Happy 2008!!
Things to come
My resolutions
The weirdest night of my life so far
and much more!!
Thanks to everyone who reads, and I hope you continue to in the future. Blogging has been a very relaxing and cathartic experience.
xoxo
M. Leah
Monday, December 31, 2007
HAPPY NEW YEAR
Happy 2008!!
Things to come
My resolutions
The weirdest night of my life so far
and much more!!
Thanks to everyone who reads, and I hope you continue to in the future. Blogging has been a very relaxing and cathartic experience.
xoxo
M. Leah
Sunday, December 23, 2007
Wonder Leah/Train Rides with Mom
Thursday evening I went to “In the Flesh” the monthly reading series @ Happy Endings lounge to meet and hear fellow blogger Marcelle Manhattan share some of her naughty stories. She did a great job and it was wonderful to finally meet the woman behind it all. Thank you to all the writers and readers who had the courage to stand in front of a room full of people and talk about the intimate goings on of your sex life including a romp with Santa, the exact shaving style of one’s “bits”, an erotic haiku, a walk down memory lane to an S&M restaurant with Topaz and her mystery man and much more. I had a great time and I am grateful that you guys have the stones to get up there and share. It truly does help timid old me break through some of my insecurities to see women talk so candidly about being turned on. It definitely got my writing gears turning, expect more from me in 2008! Talking with Marcelle it really got me thinking…she mentioned how she never felt like she belonged growing up in the south. I think if we all step out of our kinky closets no woman (or outsider for that matter) would have to feel uncomfortable for ascribing to a different set of social norms. I was going to post about where are all my positive dominant female women role models? But I need to be that person for myself, for all the little M. Leah’s out there who are still in college trying to figure out this stuff. If I can help one girl avoid an awkward hookup, complete with blowjob and no satisfaction then perhaps I have made a difference ☺. But seriously, I don’t know why we teach women to be afraid of their sexual desires and package them in tight little boxes that are to be exchanged for either gifts or feelings. I am not saying you shouldn’t be a considerate lover, but things do not end with male ejaculation. I do not know who spread this belief, but women need to reclaim their sexual practices for their own benefit and remove this awful idea of gift exchange from their orgasm and critically examine the way we interact when the lights go down and the clothes come off. I think this is the new barrier. The uncontested sexual mores of hook-up culture and the social environment we are bringing our girls into.
** Excuse me while I get off my soapbox**
The best part of the night however was not the reading or exposing my mother to erotic literature; it was the train ride home on the long island railroad. Oh did I forget to say that m mom came with me? Silly me. My mom came with me to an erotic reading. She grew up in a different time in a different culture, but she has a little bit of the voyeur bug in her. I do too, but I also stick my toe in from time to time (ok, sometimes I just go skinny dipping, but you get the metaphor, I don’t need to kill it). We got little bottles of wine and boarded our train home. We talked about the readers, we talked about men, and we talked about sex. She still is trying to come to terms with the fact that heterosexual people would want to do anal. Bless her little heart. Imagine having this conversation with your mom, it was hilarious. I was trying to educate her and shock her at the same time. She’s such a tightly wound person that I was hoping that this entire experience would help her loosen up a little. And of course under the influence of my train station libations I probably said a little too much. I explained the joys of prostate massages to my mother. I had my mom blushing and giggling like a schoolgirl. Yes, I basically told my mom to stick a finger in my dad’s ass. What type of daughter am I? Maybe she’ll be a little happier and perhaps being more adventurous in the bedroom will make her more adventurous in the world. I wonder if she’ll try it, wait…I don’t want to know. There are some things that are still sacred.
Merry Christmas!!!
** Excuse me while I get off my soapbox**
The best part of the night however was not the reading or exposing my mother to erotic literature; it was the train ride home on the long island railroad. Oh did I forget to say that m mom came with me? Silly me. My mom came with me to an erotic reading. She grew up in a different time in a different culture, but she has a little bit of the voyeur bug in her. I do too, but I also stick my toe in from time to time (ok, sometimes I just go skinny dipping, but you get the metaphor, I don’t need to kill it). We got little bottles of wine and boarded our train home. We talked about the readers, we talked about men, and we talked about sex. She still is trying to come to terms with the fact that heterosexual people would want to do anal. Bless her little heart. Imagine having this conversation with your mom, it was hilarious. I was trying to educate her and shock her at the same time. She’s such a tightly wound person that I was hoping that this entire experience would help her loosen up a little. And of course under the influence of my train station libations I probably said a little too much. I explained the joys of prostate massages to my mother. I had my mom blushing and giggling like a schoolgirl. Yes, I basically told my mom to stick a finger in my dad’s ass. What type of daughter am I? Maybe she’ll be a little happier and perhaps being more adventurous in the bedroom will make her more adventurous in the world. I wonder if she’ll try it, wait…I don’t want to know. There are some things that are still sacred.
Merry Christmas!!!
Facelift
I updated the "look" of my blog again. I was feeling a little down and thought the black was depressing. I wanted something more subtle for all those people who stumble by. Let them get shocked, it will give me a giggle and brighten my day.
