink that is like casting a huge net without any kind of selectivity - it's trawling the sea and just scooping up whatever is in the path and happens to respond. A bit unselective; it says to me "I just did this to see if I'd get a reply and then I'll sift through what I get." If you're truly interested, show it.
8 ) Play the hot/cold game If you actually write me a glowing email, send me a few of them a day, and then disappear off the face of the earth for a week, don't expect me to be waiting for you. Yes, real life, yes, scheduling, yes all that stuff people do outside this site, but don't tell me I'm everything you've been hoping for, then disappear because you obviously wrote the exact same email to several other girls and hit it off very well with one in particular. Be for real or don't waste my own valuable time.
7)Give me the "It's just my preference" line after contacting me a few times. Don't hide your racism/sexism/sizeism/whatever else-isms behind the "preference" tag. If you don't want to be with me because I'm not white, blond, or a size eight, then the fact of the matter is you're looking for a package, not a person. Don't give me your bullshit excuses, especially if you were the one to contact ME first, and then decided my photo didn't live up to the pretty little fantasy in your head. My photos are real, my blog is real. If you somehow built up something else in your mind, that's your fault, not mine.
6) Don't do your homework. I say "read my blog first" for a reason. Learn what I like, what I don't like, read about what goes on in my head. Making assumptions about me or saying you're "too lazy to do all that reading" means you're too lazy to have me.
5) Be too chickenshit to take some initiative. Come on, the worst that can happen (unless you're a complete wanker) is I will say "No thanks, not really interested, but good luck in your search." Hearing the word "no" is not going to kill you. Don't be wishy-washy, if you want it, come and get it respectfully.
4) Be a Complete Wanker This takes on many forms. Be the type of person who winks me fifteen times over and over again even if I don't respond to the first one because there's nothing about you that even remotely interests me. If I don't respond to your fifteen winks, send me a snotty email about what a bitch I am. Lie to me about being married even though I can see the wedding band in your photo. Talk only about how you want me to do so-and-so to you or you want to do so-and-so to me. Take advantage of me in any way shape or form. It will last only as long as I can click the "delete" button.
3) Treat me like an experiment. I am not your casual fling, or experimental screw, or here to shag you because you're bored. Merely because you say you're "curious" isn't going to have me rushing out of the house within an hour to meet you at a hotel for what will probably prove to be an incredibly boring few hours. Unless your dick is made of gold and you're going to let me cut off a sizeable piece so I can buy myself some new clothes, there isn't anyone on this earth who can possibly make me want to rush out and meet them at the mere receipt of an email. I doubt you're that good in bed, either. The "I just got out of an unfulfilling relationships so I want to shag you to see what I missed, and then go find someone more visually appealing once you put my spirit back together with your love" isn't my idea of fun. You want that? You better fucking PAY me.
2) Show a complete lack of intellect.Textspeak, a single sentence of "Hi" or loads of misspellings is a turnoff. You don't have an excuse - I am dyslexic and use spellcheck religiously. My blog posts are actually typed in Word and spellchecked, BEFORE I put them on here and spellcheck again, and this is just a blog. If you're trying to attract my attention, there is no excuse whatsoever.
1)Keep filling my inbox with images of your cock, and nothing else of interest. How many times do you need to see on profiles "No cock shots" before you realise we're serious? If it's that obvious you haven't read my profile and still send me one of these damn images of your dick, your email goes into the bin without me bothering to open it.
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In my temple
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Dec 3, 2006 10:56 pm
850 Views
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After doing what needed to be done on Saturday by decompressing and allowing myself to be thoroughly pissed off - no, things aren't resolved, they're just sort of shoved aside and ignored, as usual, but at least it means we're not trying to kill each other - I entered my Temple to purify and pamper myself.
My Temple is my bathroom.
In days past I had a much more swank bathroom to soak in, with a massive roman tub. I've chosen apartments for the size of the bathtub alone. These days, my bathroom is usually full of toddler bath-time toys, the walls of the shower scrawled here and there with soap-crayons, and if my ex was here, every towel has been used and thrown onto the floor in various areas. Even so, it's still MY time.
Water speaks to me, and always has done. As long as I know the ocean is close, I'm happy. I find no peace or tranquility in a landlocked area, no matter how many lakes or rivers there may be. It has to be oceans, and my baths must contain salt. It's a law.
My ritual is for myself. I am not worrying about whether my eyebrows are plucked in the latest arch, whether a man would approve of this creme or that scent. It's a focussing experience for me, to cleanse my skin and spirit, and to give me some beauty time. I used to do the spa when I was working, but now that's a luxury. However, going to the spa did teach me some things are vital, necessary, not just to one's appearance, but to your very sense of self and wellbeing. It's therapeutic, like dancing.
I have a veritable army of exfoliators, scrubs, soaps, shaving devices, waxes, creams, masques, and oils. It's not as expensive as it looks; I either bought my favourite line on sale at Boots (The Sanctuary Spa , and Oil of Olay - in some things Mum knew best), or I make it myself. Salt and sugar scrubs are easy to do. I buy oils and essential waters by the half litre from an organic bulk supplier. It's not difficult - but it is certainly necessary.
A shower is always first - I never soak in a bath without cleansing. This is my soul cleansing. I have the most delicious sugar soap bar which lathers up beautifully. My skin feels heavenly after using it, and I'm liberal with the stuff. This is one place where I refuse to be frugal. The next part is another of my peculiarities; I shave from the neck down. Everything - arms, legs, pussy. It started out as an experiment a month ago, and has now become part of the ritual. It gives me a strange, alien smoothness which I find sensual solely for its oddness. I have one of those electric razor things - I joke it's the new vibrator and violet wand for mundanes, as it produces a light electric shock to help get a closer shave. How kinky can you get when you glide that vibrating, slightly shocking thing over your delicate bits? Amuses me every time.
