Jeremy Wade and the tampoon.

The last few days I've been spending a lot of time debunking and roasting the guy who wrote the The 128 Basic Slave Rules.

In it he misspells tampon as tampoon.

I Googled for a pic of a tampoon and came up empty. So, I drew the above picture.

All the while in my head I'm hearing Jeremy Wade of River Monsters fame.

"In this rivah we're hunting the elusive rivah monstah known as the mercunt. There are many legends, but no one has actually ever seen one. On this trip we're going to try and do just that. 

This vicious beast has been known to bleed, therefore attracting other mercunts who, en masse, circle their prey and attack, consuming its flesh and leaving it to die.

We will not be fishing with a pole as we usually do. No, we must use the ancient weapon designed by the local tribes of this region. It is called a tampoon. When thrown at the mercunt, it absorbs the blood the mercunt emits, disabling her emergency call to her fellow mercunts. This makes her vulnerable and easy to catch.

We're going in, wish me luck."

The neighbor, the hacker and the guy that sounds like Elmo.

Ok, Mr. NeighborMan, I realize you need a bit of the hair of the dog that bit you this morning. You were under my bedroom window knocking them back with Elmo and hacking-up-a-lung-dude til the wee hours of the morning. Then, just to be cute, you started setting off firecrackers around 2am. This, of course, had your buddies howling with laughter.

But for fucks sake, do you have to get up at dark-thirty and start your madness again?

Elmo is giggling, you're calling for another beer and your buddy is hacking so hard he pukes.

If that weren't enough, now you want to start using power tools and hammering on shit.

Drunk, no less.

All I want to do is sleep.

Yeah, motherfucker, sleep.

You should try it sometime.

The myth of the safe call

Safe calls, IMO, have the wrong name. They should be called 'where to find the body' calls.

They won't keep you safe. Not unless the person you made the call to has ESP, can feel your brain waves of peril, get to you in time and kick down the door.

They won't scare off a sociopath. They won't make him not kill you.

If your gut is screaming at you enough to tell you "Danger, Jill Subbison, Danger!", why the fuck are you even going to meet?

Seriously, the best weapon you have is instinct and folks really need to learn how to listen to it.

If you decide to go, despite your misgivings, take a fucking weapon. A safe call isn't going to keep you safe, only YOU can do that.

Vulcan mind-melding.

Today I saw this awesome video of this pianist on America's Got Talent.

The guy was fanfuckingtastic.

He was banging away Sweet Home Alabama.

Bossman and I had this discussion once about Lynyrd Skynyrd and their political stance and that the song was a hailing of racism in the south.

All I could hear while this guy was banging away on the keys, quite beautifully I might add, was Bossman's voice telling me about the story behind the song.

He did the Vulcan mind-meld thing on me. I'm convinced.

I think I'm toast.

My submission is not a gift.

Why is it so hard to recognize that the imbalance of power should make for a balance in the relationship? You can't go into this thing when one half expects too much and the other half doesn't expect enough.

I liken my submission to a well. You can keep dippin' in it and dippin' in it for a cold, delicious drink, but if it doesn't get any rain, it fucking goes dry.

I'm not Mother Teresa. I'm not altruistic and I don't really think any human is. People get something out of what they do. People serve their needs.

My submission is absolutely self-serving. I absolutely sought out someone who would fill my needs because I've worked damn hard trying to become the kind of person that would appreciate my puzzle piece when he came along. I wasn't going to be that puzzle piece that almost fits.

Topping from the bottom? Nah. I call it being self-aware. Aware of what you want and aware of what exactly you can give.

Dominance isn't a gift, submission isn't a gift, the caliber of person I am in bringing myself to the relationship is what can be a gift. When I'm dead, if people say, "yeah, da' rat was fucking awesome, I'm glad I knew her" then I was a blessing.

The extremes are what creates the balance, or it should, and that doesn't happen without reciprocity.

Extremes create balance in everything.

In science, there's protons, neutrons and electrons. Two extremes and a balance.

In science, for each action there's an equal and opposite reaction. Two opposites and a balance.

