We met again yesterday for a talk. His emotions are a real stumbling block. In many ways he is the most sophisticated human being I’ve ever met. Get him on Shakespeare and his understanding of the nuances and ambiguity of human desire are peerless. Get him talking about himself, and he doesn’t know. Not his fault. He wants to know, unlike so many people, but he is missing some vital bits of the jigsaw puzzle. He can’t allow too much pain to enter his consciousness for fear of anihilation. As Jung would have it, there is too much in the shadow. He is never able to cry, and if there was ever a man that needed to grieve his losses and wounds, it’s him.

It makes me think again about the relationship of “kink” to the emotional. I don’t believe the desire to dominate, or be dominated, is merely a reaction to past humiliation. That’s too simple and clearly not, from reading and talking to people, a defining factor in whether one wants to spank or be spanked. But it is a conduit, as any deep passion is, to understanding and possible healing. That I know from my own experience, both vocally and sexually. And T, when he was in dominant mode gained a surety and confidence in himself that seemed to put a missing piece back in his make-up. And I too, when submissive have access to parts of me, young parts, that were similarly neglected or trampled upon in the past.

It was a tantalizingly close thing. We are both subtle and intelligent thinkers and the creatviity we brought to a putative 24/7 D/s dynamic was exciting, restoratative, deeply erotic and fun! But it has been blown out of the water by his moving back home. He has never managed to inhabit his own space – choosing to live with others most of his adult life since the break-up of his marriage. A small flat he bought in order to care for his, then, 5-year old daughter on his own, languished towards dereliction in that time. I knew when we met he would have to go back there, to reclaim something important to his soul. So whilst exploring my submissive self, all the time “grown-up” me was arranging builders and encouraging him to go there. I ended up splayed between his need to at last take possession of what is his and my growing need for a constant dom. The image of legs and arms tied to a rack in an S/M dungeon spring to mind. One that slowly stretches the poor victim apart until they split….

I want to thank particularly here, my dear online dom – who has in some measure stopped the gearing from ripping me completely asunder and held some vital part of my submissiveness, through his stories and his attention over the past couple of weeks. Priceless.

Thought wins

Yesterday turned into a very interesting time of stimulating conversation, first with a singer I teach (also a friend) and later with P. Each drew me out of the swampy mass of emotion which seems to be my dwelling-place these days and it was very good indeed to put my feet on drier land for once. Since this is a blog primarily about sex not singing, though they are equally honest pursuits, I’ll talk about the evening.

I did wear the nylons – under tight jeans and my long boots, which I always wear for confidence and walked up the road to the pub. I realised as I got there that I hate going into pubs on my own at the best of times but right now, it seemed almost impossible. But I did, wrapping around me the blanket my online dom had notionally given me for protection as he went back to his vanilla world. I bought a large glass of red wine and stood waiting and watching the Friday night meet-ups and collective sighs of release from the work-a-day week. P turned up rather breathless and apologetic though he was only a little late, and with some internal amusement I treated it like the beginning of a singing lesson when I often have to allow time for someone to “arrive” in the room. You can’t sing if you are not in your body. It struck me again how very considerate all the doms are I’ve met over the years. It seems they are almost too sensitive to be in the world without the counter-balancing sexual desire to control – enjoy some power. Hardly Fifty Shades of Grey, from what I hear.

We didn’t find a seat, though there was one, but P thought it was taken, displaying another common trait I find in doms, lack of worldly confidence. So we stood and I launched into a discussion of D/s, whilst enjoying his presence and those piercing blue eyes. We first met 3 years ago. It was a crazy week when I was at the height of my “playing” and had been with 4 men already. Reckless but fun. I gave them all the perfect premise on which to punish me. “You are such a naughty girl for allowing a strange man into your flat in the middle of the night” – swish, crack! They were right really, I wouldn’t be driven to it by my desires these days. But I don’t regret it either. I trust the way people write. If they can express themselves with sophistication, good spelling and grammar, there isn’t much to be afraid of I find.

As the evening wore on, P reminded me of that time before T, when sex was for playing. He is polyamorous, sincerely so. It’s not an excuse to rush around having sex, he loves his play partners – and has kept a tenuous connection to me over months and months, so I guess he is at least interested and fond of me too. It’s the glasses partly. He loves women who wear glasses. Lovely for me. He is a self-confessed misanthrope (though I don’t believe it) and lives in highly impatient tension with the modern world, the chattering, vacuous media, and the hordes of people rushing pointlessly around jabbering (his words). He loves to spend life painting in his studio, domming girls and engaging in good conversation (and food). A modern day twist on epicurianism that I like very much. I’m a mirror image – though my art is different.

