Sub-creation

Have you noticed that so many submissives are the creative type. Whether it be writing, art, fashion, cooking, coffee art – it’s a thing, what ever it might be, so many submissives are creating things. I wonder why that is?

I’m kind of going to break apart the submissive personality here so move on a few paragraphs if that’s been done like a bottom at a dungeon party.

To be submissive is to be really arrogant. How dare we go against society and popular culture and listen to our gut?It’s just rude. Be over scheduled, confused and exhausted like the rest of us. There is no excuse for being smart and together and deciding to defer to another in some or all of our lives. How dare you?

Submissives are annoying. We really are. We know what we want and we know what feels good. We are not wishy-washy. There is no demure princess hiding in here. There is a fully gown mountain lion fighting for what she needs. Submissives are so annoying for knowing that. No wonder the rest of society is baffled by us. We are a contradiction walking around wet and satisfied.

Is that why we are creative? Welcome back if you skipped ahead. Have we acknowledged some chemical need inside our brains and we need to channel that into something that is more than ourselves? Who has met a submissive that hasn’t penned an erotic story? I’m looking around at the lack of hands in the air.

It’s pent up desire bursting from a sticky cum filled center. It’s painting time. That time between knowing this is the answer to my life and finding the dominant that keeps the same time as me. Listening for that tick tick that matches my tick tick needs accompanied by music, words, paint, fabric, coffee.

Going against the grain takes grit and adjectives. The majority of my family, friends associates and space cadets will not live in a D/s or M/s relationship so they won’t know what the hell I’m taking about. If you are like the majority of us, you keep it to yourself, behind your front door and with only the most trusted vanillas. Maybe you have better connections than mine but I haven’t had any success in explaining this thing that we do – that’s another story – but for me, it’s something I keep to myself and my blog. It has to come out somehow. That’s why religions proselytise. The more the merrier, come believe in what I believe in. People love to share and when someone believes in the same way of life as we do, it makes us happy. Our health level goes up, our happiness score rises and we feel fulfilled and verified.

We are not a religion – oh if only we were, imagine the tax implications. How do we proselytise? We create. We splash the paint around to write a message that is uniquely ours.

Mine is writing. What is yours?

That time when Amelia was angry – Like now.

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Jump, Tim.

How high, Amelia?

That’s how our relationship worked. Or at least that’s what he was told.

He believed it. He felt that to be true. He had an epiphany. The clouds parted and he saw the twinkle lights Emily placed around the pergola. This epiphany released him from guilt. It wasn’t his fault because Amelia wasn’t a good slave. Hallelujah, there’s the answer. Amelia is the reason we are shipwrecked. Amelia twisted him around her little finger, that’s why he couldn’t be the captain of his ship.

He wrote to me and said I’ve tried to accomodate you and I enabled you. You gave into your ego instead of talking. You weren’t honest, communicative and transparent.

If that’s accomodation, let me check out. There was no time to communicate. We were in constant danger and I was in constant stress mode.

I was there through all of it. I didn’t come and go as I pleased. Through the good and the bad, I stuck around. I was standing there beside him, not behind him because it was too scary behind him. I was blindsided too many times by flying objects and yes, every now and then I had to yank the wheel violently to the side to avoid a collision. But I was on the boat. That rocking leaking unstable boat. Where the fuck were you Emily? Getting a manicure? And now you whisper in his ear, turn it all around on me and make me feel bad for it. Oh, your good. But I’m better.

I was in this relationship when he was anxious, wrong, worried, stressed, over worked, underslept. I woke up to it every morning and went to bed with it every evening. I’m not the one who wrapped him around my finger. That was you sweet Emily. Little tiny cute soft spoken, Emily.

“I can’t today, I’ve had a hard life.” Yeah, you’re singing to the choir. We’ve all had a hard life. Toughen up, princess. Stick to what you agreed to one time, it’s life changing.