In math. Remember the number line? Zero was the end and the beginning. For every number added to one side of zero, you HAVE to add the same number to the other side of zero. Two opposites and a balance.

Up, down. Good, evil. Yin, yang. Back, forth. Love, hate. Heaven, hell.

The whole fucking shebang is nothing but extreme opposites creating a balance.

I don't get why relationships, vanilla, D/s or otherwise are always presented up as exceptions to the rule.

Maybe it's because martyrs like to martyr and narcissists like to stare in the mirror and it's all just a ruse to avoid personal responsibility?

Because, fuck, if submission isn't a gift anymore folks might have to step up their game and actually be the kind of person others say "man, I'm a lucky motherfucker so-n-so is in my life." about.

I could be wrong, though.

blink blink

My submission ain't a gift, but I sure as hell can aspire to be.

Blossoming

Today Bossman said I was blossoming.

In an earlier post I talk about how much I question my actions and my motivations. I know I'm harsh, but I don't expect anything from anyone that I don't expect from myself.

I work really hard keeping my ego in check. I know I'm a good person with a good heart and sexy to boot. It took a long time to grow a self-esteem. If there's one thing I've learned is that to maintain it, I have to keep a handle on the difference between ego and self-esteem. Some days, it's a very fine line.

Because of it, I have a very small circle of people I'm close to. Couple that with being agoraphobic and you have someone that's pretty tightly guarded. I don't like a lot of fanfare and don't go looking for it. I know there are people that like what I have to say and pay attention sometimes, but the whole popularity thing.

Yeah, really weird and uncomfortable for me. I mean, it feels good, but the fact that I might be one of those people that I kinda idolize and like to read, really freaks me out.

This is all new territory for me.

New nick. New blog. New group. New levels of exposure. 

And more positive responses to it all than I ever expected.

It's all Bossman's fault. He nudged me. I never would have done any of this on my own. He pushed me out of the nest. He knows what I need better than I do most times.

I'm turning into a doormat because he's so. damn. good. to. me. He gives me so many things I never knew I could have, or even want. All I want is to see him happy and I don't ever want to feel like saying 'no' to him, about anything. He has done quite the number on my will.

I thanked him and told him I was afraid of letting the attention go to my head. I need to keep perspective on the difference between ego and self-esteem.

He said I'll be alright and he's proud of me...and it's good to see me blossoming.

Honorable with dishonorable intent.

I used to think I did the honorable thing because I was honorable.

Honorable with dishonorable intent is the charge, guilty is the verdict.

Truth is, the high road is paved with gold and it winds its way through the land of milk and honey. I do the honorable thing because it gets me what I want. I manipulate it until it serves me. Be it for money, sex, power, adoration, loyalty, smug satisfaction, divine retribution, laughable irony or poetic justice.

And when I've sated myself of the desire du jour, I slip away, fingers still greasy, respect intact.

It's completely self-serving.

Not to mention, guilt, remorse and bittersweet memories of goodness lost, left behind to live rent-free in another persons head are mighty sticks to walk softly with.

The rush of being able to righteously beat someone with them, if only in my mind, to get drunk on their blood and feast on their flesh, is indescribably sublime.

Poodles and Pitbulls

I get so sick and tired of hearing from the twoo swabe crowd that I am just not the epitome of slaveyness. I'm just not "true" because I'm snarly, opinionated and independent.

My owner seems to like me just the way I am.

I equate it to pet ownership.

Some men want to own sweet, little poodles. Lap dogs they dote on. Pretty, proper, dependent things that need to be cared for and coddled.

Some men want to own pit bulls. Protective, independent and feral. Pets that can fend for themselves, if need be. Fiercely loyal and protective of their owner and all that is his.

Each requires a different mindset for ownership. One isn't better than the other, one isn't more preferred over the other, they're just different and serve different purposes and needs.

It really bothers me that the poodle type slaves always seem to dismiss the pit bull type, claiming they aren't real, or true, or...whatever. That our owners must be insane or somehow secretly submissive because we don't act meek, demure, proper and prissy.

Our owners want us just the way we are. They realize they might have to muzzle us. They realize we might try and drag them down the block while they walk us. They openly welcome the challenge we present.

It doesn't make our dynamic any less real. 

