Fatism

Fatism… Fatist… I must confess being a little shallow, to harboring certain secret prejudices.  I try to couch it in terms of being healthy.  I tell myself that it is not about beauty, it is about being healthy, avoiding the risk of diabetes and heart disease, cholesterol but secretly, deep, deep down… I clearly use body mass as one of my measures for beauty, attractiveness, sexiness. 

I do not snub people that are big or people that are obese.  I know they are valuable and valid and have tons and tons of very cool stuff to contribute to this world.  Body size does not influence my liking or friendship.  On a very intellectual and political level I can even acknowledge that they are beautiful and that they can be very sexually attractive to others, though I am painfully aware that I am not one of them.  My standards of beauty are influenced by my culture, the media and my upbringing.

All my childhood, my slender mother was on one kind of diet or another.  Her dedication to weight loss was endless and in many ways a passive-aggressive stab at my father.  He was always fat… a big strong man with broad shoulders and massive arms and a great round and surprisingly firm beer belly.  Even now as age slowly shrinks him down and down… that belly remains, unchanged, even though the shoulders and arms and legs grow frail.  Hugging him was and is a process of curling around that solid dome of flesh.  Strangely oblivious to my mother, he always seemed to take pride in his fatness, laughed his big, charismatic laugh and caressed that monument to his larger than life appetites.   

I took after my mom.  I was stick skinny as a kid.  Even as a young woman, I was angular, my curves on the subtle rather than the generous side.  But the foundation was from my father’s side of the family, broad shoulders, bigger bones.  I sometimes say I am the descendant of the women that pulled the plows.   The framework was superb and as I matured, the pounds settled in all the right places.  I weighed 122 pounds when I got married to my first husband at 20.  My mother could not resist informing me that she weighed a 122 pounds the day before I was born. 

And the men in my life have reinforced this.  First boyfriend would wax rhapsodically about my thighs… first husband came from a family where his abusive father would openly chastise his mother about being fat in front of the kids and he did little to hide his disappointment as I added a pound here and there as I had our children.  And I must admit I shared his thinking, that while veiled under politically correct verbage of health, my personal value and ego were tangled up with my shape.

I do know it is heartbreaking to have friends who are so big that they cannot pick things up from the floor or have difficulty walking or getting in and out of cars.  I hate that my father’s knees hurt him all the time from lugging around that medicine ball of a gut for sixty years.  

Then as that first marriage began to decay and the years passed by the pounds began to accumulate.  Suddenly I was 135… and looking back… I was still thin, but to husband number one, not thin enough.  And when he found a new woman to love, one of the many cruel and thoughtless things he said to me was that she wasn’t fat.  Lol… that was a good 25 pounds ago. 

Second husband and now Master never once has spoken to me about my weight.  But when I lost weight… dropping 35 pounds going from 185 to 150… he did not hide his delight.  And he has become a little more open about his appreciation for the “slimmer” female form.  He will make small regretful statements about some random woman’s size detracting from her attractiveness, words like “too bad about her ass”.  And I will glance and wonder if my ass is that big and if it was, would he keep his judgment to himself? 

150 pounds

And yet I am my harshest critic.  I have gained back 10 pounds.  My self-worth is entangled with how fat I am.  Master must tread lightly, be very careful about how he talks about my figure or I will melt down in panicky flurries of “am I fat????”  “Does this make me look fat?”  “Is she bigger than me?”  I find these little storms of insecurity pathetic and yet I have difficulty controlling them.

 160 pounds

And this last Friday, we went to a party for my daughter-in-law at my ex-husband’s house.  While we are not exactly friends, we are civil, we have a grudging respect for each other.  I know the reasons we split up cannot all be laid upon one doorstep or the other.  I also know it did not really have anything to do with my relative fatness or lack there-of but the scars from those words so many years ago are still on my heart.  He lives with the same lady he left me for so many years ago.  She is smart, pretty, fun and oh so much fatter than me now.  I could not help but glance at him out the corner of my eye with a certain smug delight.  I hope he has managed do deal with his fatism better than me.