Kisses and Happy Birthday to little 8 lb 6 ounce baby Jesus, just a little infant, so cuddly, but still omnipotent.
Tuesday, December 18, 2007
One handed read
Being home for the holidays, I have no MJ outlet and my adorable boy is out in the Bahamas for Christmas through New Years so I have no one to share my naughty fantasies with. All my fantasies involve the Boy; you can insert the man of your choice…
I have this fantasy of him leaning over a really tall table, perhaps a bar, Kitchen Island, something taller than a dining room table. He’s naked standing far enough away that when he bends over the table only the top half of his torso touches and his feet are raised slightly so he’s kind of balancing on his toes, with his stomach and cock off the table. He has his legs spread and he’s face down. I make him hold himself slightly too far up so that his arms are taught and he has to work to keep himself stable in this position. I slowly rub his ass and admire him leaning over telling him how nice he looks, “does the position hurt?” He won’t say no, he will say yes, that he likes it. I’ll rub my hands up and down his back, his ass his thighs and he will start to get hard in anticipation, “oh really, you like that, you like being bent over for me, you enjoy letting me look at you like this?”
He will of course say yes, and then I’ll slap him and call him dirty. Watch his cock bounce, tell him I saw it, rub him a little than hit him again. Asking again if he likes this, being hit by me, being bent over. He will say yes again, I will make him look at me while I touch him. He will watch as I take him in squirming a little, beginning to feel uncomfortable with his exposure and the position. I will tell him to be still and then grab the crop. I will then ask him if he wants this, wants me to hit him, wants me to watch him squirm on my kitchen table. I will tell him he must count after each one, and he does, and I'm turned on by this point. I tell him how wet, how I like hitting him, like him. I hit his back, his thighs and ass. Continually asking if he wants this “Do you like turning me on? Do you enjoy me hitting you, exposing you?” I then tell him to grab the counter tighter, spread your legs more and I give him 5 quick whacks. I then move on to a paddle and hit him hard. I reach down bend over him with my hips to his ass, reach around, and tell him how I want him to fuck me, how I want him to make me come, I want him to give me an orgasm I want to come, and when I say that I slap his ass one more time then tug on his balls, I let him scooch down off the counter he pushes down the fabric on my nightie exposing one of my breasts and runs his hands gently down my skin, lightly touching me with his calloused gorgeous hands, his fingers long, delicate yet manly. He traces my nipple and I shudder, he places his mouth on it and kisses it, I don’t like my nipples sucked, you are not a child, you are not drawing milk, you are trying to turn me on. I like my nipples caressed, kissed, bitten, teased. He moves one hand lower, picks up my nightie rubs my thigh. I sit on the counter with one breast exposed, his hand on my inner thigh. I reach down and kiss him, he goes back to my nipple and I look over his back at the red marks I've caused, and as I'm looking at his back, he sticks one finger inside of me. Finding my clit with his thumb I close my eyes and lean back. Letting him do what he does, using both hands, one to hold me in place by the small of my back, every now and then needing me with his fingers. His other hand working my pussy as I watch his mouth kiss my nipples, I'm about to come and he holds me tighter not stopping, feeling my body twitch both inside and out. He then finally slows what he’s doing and kisses me on my neck then working up. He then says thank you and I kiss him.
I have this fantasy of him leaning over a really tall table, perhaps a bar, Kitchen Island, something taller than a dining room table. He’s naked standing far enough away that when he bends over the table only the top half of his torso touches and his feet are raised slightly so he’s kind of balancing on his toes, with his stomach and cock off the table. He has his legs spread and he’s face down. I make him hold himself slightly too far up so that his arms are taught and he has to work to keep himself stable in this position. I slowly rub his ass and admire him leaning over telling him how nice he looks, “does the position hurt?” He won’t say no, he will say yes, that he likes it. I’ll rub my hands up and down his back, his ass his thighs and he will start to get hard in anticipation, “oh really, you like that, you like being bent over for me, you enjoy letting me look at you like this?”