A scrubdown with sugar or salt afterwards is rather masochistic, but necessary. I want to be PEELED clean, both inside and out. Only when I have managed to sort out this cleansing will I run a bath, with the requisite teaspoon of sea-salt.
What I add to my bath depends on my mood. Rose water for myself when I want to feel pretty, crushed lotus powder and milk when I'm feeling sensual and letting out the Badkitty. Jojoba oil and salt when I'm feeling particularly grotty and unhappy with life or myself, lavender and mugwort for lucid dreaming. Saturday, I brought out the big guns; my Sanctuary bath milk, styled after the recipes from Ancient Egypt. I needed to remind myself of some real "down home" roots, as I do from time to time. Once I immersed myself in the scented water, I drained all my anger and bitterness, dissolved it, let it seep out, and let the scented oil and milk seep in. It's difficult not to feel like a goddess, beautiful as a queen, when you're floating in that stuff. It was just what I needed, and I just lay back and smiled, like I do.
The sad bit is one cannot stay in a bath forever. There are still dishes to do, calls to make, jewelry to faff around with. Drying off is grounding, and smoothing shea butter on my skin just puts me back in touch with my own body, bringing me back to the present. I'm always amazed at how smooth and soft my skin is afterwards (so are most people, hur hur). Once I get dressed and am ready to get my day going again, I feel renewed and ready to cope with life, a "Bring it the hell on" smile on my lips.
Time consuming? Yep. Necessary? Oh HELL yes.
Seriously, don't read about it. Don't sigh and say "Oh, that sounds so lovely."
Do it. Doooooo iiiiiit. Trust a sistah here.
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Woman in Marble
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Dec 2, 2006 11:04 pm
857 Views
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I thought about deleting this last post. But it's been a standing rule of mine, introduced by a friend of mine, to never censor yourself. If you're going to show your brain to the world, never hide the bad bits.
Let it go, warts and all, and destroy the false images people may have of you.
So, it remains. I'm still angry. I'm angry with the friends who don't "want to get involved" and want to be friends with the Ex, who try and not see anything wrong in what he's doing. Angry that I'm "such a strong woman" they feel I don't need any help, so they rush to his side instead, leaving me to be strong and alone and trying to hold things together so I don't crack in front of my son.
There are times I get really tired of being the "strong one."
I will admit to bitterness. I admit to rage. I am not a superhuman, I do not try to erase human feelings and emotions to try and seem like the "good ex" rather than the bitch/bastard all people try to label their split other-halves. Those words exist because people are hurt. And I readily admit I am hurt.
Oh dear, does this mean I have that nebulous stuff called "baggage" now which means a man won't just be able to shag me and leave? Wonderful, further strikes against me in this dating lark.
I think I understand now why most of my single-mum friends quit dating altogether. Who needs the bullshit?
So we all "stay strong", so strong no one thinks they need to offer us anything. When it finally all boils over, the mask cracks and we let the rage and hurt and loneliness spill out under pressure, everyone seems so surprised. And embarassed, and even irritated that we've let our "strong" mask down, and proved we're still human after all. But that human nature is instead considered "weakness". We're not allowed, you see. Suddenly we're not the cast iron women anymore, and we have BAGGAGE. We have EMOTIONAL HANGUPS. We must be avoided as TOO MUCH MAINTENANCE.
Fuck you.
I bleed, I hurt. I reserve the right. To hell with your perceptions of how "strong" I should be. Thank you not at all for rushing to the aid of the one who cut me so deeply because HE must need the help and companionship, hudding around him while I stand alone, solely because you think that's what Strong People do.
Warts and all, I remain. And I see you flocking elsewhere to comfort, everyone seeking comfort outside themselves, but I am not allowed.
I feel myself closing off to each person who abandons me in their stumbling over themselves to try and be generous and understanding to everyone but me, because I am So Very Strong and therefore must need nothing.
I have nothing but my son. It will need to be enough. It's all I'm likely to get.
Approach me if you want, but expect nothing from me. If it's a vacant fuck you want, fine, why not? It's not like I'll be offered anything else, is it? What do I expect? Get what you give. Nothing. Scratch an itch, and so will I.
But don't worry, I'll keep my "baggage" to myself. You'll never know I'm human. That's what you all want, isn't it?
I'll be stone.
I reserve the right to rage in my own blog. I reserve the right to cry when I must. I reserve the right to not always Be So Strong, or So Charitable, or Such a Good Friend. I reserve the right to feel - just as everyone reserves the right to get away from me as quickly as possible when I do so. That's your cue, by the way - run now, if you haven't started all ready. What "fun" could I possibly be, how can I possibly fulfil YOUR fantasies if it's so obvious there's more than one dimension to myself?
I dare you to approach me anyway. I dare you to let me weep on your fancy BDSM latex outfit which cost you more money than I get in three months, and so you really don't want any snot or tears on it, say thankya. I dare you to keep that embarassed look out of your eyes when you realise you're in the presence of a "needy woman" when all you want to do is get off.
So be it. I'm a woman in marble. And marble statues last forever, don't they?
I better find a good position to pose in then, I'll be holding it for a while.
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To link to this blog (OyaD) use [blog OyaD] in your messages.
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