I could not help but comment to Master in the car on the ride home the nasty, judgmental words about how happy I was that I was now finally the thinner one.  And as I heard those words, I felt a small pang of shame that I still keep that prejudice inside my heart and that it makes these ten pounds scare the shit out of me. 

Monsters of the Night?

It started out just like any day.  There was nothing to suggest that it would end so spectacularly.

Work was manageable.  The only thing that stood out was I was sitting at a computer in the library during out weekly staff meeting and idly playing a mindless game and our principal caught me and asked me if I had any opinions about what was being discussed, clearly hoping to catch me not paying attention and wanting to embarrass me in front of everyone.  I did not look up from the game.  I just said clearly, “We aren’t discussing anything at the moment.  Kaya and Dennis had just finished talking about the assembly.  I don’t have an opinion about that.  Then Dennis asked you if you had any items for the agenda.”  Did not miss a beat on the game.  Did not look up from the computer screen.  Gotta love having what is the auditory equivalent of a photographic memory.  Did not add that by morning I would most likely not remember because I did not care.

Home was quiet… A walk in the cool night air…  Left overs for dinner…  NCI reruns and then the Daily Show… eyes starting to droop by the Colbert Report… When I reached for my blanket and Master gave me a sharp look and said, “OH, HUH UH!”  and sharply pointed me toward my required bedtime routine.  So off I trundled to get my vitamins and brush my teeth.  All normal, all expected, the same things that happen nearly every night.

I stood looking at the mirror with my electric toothbrush buzzing away in my mouth.  He saunters in and stands behind me and his sharp brown eyes meet my sleepy blue ones.  I idly comment around the tooth brush about my out of control mop of curly blond ringlets… “bzzz ver’ bzz ‘qirrely hair t’day bzzz spit bzzzz”.  He smiles possessively and gathers it up into his fist, carefully pulling every lock into an improvised pony tail and as I still focus on brushing each tooth exactly to his strict requirements he begins to tip me backwards… and then leans down and bites me on the corner of my neck.  A deep body encompassing rush of heat, tingles, pain and something more, something primal makes me groan. 

Over and over he bites me, neck shoulders, back… more than once I lose my balance and he has to catch me, using my hair to lift me back to my feet.  And strangely, I do not stop brushing my teeth.  When I finally spit and put away my toothbrush, (only once knocking everything off the shelf it goes on with fumbly hands).  I comment how bizarre that was, being gnawed upon while brushing my teeth. 

But he did not released his grip upon my hair and he used it as a leash to push and steer me down to bed.  He did not let me go as I undressed and I do remember carefully slipping my fingers over his… reaching up under my top and holding the hair so he could release me and I could pull off my shirt and then returning my hair to his control.

He pushed me face down onto the bed and I could feel him reach to the jumbled up pile of implements kept within reach of where I sleep.  The strap cracked down on my ass and I couldn’t help but buck against his grip.  But he just shoved my face down harder against the bed and once again leaned down and began to slowly deliberately bite me.  After that things got blurry… biting… spanking… biting and spanking at the same time… him straddling my back holding me down with his hand still fisted in my hair.. his teeth in my shoulder, the strap being used like he is spurring on a galloping horse…  then the strap being dropped, my head lifted up and a nipple captured, cruelly pinched and yanked in the opposite direction of my hair… it was too much to bear…

I remember panicking and wildly struggling and being pushed down again, his weight on my back to hold me down, my arms and legs paddling, flailing…

His voice was low and loud in my ear… “Ready to play with your toys?”

“Toys… osys… oys…”

I blink and debate… he wants me to masturbate now…. Now… now… I am wildly over stimulated… awash with sensation… drowning… and yet I am not aroused… not sexually… I am already limp and panting as if I had had a dozen orgasms… but I knew it is not really a request, it was required.  I made an inarticulate gurgling sound and nod.  Only then does he let go of my hair and I attempted to crawl under the blankets.  I was sweaty, damp and now the first shivers of chill were starting to make me shake.