He will of course say yes, and then I’ll slap him and call him dirty. Watch his cock bounce, tell him I saw it, rub him a little than hit him again. Asking again if he likes this, being hit by me, being bent over. He will say yes again, I will make him look at me while I touch him. He will watch as I take him in squirming a little, beginning to feel uncomfortable with his exposure and the position. I will tell him to be still and then grab the crop. I will then ask him if he wants this, wants me to hit him, wants me to watch him squirm on my kitchen table. I will tell him he must count after each one, and he does, and I'm turned on by this point. I tell him how wet, how I like hitting him, like him. I hit his back, his thighs and ass. Continually asking if he wants this “Do you like turning me on? Do you enjoy me hitting you, exposing you?” I then tell him to grab the counter tighter, spread your legs more and I give him 5 quick whacks. I then move on to a paddle and hit him hard. I reach down bend over him with my hips to his ass, reach around, and tell him how I want him to fuck me, how I want him to make me come, I want him to give me an orgasm I want to come, and when I say that I slap his ass one more time then tug on his balls, I let him scooch down off the counter he pushes down the fabric on my nightie exposing one of my breasts and runs his hands gently down my skin, lightly touching me with his calloused gorgeous hands, his fingers long, delicate yet manly. He traces my nipple and I shudder, he places his mouth on it and kisses it, I don’t like my nipples sucked, you are not a child, you are not drawing milk, you are trying to turn me on. I like my nipples caressed, kissed, bitten, teased. He moves one hand lower, picks up my nightie rubs my thigh. I sit on the counter with one breast exposed, his hand on my inner thigh. I reach down and kiss him, he goes back to my nipple and I look over his back at the red marks I've caused, and as I'm looking at his back, he sticks one finger inside of me. Finding my clit with his thumb I close my eyes and lean back. Letting him do what he does, using both hands, one to hold me in place by the small of my back, every now and then needing me with his fingers. His other hand working my pussy as I watch his mouth kiss my nipples, I'm about to come and he holds me tighter not stopping, feeling my body twitch both inside and out. He then finally slows what he’s doing and kisses me on my neck then working up. He then says thank you and I kiss him.
The feminine industrial complex.
Who controls images of feminine? As I sit and primp and tweeze and pluck, I wonder, what power elite am I bowing down to? Yes, all these habits and feminine rituals started because of a patriarchal society and its views on women. But come on, women had to go along to make them work. Some woman had to decide that wearing heels was really “de rigueur”. How do female trends spread without female participation?
I was cleaning out my drawers, giving myself something to do when MJ was staying way past his time. I like my weekends, I enjoy my “me time”. There are times you just want to enjoy the quiet, and he never understands that. So here I was, wishing he would leave so I could organize my drawers,
I don’t like having idle hands and I get satisfaction by regimented lines of jewelry separated into type, size and of course quality. I love to empty a drawer enjoying the memories of the things I’m puling out from it. I think it goes back to when I was a child and I would get to hear the stories of all the things my mother could take out of her drawers. They had some enchanted quality to them of femaleness to come. Things that I desperately wanted to understand. Backs of earrings with no mates, a ticket stub from a movie I was too young to go to. Her bronze hand mirror with the upholstered back that I desperately wished had a genie in it. Even an old battery or an empty film case seemed so adult, they were totems of a world I didn’t yet have access to. Pink satin underwear, high heels, perfume samples, small scented soaps and discarded makeup all seemed to hold stories, and a glimpse into the secret society that I would one day be a part of. I loved those days and I love to organize my drawers. Maybe this is also why I like to snoop in people’s medicine cabinets, who knows.
But back to the story, I’m trying to enjoy going through one of my drawers. Pulling out ribbons and ticket stubs, sunglass cases and various other discarded items, MJ asking me what everything was trying to make conversation. Then I pulled out something that looked like the top to a man’s electric razor. I had a little epilator phase.
My friend Long Island had one when we were in college. She liked cable knit sweaters, preppy patterns and going on mother daughter vacations with her stylish and well-educated mom. They vacations in St Bart’s, I was overwhelmed she seemed knowledgeable and worldly. She mentioned how she had one and that it worked like a dream! Didn’t hurt at all and the bikini line looked great! I was taken in. For those who don’t know, this crazy torture device literally PULLS OUT each individual hair, ONE BY ONE. I think gitmo doesn’t even use devices like this, water boarding yes, epilators no. All it did for my bikini line was give me awful little red bums, I would bleed through underwear and it was so bad that bumpy that no one would want to touch me even if I had the courage to show them my business. But of course I let this go on for months, claiming that, oh yes, it worked SO much better.
So he asked what the epilator was.
I explained, his response was:
“You know you don’t need to do those sort of things for me.”
And I had two reactions that I would like to share.
1- What? You think I do this FOR YOU?!? Are you kidding me, don’t shine yourself sweetheart. See below reason why I was so miffed.
2- I do this to make other women jealous, fuck what you think. Women preen for each other. I like to look good because it makes me feel good, looking so dam good. There’s a fast food commercial where the plain girl is envied by the model looking girl because she has some sort of sandwich. Well that feeling feels good, and that’s why women spend hours on their makeup and fortunes on their clothes. Whatever that item or product is, feeling special and envied every now and gain feels good. This could be a simple accomplishment that just makes you happy. I like it, sue me. And its not because guys say that women should have shaved pussies, its because other women do it! Women like each other, sisterhood and all that. You change your style because you see something or some other female who inspired you. I love pin-up culture, so recently I have been doing the red lips more. You do what fits you, but you get your ideas from other women.
I like admiring a woman who can pull something off, I think its cool. You can wear a gold backless dress and look stellar doing it, I will ooh and aah and wish I could pull it off. My boobs are too big and I HATE being braless (the only time you will catch me braless is in the shower or I guess with a man). I epilate because I want to look just as good in that bikini as you do, and if that means ripping out my vag hairs, hell I will at least try it. Don’t get me wrong; I would never be one of those ladies who traipse around in anything just because it’s in fashion. I still like things to flatter me; I’ll find the one that works well on me. I hate those bikini bottoms that show too much ass, and I will never be caught in a string bikini because where will my boobs go?