It doesn't mean we're any less owned. 

It just means we're different and our owners want what we embody and aren't trying to turn us into something we're not.

Status message stupidity.

I added a sitemeter to this blog because I want to know where the people who read my drivel are from.

I noticed today that I had hits from Morocco and Saudi Arabia. I thought it was kind of nifty, so, I posted it as a status update.

Wouldn't you know it, some fool posts this gem: 

How many are death threats?

Really? Death threats?

Please, tell me people aren't this full of stupid. As if anyone who is from the Middle East or of the Muslim faith wants to kill Americans. This level of ignorance pisses me off.

The media-machine perpetuates so much bullshit and folks buy it; hook, line and sinker.

Mr. Murdoch, kiss my grits.

Hey, hey, you, you, get offa my status message.

Keep your ignorance to yourself.

Reciprocity, mawfuggahs, comprende?

I don't understand why so many in this thing of ours are so out of touch with reality as far as relationships go.

D-type runs off a laundry list of what they want. They declare that they'll give the s-type what the fuck they want to, when they want to and if they think it's necessary. There's this undercurrent that if serving doesn't include healthy doses of abject misery, misery you better gawddamn well be grateful for, you just ain't doing it right. Don't get me wrong here, I loves me some misery, but I want to be happy and mostly eager to be miserable, even when I'm really fucking miserable.

S-type runs off a laundry list of dreams and promises. She thinks abject misery is motherfuckingyum and dives right in. Then, you see posts like, My D-type just starves me emotionally or physically or sexually, all he does is treat me like a maid, a toy, interchangeable, or combination thereof. Ad nauseum.

Why is it so hard to recognize that the imbalance of power should make for a balance in the relationship? You can't go into this thing when one half expects too much and the other half doesn't expect enough.

Reciprocity, mawfuggahs, comprende?

You want a bitch to do all that nasty, dirty, degrading shit that makes you cum like nobody's business? You want a bitch to follow you off the end of the cliff? Have your back when no one else does AND be a punching bag if you need it? Give her what she needs. Don't confuse this with wants. Needs. All women have them. For some it's attention, cuddling, please and thank you, putting the toilet seat down, etc. etc. etc...Nuance matters. The little shit does count.

Whatever her buttons are, push them, often. The more you fill her needs, the lower to her knees she will go for you. The more you give her what no one else has, those things she's always ached for, the deeper down the rabbit hole you can take her. Make yourself irreplaceable and the world is yours. Show her there really is no place better than at your feet and do it well enough she'll be grateful to be there. Some might call it topping from the bottom. Some might infer satin pillows. I call it some damn good stealth seduction by a really smart D-type, because that kind of receiving is an addictive gawddamn drug and he's the only dope man.

This, in my opinion, is the core that holds D/s together, even when the D/s slacks or ramps up. That core makes the rest flow. Hell, it's the core that holds all relationships together and yeah, D/s is a relationship.

You want it? You can have it, just be prepared to give as good as you get.

Political correctness isn't always correct.

With the recent hoopla about the changing of Huck Finn I wondered what would other books look like if they were summarily sanitized.

I read Richard Wright's Black Boy in seventh grade. Looking back, I have to admit, it was a defining moment in my life. It shaped my vision for the future.

I remember reading it and crying. Weeping inconsolably for the horrors such a small boy endured. I swore to myself I'd never be those people. Had this book been sanitized in the same way that they are considering with Huck Finn, I'm not so sure it would have had the same impact on me that it did.

I understand how the words nigger and injun strike a chord within folks. I really do, but does sanitizing them out of books, substituting slave in their place, make the intent behind the words any less vulgar? Does erasing them from history serve the purpose that it's meant to serve?

If those words had been taken out of Black Boy I may have grown up to be just as racist as some of my family members.

Whether it's Huck Finn or Black Boy, ignorance needs to be shown for the ignorance it is. Shine a light on it. Don't stuff it in a closet or erase it from history. If you do, there's nothing left to spur minds into thinking there's another way.

Some days I just lose it.

This is from a thread wherein the @OP asks if people think it's o.k. if she has her mother train her to be a Gorean slave. Most posters had some level of squick factor, as it does ride the line.