He snatched the blankets out of my hands and I realized he was not going to leave me alone.  He was not finished.  As I fumble with cords and angles and switch settings he leaned down and sank his teeth into one nipple and pinched and pulled the other.  Over and over as I tensed and trembled and shook, he ran his hands over me, pinched… grabbed… pulled… and bit.  My arms, my breasts, my belly and legs… anywhere, everywhere… the sensations rising up from my body doing battle with the orgasm, it is like the sea surging and retreating.  Every time it rose high, every time as I arched and shuddered with my pending explosion, a lance of pain forced it back.  But it was sandbags against the raging river, eventually nothing can keep it from crashing over.  And I screamed as I come.

And only then did he pull up the blankets.

I remember looking at him from the corners of my eye in the morning, not sure exactly how I felt about such a strenuous and intense bedtime intervention.  I was more than a little lost in the shock and awe. 

In many ways I know that he is reacting to my words of the weekend before, talking about needing less predictability, more control… and one wonders if this is not another “be careful what you wish for” moment.

I know the next evening as I started my bedtime routine and he followed me into the bathroom I felt a rush of panic… panic and excitement.  And when he grabbed my hair and once again propelled me down the stairs I was wondering if I could handle another night like the last.  But he just used the convenient handle of curly blond hair to throw me down on the bed and brusquely said, “You are not getting anything more than this tonight.”  And he stood and watched as I stripped and slipped between the covers.

And as I closed my eyes and drifted down I felt the bed quiver, either an imagined earthquake or an echo of a dream… and I sat straight up and yelped in fear… not the fear of monsters of the night but the fear that he was there, creeping up on me. 

Confessions

What to say... about another weekend. 

It was a a typical Friday.  An indulgence in fast food followed by a rapid surrender to sleep.  I tried to suggest we change it up... go to a movie... but apparently a 7:25 showing was "too late".  It kind of is disheartening to realize that a 7:25 movie is too late.  A sinking feeling of life not passing by, but already missed tended to make the Wendy's fries turn to mush in my mouth.  But I know that I am not allowed expectations... and I do know that we wake up early and Master works hard all day and a want for a movie on a work day is not likely to be met.

Upside... better news... the Saturday morning it was bright and clear and beautiful.  That is one of the magical things about living here in the Pacific Northwest... the staggering beauty when the sun finally peeks out from behind the clouds.  You can't help but notice it, appreciate it.  Master and I took an extra long walk, meandering through the neighborhoods, looking at houses and the sparkles of the raindrops that still hung from every branch and strand of grass.  It is a jewel encrusted world.  We walked further and further... crossing streets and neighborhoods not seen since last summers cycle rides.  At one point Master seemed to realize that he the walk had gotten longer than he had planned and he abruptly turned us around.  Mr.  Predictable dragging us back to more familiar paths, the usual agenda... next item... shower sex.  And I have to admit the thought of it did not excite me at all.  It just made me tired.  And not quite tongue in cheek, veiling a long hidden bit dissatisfaction, I muttered under my breath.  "We can just go for an extra long walk instead of sex."

The walk halted and he swung me around and stared into my face.  "What?"

Not wanting to admit the truth that lately sex has become a bit of a chore... too predictable... too hard to become aroused... the orgasms too much work for the results... I don't mind being used.  In fact I kinda like the dynamic of being used as a masturbatory device.  Him taking with no expectations that I am supposed to have an orgasm.  It is that elusive arousal and stubborn orgasm that I am becoming increasingly avoidant of pursuing.  It is too much to admit, too much to talk about.  I refuse to meet his eyes and  paste on a fake smile and mumble, "Just being silly."

But he wasn't buying it, not one bit.  "Walking is not a substitute for sex.  Walking makes sex better."

My eyes meet his briefly, pained and just a little resentful and slide away. 

His hand is in my hair, tipping my face back and he is looking at me.  "Doesn't it?"

Wordlessly I shake my head, a tiny silent negative that makes the pull of his grip sting and hurt.  "Not really."

He lets go of me and looks at me.  I look around at the amazing sparkling world and admit, "Don't feel like having sex."

He laughs and gives me a hug and laughs again.  "Pretty girl, it is okay to have some days you don't feel like having sex."