But the gist is, I’m doing because of the watchful eyes and policing agents that are other women and their opinions. Now I'm not saying this is better heaven forbid, no but its not the men I care about. It’s the women and their thoughts and comments. The feminine Gestapo is not men, and please, stops kidding yourself, its other women. We are each other’s worse critic and best allies. I will be the woman who in my old age wears wigs to cover my thinning hair, gets weekly manicures, and dons every bangle on one wrist so they clink and clang. I will do this not for men, by this time you will have died (we do live longer) my body will be wrinkled and old. I will have arthritis and liver spots, but I will still look stylish. I would rather be a member of the feminine police force than be a victim of it.
Wednesday, December 12, 2007
How am i ever to land a man?
I'm in florida right now visiting my grandma. Surrounded by the land of the early bird special, the strip mall and chain restaurant I realized something about myself and about my family. We have different ideas of my future, and more importantly my future spouse. My grandma might claim she's hip [her way of excusing her sometimes distasteful comments] and modern [allowing her to use disparaging language] but deep down her 40s upbringing shows through.
My Grandmother prepared for my arrival like any grandma would, she started cooking 5 days before my brother and I arrived, but it was FRESH!
My grandma is what you would call "opinionated", always one to speak her mind even when its not wanted, appreciated or correct. She will tell you stories of "Bush; that crook", my uncle that "lunatic shit head", my father "the putz" etc. She loves my family, but she also loves to talk about everyone and tell you about it. I'm one of her favorite topics. Her only female grandchild, I am both her shining joy and her absolute shame. I am single, in my mid twenties [way too close to thirty for her book] and getting advanced degrees. One brings her extreme joy, the other extreme worry. She has no idea what I do or what I study [something in between social work and psychology in her mind] and every conversation we have always ends [because i hang up at this point] with her asking me if I've met someone.
She wants me to be Barbie, well educated, able to fly a plane, but settling for stewardess so I can get married and give her grandchildren. Granddaughter Barbie does not have short hair, and when she does, she is called a Dyke. So right now I have short hair. Its all bang, and i like it, but i have no interest to hear about why i cant land a man because of my hair.
so to fuck with her [what else would I do, I'm incorrigible] and also play into her issues i wore a wig down to see her. I love to play dress up. Its one of my fetishes. i own 4 wigs, many costumes, too much lingerie [that goes unused mind you] and enough make up to fill two drawers. and do not even try to count my accessories or my shoes. i have a problem, and that problem is that i dont have a "style" i have avatars. i can be goth, grunge, virginal, slutty, cheescake, modern, mod, hippie, etc you name it, i have something in my closet that will work with it.
so as we're driving from the airport back to her "villa" in her 50+ development she keeps on singing the praises of my beautiful long hair, how great the dye job is, how i should never change it and how the men must love it [always back to the men] she goes on and on about how gorgeous it is, and of course i keep it up for a little bit while my little brother is laughing in the backseat [also trying not to yak since my grandma every 5 min or so would just jerk the wheel hard to the right for no reason at all, "the car was driving to the left" she states] so finally i cant hold it in any longer, i pick the bangs up and show her the seam, where the wig hits my scalp. She cant believe it, etc etc. She lectures me on how wigs ruin your natural hair, how i should grow it like that length anyway and still talks about how fantastic it looks. i then tell her i have more than one wig, i have 4 and one of them happens to be pink.
"pink?!?" how will you ever land a man with pink hair? what type of man would like a woman who has pink hair?!?!
Ok, now I'm stumped. This is something I never thought would be a negative to any man i was courting. When did pink hair and wig wearing equal such match.com binaries like, "smoker", "divorced", political leanings and religious views? I dont want a man who cant handle me in pink hair and i never thought that would be an issue, i guess that shows the difference in the generations, or something deep and meaningful like that. I dress to make myself happy, and of course to appease the policing agent that is other women and their unhealthy ideals. In her generation it was about finding a husband so you can move out of your father's house and start having babies. I am not a cow nor do I need a dowry. And I am going to wear my wig until I'm a blue haired lady and live in my own 50+ community, and I'm sure I will be the most popular among the old men ;)
My Grandmother prepared for my arrival like any grandma would, she started cooking 5 days before my brother and I arrived, but it was FRESH!
My grandma is what you would call "opinionated", always one to speak her mind even when its not wanted, appreciated or correct. She will tell you stories of "Bush; that crook", my uncle that "lunatic shit head", my father "the putz" etc. She loves my family, but she also loves to talk about everyone and tell you about it. I'm one of her favorite topics. Her only female grandchild, I am both her shining joy and her absolute shame. I am single, in my mid twenties [way too close to thirty for her book] and getting advanced degrees. One brings her extreme joy, the other extreme worry. She has no idea what I do or what I study [something in between social work and psychology in her mind] and every conversation we have always ends [because i hang up at this point] with her asking me if I've met someone.