It went down something like this:

Douchecanoe: now you can attribute that to whatever helps you sleep at night but the plain and simple fact of the matter is the difference between now and the peek of our society is all this equal rights bullshit

Me: Ok, I think women SHOULD get equal pay for equal work. If I can hump 5" pipe up a 10' ladder, you gawddamn right I deserve the same fucking pay as the dude I'm working with...and the word is PEAK. BTW, misogynist much?

peak
noun \ˈpēk\
1
: a pointed or projecting part of a garment; especially : the visor of a cap or hat
2
: promontory
3
: a sharp or pointed end
4
a (1) : the top of a hill or mountain ending in a point (2) : a prominent mountain usually having a well-defined summit b : something resembling a mountain peak
5
a : the upper aftermost corner of a fore-and-aft sail b : the narrow part of a ship's bow or stern or the part of the hold in it
6
a : the highest level or greatest degree b : a high point in a course of development especially as represented on a graph

Douchecanoe: to be honest we have a black president in office and from that the black community thinking they run things and that we owe them something( if you dont beleive me youtube it, there are plenty of videos of black folks saying "we own this country now")

Me: Watch out, your white hood is showing. I bet you fap to pics of Strange Fruit hanging from the trees in your yard. Maybe you should be running off to the dry cleaners to pick up your white hood instead of trying, unsuccessfully I might add, to argue your shitstain of an OPINION is the ONE TWOO WAY.

Douchecanoe: our country is in worse shape then ever and that is a fact to back up my opinion

Me: Ayup, an uneducated opinion, at that. Rampant consumerism is killing us, not the fact that women don't kiss the asses of men with skid marked underwear.

Douchecanoe: So you see you may be woman and you may roar but i am man so you can stand on those tracks and roar but when this train comes through, even a roaring woman can be crushed.

Me: Keep thumping your furry chest, Captain Caveman, and watch for your own gawddamn train. It's barreling toward you at warp speed.

Oh, and invest in an icepick, you'll need to to lobotomize your future slave.

Douchecanoe: causes a problem with the natural animalistic way things should be. Look at any other species.....the man is the hunter/provider and the female is the homemaker/caretaker

Me: Just because it's your OPINION that it SHOULD be this way, fact remains, it isn't. Lionesses are the hunter gatherers, just to point out one species. Try again.

DoucheboatAnnie: what is the first thigns you teach a slave ( not that you would know this) respect, manners, girl chores and that they are the weaker of the 2 genders. and like i said. i am teaching her what i can

@velveteenhoodrat i would love to see you do that and keep doing all day and keep up...so if you can do that all day than sure go for it...but when was equal pay ever mentioned...and your own words...y do you think the lionness goes and hunts.. the alpha male in the group makes her...so thank you for that...

IF YOU DID HAVE MORE DOMINATE MEN AS MASTERS OR WHATEVR THE HELL YOU HAVE, YOU WOULD HAVE LEARNED RESPECT OF PEOPLES OPINION...BUT APPARENTLY YOU NEEED AN ALPHA MASTER TO PUT ALL OF YOU SLAVES BACK IN YOUR PLACE BECAUSE YOU SURE AS HELL DONT KNOW WHERE IT IS.....(because we all know capslock is cruise control for frothing at the mouth)

and on that note i am done with all of you taht dont know how to give opinions or know your place when you are supposed to be slaves....

Me: that they are the weaker of the 2 genders

Actually, physiologically, men have greater upper body strength, but women have equal or greater lower body strength. If you learn a little body dynamics you, too, can do menfolk work.

Just sayin'.

dont know how to give opinions or know your place when you are supposed to be slaves.

My place is where MY owner says it is, I am what HE says I should be and he kinda likes my pitbull-ishness. Fuck you and your across the board, one twoo wayism, misogynistic twatwafflery. Fuck you hard with it. Enough to make a Grand Canyon sized dent in your cervix. Maybe it'll keep you from ever breeding again.

FWIW, My daughter is on this website, too. She identifies as submissive.

I didn't train her. The extent of our D/s discussion is , "Man, Mom, you wouldn't believe the douchebag dominot that e-mailed me!"