We left the noisy pub with relief after one drink and walked back to my flat, the drinks are cheaper here and I wanted to find out if anything was going to happen. I mean from my side. He was obviously up for it, but only if I was. Again, that considerateness – the delicious, paradoxial position of “I will only take your pants down and ruthlessly punish your bottom and humiliate you if that’s ok with you”!  It wasn’t. But not in a bad way. I got to see the flash of his “dom look” which I love and felt it was only right to show him I was wearing the tights he asked for. But other than that, it felt too risky emotionally in my present state.

No, what I got out of it was hearing about what happens in all those clubs and dungeons around London, from someone who is honest and is able to navigate what I would find scary and distasteful to witness. I can’t imagine enjoying public displays of humiliation and beatings – especially, as he said, because some people are clearly going through it when they don’t want to. You can get easily hurt if you don’t know yourself.

And what about “neediness” P? I asked. Where do you take your vulnerable self? He admitted, as I thought he would, that he deals with that side of himself on his own, and has no patience with needy subs. Counts me out then. But of course, there is the paradox of knowing about a side of oneself and honestly speaking about it which renders it almost attractive so he wasn’t put off me.

There is something that doesn’t match up here. P loves a brat, he says, and we all know bratty, demanding behaviour comes from neediness, unless it’s an act. So I concluded the women in his life are holding something emotionally for him. They have to express the “neediness” of both parties in their submission and then let him walk away. This was confirmed by him talking about his primary girlfriend who feels compelled to tell him all her sexual adventures whilst he is a little bored by them, and doesn’t feel the need to reciprocate. Poor her.

There might be some fun mind games in future with P, but I’m not really interested in someone who can’t express the whole of themselves. It gets so wearing doing it for them.

Inside the relationship

I used to correspond a lot on TTWD (This Thing We Do), a forum peopled with articulate, intelligent “users of some form of external discipline” in their relationships. I found it when I was starting to explore the dymanic with T. There are many discussions there about the ins and outs of it all, from squaring it with feminism, to structures of Dd and how to maintain them, to just having a laugh. Very lovely, kind people – and the odd crazy who turned up once in a while.

I miss it, but without being “inside” any relationship – the closest I feel to that is my online friend  – it’s impossible to relate there at the moment. It just makes me sad.

I got a text from T late last night. It said “Wherever you are tonight you are here. Sweet dreams. xxxx”. That’s just it, I’m not “there”. He is not geographically far away, but in terms of submission he is in Outer Mongolia. “Inside” the relationship is a mental state engendered by my dom. It has to be held and controlled by him, and not dropped when he feels like having a bit of space and time from me. I need very careful attention all the time, something I find humiliating and embarassing at my age – but there it is.

I’m high maintenance.

I lost a good friend today…

… it’s always hard, but particularly when they have been a beacon lighting the way to something precious like submission. And kind, so kind to me.

Am meeting P tomorrow night. Instructions: black 10-15 denier stockings or tights, no hold-ups. He’ll be lucky… He’s a nice enough guy, auto-didact which always intrigues me after all the posh education I was stuffed with like a goose to make foie gras. He is a painter, paints ducks a lot. And works on building sites for a living and is very tall, slim and good-looking with piercing blue eyes which are perfect for a dom. No doubt he will manage to get right into my head. It’s not difficult it seems. But I really don’t have the heart for it. Stuck over my own sofa (if I’m not careful) and spanked – and then left. I’d rather just sit in the pub and flirt a bit. Same pub I’m meeting T in the next day for breakfast. Oh dear….

A Blackbird Singing R S Thomas

It seems wrong that out of this bird,
Black, bold, a suggestion of dark
Places about it, there yet should come
Such rich music, as though the notes’
Ore were changed to a rare metal
At one touch of that bright bill.

You have heard it often, alone at your desk
In a green April, your mind drawn
Away from its work by sweet disturbance
Of the mild evening outside your room.

A slow singer, but loading each phrase
With history’s overtones, love, joy
And grief learned by his dark tribe
In other orchards and passed on
Instinctively as they are now,
But fresh always with new tears.