She wants me to be Barbie, well educated, able to fly a plane, but settling for stewardess so I can get married and give her grandchildren. Granddaughter Barbie does not have short hair, and when she does, she is called a Dyke. So right now I have short hair. Its all bang, and i like it, but i have no interest to hear about why i cant land a man because of my hair.
so to fuck with her [what else would I do, I'm incorrigible] and also play into her issues i wore a wig down to see her. I love to play dress up. Its one of my fetishes. i own 4 wigs, many costumes, too much lingerie [that goes unused mind you] and enough make up to fill two drawers. and do not even try to count my accessories or my shoes. i have a problem, and that problem is that i dont have a "style" i have avatars. i can be goth, grunge, virginal, slutty, cheescake, modern, mod, hippie, etc you name it, i have something in my closet that will work with it.
so as we're driving from the airport back to her "villa" in her 50+ development she keeps on singing the praises of my beautiful long hair, how great the dye job is, how i should never change it and how the men must love it [always back to the men] she goes on and on about how gorgeous it is, and of course i keep it up for a little bit while my little brother is laughing in the backseat [also trying not to yak since my grandma every 5 min or so would just jerk the wheel hard to the right for no reason at all, "the car was driving to the left" she states] so finally i cant hold it in any longer, i pick the bangs up and show her the seam, where the wig hits my scalp. She cant believe it, etc etc. She lectures me on how wigs ruin your natural hair, how i should grow it like that length anyway and still talks about how fantastic it looks. i then tell her i have more than one wig, i have 4 and one of them happens to be pink.
"pink?!?" how will you ever land a man with pink hair? what type of man would like a woman who has pink hair?!?!
Ok, now I'm stumped. This is something I never thought would be a negative to any man i was courting. When did pink hair and wig wearing equal such match.com binaries like, "smoker", "divorced", political leanings and religious views? I dont want a man who cant handle me in pink hair and i never thought that would be an issue, i guess that shows the difference in the generations, or something deep and meaningful like that. I dress to make myself happy, and of course to appease the policing agent that is other women and their unhealthy ideals. In her generation it was about finding a husband so you can move out of your father's house and start having babies. I am not a cow nor do I need a dowry. And I am going to wear my wig until I'm a blue haired lady and live in my own 50+ community, and I'm sure I will be the most popular among the old men ;)
Thursday, December 6, 2007
Collaring
15”.
TB sent me his neck measurements. 15” a finite number an actual and precise amount. 15” of leather that I am going to create in my image and lace around his neck. 15” of leather that will define our relationship. 15” has never turned me on more than it did today.
It got me thinking what exactly do I want to see in a collar that I put on him. How does my image of The Boy in a collar look, and why is this and can I get this made?
I’m not that into the accoutrements of the goth/bdsm subculture that relies on tons of black and vinyl and studs etc. I want something that has more evocative power something that says dominance and ownership in a way that I find alluring and sexy. This is a collar for my sexual stimulation, I want it to reflect that. My collar is something that will wear with time; I want something that wears gracefully with use, like your favorite belt. I want something that smells like a tannery and evokes images of hard working tanned farmhands not dungeons and the possible smell of mold. Something that represents what wearing a collar means to me. I want this collar to represent my romantic cultural imaginary, not the one that has been deemed appropriate by Goth teens and a subculture that I am still intimidated by and not really ready to belong to. Not to say that’s wrong, that’s just not how I roll. I don’t want him in studs and skulls all fluffed out like a rapper’s pit-bull. I want this collar to represent a sense of ownership that also doesn’t reference teen angst, punk music and its creation: Avril Lavigne.
My ideas of collars involve ownership; I give my dog a collar so he is visibly marked as mine. He has tags that say my name and phone number {he is also the cutest thing on 4 legs, just a little side note}. It’s a way to prove he’s mine if lost. The collar is a form of marking where I’ve been and what I own. A black leather mass-produced collar just doesn’t do it for me. My fantasies of ownership lean to images of branded cows and masculine cowboys. My mind doesn’t go to Goths and dungeons, European fetishes or Victorian era prudery. My mind goes to sun kissed farm hands that smell like sweat and leather. Warm naked bodies slightly red from back breaking physical labor and too much exposure to heat and sun. I think Marlboro man and Wyoming ranches; I want to tame the wild, not chain the undisciplined schoolboy. I want him to be able to smell the leather and know that its there, feel the weight and understand the consequences. My collar is my brand.
The collar I plan on placing on the boy is personal. It gets worn with use and time becoming darker and more nuanced with the oils of his skin and continued use. It becomes darker suede, slick where it used to be soft. It’s a dark oxblood or light tan suede against a black background. It wears with age and becomes more dignified like the strap of my Louis Vuitton bag. It has presence in itself and represents an entire different set of cultural meanings; my collar sits proudly on his neck like a fine coach bag aging gracefully with time. My collar is an aesthetic investment, not the means to a dominant end. My collar is metal and leather and permanent, it’s also branded. Branded like the hide of a cow, branded with my claim on this boy, branded with the word “MINE”. When I run my hand over the recessed lettering feeling along like Braille this brand will mark what I control. This aggressive masculine man smelling like tanned leather and warmth will put this on for me and let me look and admire gaze at what’s mine. Fuck the masculine gaze, this gaze is 100% made in a woman’s image.