I taught her. I taught her how she should expect to be treated and that to expect that treatment, she needed to treat others accordingly. When she got interested, I sent her in the right direction to learn ON HER OWN, FOR HERSELF, because my way, a mentors way, a dumbinants way may not be HER way and until she knows what HER way is, she would never be able to find HER place. That isn't something that can be 'molded'. Either you fit with a maw fugga, or you don't.

Know thyself.

She chose what religion she was going to follow and is now married to a Muslim man.

She is six months from a college degree in psychology.

She's raising a 7yo son.

She's been aware of my relationship choices for a while. I never dictated or manipulated her into being like me and if her husband gets attacked by maniacal, zombie cacti and dies, she can still fend for herself.

Some people need to recognize when they're riding in a douchecanoe down shit creek, sans a paddle.

Humble Pie. Slice #643

Back before I had my kids, I used to work on an ambulance as an EMT. 

We did a lot of nursing home transports and had a lot of regulars.

There was this one lady we used to go and get. She was locked in an almost fetal position and repeated, "Diediediediediediediediediedie" incessantly.

I had transported her a few times, so I knew what I was dealing with. She was supposedly senile.

I was trying to calm her one day because she was decidedly excited in her diediediedie diatribe.

Out of nowhere, she turns her head, looks at me and says, "DiediediedieYouDieSonofabitchdiediediedie!".

Focus, Grasshoppa!

I have this friend, her name is Tonette, but we call her Tee.

We've had a ton of good times. This is one of them.

Soon after I met her I received my tax return in the mail and decided to go shopping for a computer.

So, off we go to Best Buy.

I finally gather all the boxes for the computer, pick out the CD's I wanted to buy, along with some other goodies and go to get in line.

There we were, standing in line, with a huge flatbed cart loaded with computer and computer accessories and not a cashier in sight.

Two other customers come to the register after me and along comes a cashier, finally, and what does he do? He waits on the two other customers before me. Just so happened, one of them wanted to use three different debit cards to pay for four items. By the time she was checked out, I was more than just a little irritated, to say the least.

He finally gets me to the register and begins checking me out. Just a couple of items in to this, he gets distracted and wanders off away from me and my order.

Tee was tired, so she decided to sit down in chair they had in the mock-up of a home office center located just to the left of the register.

She saw me getting heated and started telling me, "Now, just hush, girl. Don't embarrass me."

She knew how I could get.

Anyway, I kind of loudly, but not really, remind the cashier he needed to come back and finish checking me out before the store closed and save the joke telling to his co-workers until after he was done waiting on me. He rolled his eyes a bit, but wandered back to the register.

He rings up two more items and gets distracted AGAIN and wanders off.

By now, I am livid. I'm sure Tee could see the puffs of smoke emanating from my ears. She tells me to calm down.

Calm down my ass.

"Excuse me? Mr. Best Buy checkout guy? Um, yeah, I'd like to get this computer home before midnight and get it set up."

He looks and rolls his eyes.

Not a smart move.

"HELLO?! FOCUS (hand gestures included) GRASSHOPPA!!!! If you don't want my $1300 in purchases I can very easily go down the street to Circuit City. I'm sure they would appreciate my business and I can inform your manager on the way out just exactly why I'm going to another store to spend my money."

About this time, I hear Tee laughing hysterically. I look over and there she is, tossing her head back and roaring.

Then, the inevitable happened.

She tossed her head back just a little too hard and there she went, ass over teakettle. Right to the floor, chair on top of her.

"You bitch! Why do you always make me laugh so gawddamn hard!? I'm never going out in public with you again!"

Needless to say, Mr. Best Buy waddled his ass back to the register and got us out of the store, post haste.

Good times were had by all, except the waddling Best Buy guy.

I'm grateful for Q-Tips, are you?

If I were asked to describe myself in one word? I'd have to say "grateful".

I have been stripped bare. My life was not my own. My time was not my own. My schedule was not my own. The direction of my future was not my own. Even my clothes were not my own. I ceased to be me and became #9895500.