I have never asked that man to jump. I only asked that he do what he said he would do. I asked that he be the dominant. That he take control of the wheel. That he keep us off the rocks. That he not be reckless.

There was no consistency and he didn’t have stabilizers on his boat. It rocked from side to side and while I don’t get sea sick, I would have liked the calm he promised. He would add and subtract elements on a whim and a prayer and our navigator was a magic eight ball.

When he wasn’t in control, was I suppose to let myself to tossed onto the rocks? Would that have made me a better slave? A better submissive. When I saw we here heading for danger was I suppose to say in my sweet voice, yes Master, of course I trust you when you’re heading towards that lighthouse and you’re not the the best sailor in the bay.

Because I put my hand out to steer us from danger in our rudderless boat, I am to blame and he believed her.

There is no one I need to make amends to. I did nothing wrong. I stayed until it crashed. I’m wearing the injuries from that crash.

The Newness of a Page

Today I got a new journal.  It’s fresh. It has that new journal smell and I lift it to my face and inhale it deeply. It smells of pulp, possibilities and fear.

I put the journal down and look at it suspiciously.  I don’t do journal’s lightly. I fill them to capacity and often beyond. I will paste pages on pages and add pull outs and flaps. They become part of my being on a molecular level.  I feel enormous responsibility for them, and they for me.

This new journal and I aren’t talking yet. That will take time. We need to get to know each other before I can add things that will sink into its skin  and help me understand why I am writing them there. It’s not an easy process.  It’s like tattooing a person. It’s there forever.

I keep all my journals. I have the old ones in a trunk. The first one must have used a multi pack of glue sticks and I am the reason glitter is a protected species. Some of the pages are stiff and hard to turn. Others have stuck together, forming a bond merging into foreverness.  I envy those ones. I don’t disturb them as I turn.

When I read the one I just retired – unable to stick anything else into it, there is no corner to scribble a word in – I read angst and helplessness and pretence. I was writing everything that should have been spoken aloud.  This journal is an emotional wreck.  It’s the emo of the journal collection.  The other journals shy away from it so I put it on its own shelf.  It’s introverted and anti-social and they talk about it in low whispers. It knows they are talking about it.

The new journal looks around and gives me a terrified look. Don’t do that to me. I’m new and fresh and I was bound with hope.  Trees were not massacred so I could end up on the Eeyore shelf.

I can’t guarantee it’s going to be an easy journey for the new journal. It will be hard work.  There will be times that sad emotions seep into its pages. I offer a rare stick of glitter glue as a peace offering but we aren’t there yet and it refuses to open.   There is a plan, I tell the journal and I like plans. I can stick to plans as long as they don’t change and twist and throw me off course.

Here is the deal new journal.  It’s you and me for the next six months.  I’ll be honest but I’ll do better than poor emo journal who is currently lying flat, legs out over the edge of the shelf, exhausted.  I google journal therapy and make an appointment for my journal to speak to an encyclopedia.

 

 

Sleep, you elusive vixon

I’ve had a few hours sleep.

You know that feeling when you want more, but you know you’re not going to get more so you lay in bed resentful?  I’m that person tonight.

A few hours is better than nothing and I was running on nothing.

Why is it so hard for some people to sleep as adults?

For all the times I refused a nap as a kid, I take it back.  Come get me nap time. I’m yours.

What do you do when you can’t sleep? I read. Write. I use to roll over and give a blowjob or climb on top of him. Now I just read. Or write.

 

It’s Serenwrap

When a door closes a window opens. Or the window slabs and blows the door open. Either way the house is draughty, it’s eight in the morning and I’m in my PJs with a knock at the door. Little blue cloud PJ’s no less

There stands my best friend of 18 years who I haven’t seen in too long after we parted with angry words. We grew up side by side. He was everything to me for those years and then we weren’t any more and seeing him there reminded me how much I needed him at moments like this.

I haven’t slept in days. I haven’t eaten. My eyes are stinging red and I cried again. There he was right when I needed him, on my door step.