When I clasp that buckle tightly over those 15” and it jingles softly he is reminded that he is branded and belongs to me. He is my masculine submissive, my wild bull branded with the words MINE (and perhaps initials, I haven’t decided that yet, maybe on the inside?).
I’ve been looking into creating this collar and have come to the conclusion that I will need to combine the aesthetics of a dog collar with the durability and size of a traditional human collar. I am working on how to get this done now…
TB sent me his neck measurements. 15” a finite number an actual and precise amount. 15” of leather that I am going to create in my image and lace around his neck. 15” of leather that will define our relationship. 15” has never turned me on more than it did today.
It got me thinking what exactly do I want to see in a collar that I put on him. How does my image of The Boy in a collar look, and why is this and can I get this made?
I’m not that into the accoutrements of the goth/bdsm subculture that relies on tons of black and vinyl and studs etc. I want something that has more evocative power something that says dominance and ownership in a way that I find alluring and sexy. This is a collar for my sexual stimulation, I want it to reflect that. My collar is something that will wear with time; I want something that wears gracefully with use, like your favorite belt. I want something that smells like a tannery and evokes images of hard working tanned farmhands not dungeons and the possible smell of mold. Something that represents what wearing a collar means to me. I want this collar to represent my romantic cultural imaginary, not the one that has been deemed appropriate by Goth teens and a subculture that I am still intimidated by and not really ready to belong to. Not to say that’s wrong, that’s just not how I roll. I don’t want him in studs and skulls all fluffed out like a rapper’s pit-bull. I want this collar to represent a sense of ownership that also doesn’t reference teen angst, punk music and its creation: Avril Lavigne.
My ideas of collars involve ownership; I give my dog a collar so he is visibly marked as mine. He has tags that say my name and phone number {he is also the cutest thing on 4 legs, just a little side note}. It’s a way to prove he’s mine if lost. The collar is a form of marking where I’ve been and what I own. A black leather mass-produced collar just doesn’t do it for me. My fantasies of ownership lean to images of branded cows and masculine cowboys. My mind doesn’t go to Goths and dungeons, European fetishes or Victorian era prudery. My mind goes to sun kissed farm hands that smell like sweat and leather. Warm naked bodies slightly red from back breaking physical labor and too much exposure to heat and sun. I think Marlboro man and Wyoming ranches; I want to tame the wild, not chain the undisciplined schoolboy. I want him to be able to smell the leather and know that its there, feel the weight and understand the consequences. My collar is my brand.
The collar I plan on placing on the boy is personal. It gets worn with use and time becoming darker and more nuanced with the oils of his skin and continued use. It becomes darker suede, slick where it used to be soft. It’s a dark oxblood or light tan suede against a black background. It wears with age and becomes more dignified like the strap of my Louis Vuitton bag. It has presence in itself and represents an entire different set of cultural meanings; my collar sits proudly on his neck like a fine coach bag aging gracefully with time. My collar is an aesthetic investment, not the means to a dominant end. My collar is metal and leather and permanent, it’s also branded. Branded like the hide of a cow, branded with my claim on this boy, branded with the word “MINE”. When I run my hand over the recessed lettering feeling along like Braille this brand will mark what I control. This aggressive masculine man smelling like tanned leather and warmth will put this on for me and let me look and admire gaze at what’s mine. Fuck the masculine gaze, this gaze is 100% made in a woman’s image.
When I clasp that buckle tightly over those 15” and it jingles softly he is reminded that he is branded and belongs to me. He is my masculine submissive, my wild bull branded with the words MINE (and perhaps initials, I haven’t decided that yet, maybe on the inside?).
I’ve been looking into creating this collar and have come to the conclusion that I will need to combine the aesthetics of a dog collar with the durability and size of a traditional human collar. I am working on how to get this done now…
Monday, December 3, 2007
I just want to see you smile
I’ve been purposefully silent recently on the goings on with “the boy” and me. I didn’t want to jinx anything, also I don’t know if there is anything to jinx. Like always its 3 steps fwd 27,000 steps back. I haven’t spoken to him in over a week, actually one week two days. I waffle between this is good for me to love him to I’m wasting my time and putting myself through heartache. But for some reason we work, although he has the ability to make me hurt (emotionally not physically). I get all needy and self-conscious when I don't hear from him regularly, and he never seems to have his shit together, oh and lives two time zones away. Well besides all those things.