I'm often asked how I could choose slavery after having my entire existence involuntarily wrenched from my control. My standard answer is usually, "because today, I have choices and I fucking can, on my terms, in my time, with one of my choosing."

People look at my life and wonder how it is I can be so content. I don't own much more than a pot to piss in and a window to throw it out of. I can't afford to go to the movies or 'do lunch' with my friends. A telephone is a luxury I can't always afford.

They wonder how I can get so excited over what they view as insignificant things. An ice cold CocaCola. Using a q-tip. Walking barefoot in the grass. A hug from a loved one. A meal from the dollar menu at McD's. A hot bath. Using a washing machine instead of the toilet bowl. Seeing the moon. Having a bowel movement without having to use the plop-flush-plop-flush method, because there's always someone 2ft away ready to be offended by its odoriffic splendor.

I am a walking, talking, breathing miracle. I sit in my barely furnished apartment in the ghetto and I feel like the luckiest woman in the world.

I know what it's like to have nothing, literally. No choices, no belongings, no privacy, no physical contact, no creature comforts, no support system and no name--reduced to a mere number.

Cuffed cattle, dressed in DOC blues, shuffled from place to place, with OfficerUnfriendly as my steadfast escort to see TheJudgeWhoDecides.

I know how close I came to living out the rest of my life that way. I know how close I came to having someone else decide what day they would stick a needle in my arm and end my life.

I often wonder why.

Why did I get this second chance? I saw women all around me, in virtually the same predicament, face knowing that they will die a number and not a human being. Just another statistic to be debated over.

Yet, here I am, in all my technicolor glory.

In my hand-me-down life, in my rough as fuck neighborhood, having to sometimes choose between washing my clothes at the laundromat and buying kotex, and I am happy.

I feel like the sole survivor of a plane crash with all the guilt and gratitude it entails.

I know what it's like to not have any of it. I know what it's like to have even my own destiny out of my hands. I know what it's like to realize that using q-tips (and the subsequent eargasms) is something you can't take for granted. I know, that in an instant, one's life can become no longer their own.

It's all about perspective. I can look at it from the point of view that I was wronged, angry and bitter that I suffered such injustice, or I can take the stance I have now, which is...grateful. I know how good I have it and I know how much worse it could be.

I used to have an ignorant, self-absorbed sense of entitlement. I'm also grateful it was forcibly humbled out of me.

I see people all around me bemoan their lives. Always seeking bigger, better, stronger, faster. Never realizing they're one accident, one friendship, one mistake or one wrong judgment call from being where I was. Never truly understanding just how fucking lucky they are.

I'm grateful I'm not one of them.

Hell, I'm just fucking grateful I can have a child-like excitement about moons and grass and hugs and yeah, even fucking q-tips and I feel sorry for people that can't.

I hate my brain.

Having PTSD sucks. Especially when it rears it's ugly head after a long hiatus. 

This should be a happy time in my life. I have my own place. I have an awesome Daddy. Things are going so well, yet, I'm sad. So very sad. Crying happens at the drop of a hat.

This feeling of being trapped comes and goes. I know it's irrational, but I hate being in my own skin.

Nightmares are becoming regular occurrences again. So is waking up in full-blown panic attacks.

I don't know if the RA and all the pain I've been in lately has anything to do with it, but I suspect it's part of it. The eczema is acting up and my feet and hands are broken out something awful and I feel so ugly because of it.

Food tastes like shit. People are getting on my nerves. I've lost interest in all the things I used to find pleasure in.

I feel clingy and needy and pathetic and because I hate feeling those things I close myself off from everything and everyone.

I'm trying so hard to keep it all together, but I feel myself coming apart at the seams. 

I don't know how to be weak or dependent. I've never had anyone I could be those things with and Bossman makes me feel both and it scares the shit out of me. One, because I feel like my foundation is crumbling and two, because any time I've ever let even the smallest bit of this show, people cut and run.

I've been keeping all this from Bossman. He has enough on his plate and a crazy girl is the last thing he needs to deal with. Only thing is, he's the one thing that is keeping me together right now and I hate that I've put that on him. No one should have to carry that kind of burden.

I feel like a fucked up, pitiful, pile of blubbering goo.