We went to breakfast, talking over each other

Me: I’m sorry

Him: no I’m sorry

We were brutally honest about our friendship crumbling down like a straw house blown on by a pissed off wolf.

Him: I couldn’t continue to watch you make mistake after mistake and ignore the people who have loved you and known you all your life. It hurt me to watch you fall apart. Your happy drained away. I had to leave you and hope we could come back together some time.

Me: Now is the time. You’re right. I didn’t listen. I was miserable.

Him: I’m not going to support you in continuing to make poor decisions but I want to get you healthy again. Your mom called me, she’s worried, my moms worried, a lot of mom’s are worried. You’re skin and bone, your sick and I’ve never seen your hair go in so many directions. This is bad. You need vegetables and a blow out girlfriend.

Me: This is acceptable to me

That was the last thing I wanted. To worry people but of cause clueless me had done exactly that. Worried lots of people who love me because I’m too stubborn to say I need help. I’m out of my depth. I can’t swim any more. Help me. I’m doing stupid things and pretending I know what I’m doing and hurting myself and others. I’m climbing over the roadkill of my arrogance and bitchiness.

Health wise, I’m in dire straits. I’ve never been so run down. I’ve had a cough for months and every bone aches. I’m 25 and feel like those numbers have switched. I need help.

Dear dear Damien who drove from Portland to tell me he doesn’t like what I’m doing but feeds me bacon anyway. I love bacon. And coffee. Small town coffee but what’s a girl to do.

April

The April winds are magical,

And thrill our tuneful frames:

The garden-walks are passional

To bacheors and dames,

The hedge is gemmed with diamonds,

The air with Cupids full,

The elews of fairy Rosamonds

Guild lovers to the pool.

Each dimple in the water,

Each leaf that shades the Rock,

Can eozen, pique and fatter,

Can parley and provoke.

Goodfellow, Puck and goblins

Knew more than any book;

Down with your doleful problems,

And court the sunny brook.

The south-winds are quick-witted,

The schools are sad and slow,

The masters quiet omitted,

The lore we care to know.

~Ralph Waldo Emerson

I’m the Anti-sister

In reference to National sibling day, I’d like to talk about a different type of sister.  I don’t have a sibling, only child here with all the only child issues they write about in psychology books.  I’m looking for National Only Child Day.  National Singleton Day, perhaps?  No? Thought not.  This is discrmination

Anyway, lets get to the post.

I hate the term sister. I will remind you  that I am an only child, and have never had a real sister. We won’t talk about that one I Bart Simpsoned in the attic. You didn’t hear that from me. I have a slave sister which is like a sister wife if you watch that show, only kinkier without the freaky looking husband who needs a haircut.

When someone calls Emily my sister I throw up a little in my mouth along with a moaning vomit sound deep in my stomach. Sorry if you were eating. You probably think I am being mean to Emily but she knows this. We’ve laughed about it. I have sniggered and given her sid- eye when we were called “sisters.” Excuse me while I shudder. She giggles. Emily is a giggler. I’m not a giggler. You could tell that, couldn’t you.

She loves being a sister. She uses the word a lot. I think mostly because it annoys me but also because she is the poster child for slave sisterhood. She is all in with poly. She’s rolling around in her poly house, her hands flying in the air in bewitching joy. Unicorn slippers on her feet, flayling around on a cloud of poly. She has glitter stuck to the side of her face from the posters she made for “poly is family too” march. I was the one hiding behind the telegraph pole sipping town coffee and reading the Female Eunich.

There are woman in the lifestyle who throw around the word sister and love the sound of it and I say “you go, girl,” but please don’t use it with me. Friend. Confident. Misadventure co conspirator, but not sister. Even poor- much maligned in this blog- Emily is not sister. Maybe one day she can be, she aspires to be, she tells me, though god knows why, I’m a total bitch. Maybe one day, but today is not that day.

How did this sister thing take off?

If you are poly, is she your sister? Or Brother? This is an equal opportunity blog.