But through him, I am figuring out a lot of things, especially what I am looking for in a long-term relationship. There was a line in “Las Vegas” from last week that really struck me, I know I can’t believe I’m quoting a TV show that stars Tom Selleck, but cut me some slack. This woman was talking about finding your mate. You just have to find the person whose greatest happiness is watching you be happy [so simple, but so difficult to find]. But this comes from a specific place, not in a "I want to defer all ideas, thoughts and feelings to you so you can control the outcome, its more like let’s meet in the middle and appreciate what we bring to the table, no matter how bizarre".
I am happy when you put up with my eccentricities and are interested in them, not necessarily because they are yours, but because it makes you happy that I am happy. I love animals, I love them like the abominable snowman in those Looney tunes cartoons. I must love them, and hold them and name them all George. I smother all things fluffy. It’s a warped childhood fantasy I’ve always had. You remember when [insert Disney princess here] sings her trademark song in some sort of [forest, ocean, jungle, etc] and [insert cute doe eyed animals] come up to her and accompany her? That has always been my dream. Yet since this is the real world and not an animated fairy tale, wild animals do not so readily come to me, so I have to hunt them down or purchase them from pet stores. Which I did recently, I caught a baby mole. Mind you, I was with my dog and he had zero predatory instinct and actually was looking at me like I was insane. But I called “the boy” at work, and even though he was busy, he let me yammer on about this little mole [that actually looked like cartoon moles!!!]
The mole, plus the conversation made my day. I hope he knows how much that meant to me.
Oh yea, and we also had some steamy late night phone sex, that was great too ;)
Saturday, December 1, 2007
Made in her image
I just purchased “The Secret” on DVD for my mother for the holidays. I wonder; how am I related to this woman? She asked for it, so I obliged, mind you she already has the book, the audio book and now the DVD [over consumption at its best] don’t get me wrong, I love my mother. I am fiercely loyal to her and protective over her, but I seriously wonder how she spawned a child like me and if she regrets some of the decisions I have made and secretly wishes that I was different, a child she could claim, a child built in her image.
She’s had a hard life and she deserves happiness that is true. But she’s not going to find it in “the secret”. Of course I made the mistake of using this request to push her. On 1- why she couldn’t go on Amazon herself and buy it and 2- why does she need ANOTHER copy of this piece of shit? [I’m not going to even go into what the secret claims, because then I might just make my head explode with unfounded self-help nonsense] Whenever we talk about things, I always try to push her to do something, to be able to do things for herself. No she doesn’t need my father to go on the internet, yes the first few times will be challenging, but after awhile she should be able to handle it and do it faster, and won’t she feel more accomplished and satisfied if she can do it herself?
I love her, I do, but it’s hard sometimes. She wants more from her life but she is so desperately afraid of trying anything new that forces her to push herself that I always seem to get into this same fight with her.
I am independent and an aggressive go-getter. I purposefully put myself in uncomfortable situations to see if I can get out of them and learn from them. She does not; she’s slightly agoraphobic and looks towards cosmetic surgery, social acceptance, and mainstream commercialization for validation. While I do too at some points in my life, it always bothers me and while I acquiesce, I do it begrudgingly.
Example: I was born with a genetic disorder; I am missing some growth plates. One of my toes never grew, so all through adolescence I had this stumpy 4th toe that sat on the top of my foot. I was brutally protective about it while at the same time ashamed of it. It made me who I was and I didn’t want it changed. Whenever I went to the doctor my mother would always prod them about the possibility of corrective surgery and if it would have long term affects on my posture, or my development. It never would. It was just a little stumpy toe. Because of her pressure I had cosmetic surgery to fix it that required me to put two metal screws in my bones, break the bone in the middle and every day turn the device a quarter of a turn to grow the bone in the middle. The result, I can wear gorgeous heels and sandals and have no visible deformity. However, whenever people ask, I say that it was not a cosmetic procedure and that it was affecting my walk, my gait and my back alignment. This bothers me to no end. Why couldn’t she be happy with my love/hate relationship with my little toe? I know she just wanted the best, but her insistence on lies and persistence on the surgery will always bother me.
In her mind, I would have gone to college in state, gone to law school right after [a perfectly legitimate career choice] close to home of course, maybe even where my father went, and then moved a few towns over found some sort of husband and popped out 2 grandkids by now all with some low-level law career that allowed me to stay home during my kid’s first 5 years. [She has mentioned this to me, how she wants me to be able to stay home from birth to kindergarten, um, how is that possible if I am supposed to be a career woman?] Perhaps me and Mr. Suburban would have gone to Europe for our honeymoon [our first time of course] been satisfied with that level of travel, moved into a split level ranch and lived happily ever after in our cul-de-sac with our S.U.V. parked in the garage and our 401(k) collecting interest.
Unfortunately that is not the daughter she created. I travel to places that require you to get vaccinations for things I have only heard of on the Oregon Trail. I prefer spreading my love around and traveling all over this great continent to get quality ass which she never understands either and always yells at me to “keep my butt home already”. She wishes I dropped out of grad school for a more “legitimate” job that she can understand and brag about. But I am not that child. I prefer to walk the line of socially acceptable and weirdo. I’m gregarious to her social ineptitude and she never gets my sarcastic sense of humor and always thinks I am making fun of her or putting her down. I try, I really do to try to curb myself around her but it’s hard. I don’t understand her insistence of pleasing everyone. She’s leery of all people and trusts no one, yet always puts herself out there for people in this incredibly vulnerable ways that’s slightly socially awkward so of course it doesn’t go her way. Its just a weird position, to love your mother, worry about her, be sympathetic about her shortcomings, and try to help when she obviously doesn’t want to hear it from you.
She’s not going to find it in the secret though; she’s going to have to find it in herself. I know she wants more, but she needs to figure that it’s not going to come from anybody else except herself and start changing. My father and I are incredibly supportive of her, but she just looks at us with distrust. I don’t know how to handle this, sometimes its just a hard lesson and a hard smack in the face when you realize your parents have faults too and that there’s nothing you can do, or that they don’t want your two cents.
And yes, I did buy her the secret…and a part of me hopes it does work.
She’s had a hard life and she deserves happiness that is true. But she’s not going to find it in “the secret”. Of course I made the mistake of using this request to push her. On 1- why she couldn’t go on Amazon herself and buy it and 2- why does she need ANOTHER copy of this piece of shit? [I’m not going to even go into what the secret claims, because then I might just make my head explode with unfounded self-help nonsense] Whenever we talk about things, I always try to push her to do something, to be able to do things for herself. No she doesn’t need my father to go on the internet, yes the first few times will be challenging, but after awhile she should be able to handle it and do it faster, and won’t she feel more accomplished and satisfied if she can do it herself?
I love her, I do, but it’s hard sometimes. She wants more from her life but she is so desperately afraid of trying anything new that forces her to push herself that I always seem to get into this same fight with her.
I am independent and an aggressive go-getter. I purposefully put myself in uncomfortable situations to see if I can get out of them and learn from them. She does not; she’s slightly agoraphobic and looks towards cosmetic surgery, social acceptance, and mainstream commercialization for validation. While I do too at some points in my life, it always bothers me and while I acquiesce, I do it begrudgingly.
Example: I was born with a genetic disorder; I am missing some growth plates. One of my toes never grew, so all through adolescence I had this stumpy 4th toe that sat on the top of my foot. I was brutally protective about it while at the same time ashamed of it. It made me who I was and I didn’t want it changed. Whenever I went to the doctor my mother would always prod them about the possibility of corrective surgery and if it would have long term affects on my posture, or my development. It never would. It was just a little stumpy toe. Because of her pressure I had cosmetic surgery to fix it that required me to put two metal screws in my bones, break the bone in the middle and every day turn the device a quarter of a turn to grow the bone in the middle. The result, I can wear gorgeous heels and sandals and have no visible deformity. However, whenever people ask, I say that it was not a cosmetic procedure and that it was affecting my walk, my gait and my back alignment. This bothers me to no end. Why couldn’t she be happy with my love/hate relationship with my little toe? I know she just wanted the best, but her insistence on lies and persistence on the surgery will always bother me.
In her mind, I would have gone to college in state, gone to law school right after [a perfectly legitimate career choice] close to home of course, maybe even where my father went, and then moved a few towns over found some sort of husband and popped out 2 grandkids by now all with some low-level law career that allowed me to stay home during my kid’s first 5 years. [She has mentioned this to me, how she wants me to be able to stay home from birth to kindergarten, um, how is that possible if I am supposed to be a career woman?] Perhaps me and Mr. Suburban would have gone to Europe for our honeymoon [our first time of course] been satisfied with that level of travel, moved into a split level ranch and lived happily ever after in our cul-de-sac with our S.U.V. parked in the garage and our 401(k) collecting interest.
Unfortunately that is not the daughter she created. I travel to places that require you to get vaccinations for things I have only heard of on the Oregon Trail. I prefer spreading my love around and traveling all over this great continent to get quality ass which she never understands either and always yells at me to “keep my butt home already”. She wishes I dropped out of grad school for a more “legitimate” job that she can understand and brag about. But I am not that child. I prefer to walk the line of socially acceptable and weirdo. I’m gregarious to her social ineptitude and she never gets my sarcastic sense of humor and always thinks I am making fun of her or putting her down. I try, I really do to try to curb myself around her but it’s hard. I don’t understand her insistence of pleasing everyone. She’s leery of all people and trusts no one, yet always puts herself out there for people in this incredibly vulnerable ways that’s slightly socially awkward so of course it doesn’t go her way. Its just a weird position, to love your mother, worry about her, be sympathetic about her shortcomings, and try to help when she obviously doesn’t want to hear it from you.
She’s not going to find it in the secret though; she’s going to have to find it in herself. I know she wants more, but she needs to figure that it’s not going to come from anybody else except herself and start changing. My father and I are incredibly supportive of her, but she just looks at us with distrust. I don’t know how to handle this, sometimes its just a hard lesson and a hard smack in the face when you realize your parents have faults too and that there’s nothing you can do, or that they don’t want your two cents.
And yes, I did buy her the secret…and a part of me hopes it does work.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)