I shoot him another pained look.  "More like some weeks."  Even this is a bit of a lie... it has been longer than that. 

He takes my hand and we keep walking.  He asks me about it.  I talk about how the predictability that works for him, works against me.  That I need some level of novelty and unpredictability.  Then he asks me about what else I think would help... and I talk about wanting more control... not so much as more pain as him being directive.  And then talked about how in nearly every story I write I end up in the bathroom with the Dom, Master, Abductor, Alien having some level of control over the bathroom use.  That lately all my fantasies involve bondage, sensory deprivation, teasing and denial and anal... lots and lots of anal.  Guys lined up around the room waiting their turn kind of lots of anal.  I talk about how writing erotica, reading erotica and watching porn help trigger my libido.  I don't talk about how suppressing my libido for a week at a time, waiting for my 20 minutes of shower sex on Saturday morning does not help... that banked fires tend to go out. 

So when we got home, he turned on the computer and got some porn running... but as usual, he is the only one allowed to select the clip... but he is a little more receptive to my statements about what is working for me and what left me unimpressed.  The bondage stuff was interesting, the mechanical fucking machines intriguing... but in the end I asked for more sex and less mechanics... naked bodies doing it... I realized I like the sound of the women... but the guys... not so much... so picky... sexual responsiveness so tricky.  My hand is between my legs, rubbing teasing, trying to catch it and hold it, keep it there and not lose it. 

It irritates me that it is such a complicated deal.  I just want an automatic on switch.

But it does work... I do feel the tension and arousal and I naturally move in closer to him.  We watch for a while longer.  Then he gets up and I start to follow... and he snarls at me.  "What are you doing?"

I stutter and hesitate.  Confused... "Aren't we getting into the shower?"  Master speak for... "Time to have sex please????"  The fires within rapidly flickering and threatening to go out.

He points me back to the porn.  "I am going to take a poop."  Pop... the fire just imploded.  How fucking romantic... what wonderful fucking timing.  I turn on the porn... watch naked men with improbably large and hard penises anally fucking this girl who keeps staring at the camera as if she is trying to convince us this is real... trying and failing.  I watch and touch myself.  And the porn works... I sit there, teasing myself, edging closer and closer to the orgasm and stopping myself over and over.  Then improbably, I pull my hand away and to my chagrin... I do not stop... the orgasm is small and infuriating.  And I am still very aroused.  Perhaps more so afterward.  I keep touching myself now... trying to get back to where I was before... close but I can tell that ship has sailed.  Since menopause... orgasms come singly.

He calls me to the shower.  You know... tooth brushing is not foreplay.  And neither is spanking.  But it does seem to work for him.  He can see I am tense, even angry... and he questions me again.  I mutter that his timing was not the best.  He raises a brow and shrugs.  And then strangely... announces we are NOT going to have sex.  That we are just going to shower.  I admit that I orgasmed while he was pooping.. that I had been touching myself and taking myself up to the edge and stopping and then it sort of just happened.  He did not seem to mind.  He made some kind of comment about finding that an interesting piece of information.

But he lied about the no sex.. he soon had me bent over and was fucking my ass in much the same way the guys on the porn had been doing before.  I wondered if my expression was anything like the girl's.  Probably not.  Master makes very sparing use of lubricant and it has been months since we have wandered down (up?) this particular path.  And every time I managed to get used to a particular angle, depth or tempo... he switched it up.  I think my face was pretty squinched up and the squawks were mostly those of outrage rather than appreciation.

It is strange how the concept of anal is so exciting and the reality is so fucking painful.  And it is even more strange that as soon as he is done... I want it again.  As we were drying off I said that he had lied.  He laughed and said, "Yes, yes I did."  Then he made some comment about denial. 

I was even more aroused and begged to be allowed to go down and visit my new friend.  (Master speak for the shiny new Hitachi).  Master came down and held me and kissed me and with the mechanical assist I was able to orgasm a second time which is sort a big deal. 



 

Nicknames

I can't remember the last time I said his name aloud.  And when I do, it feels strange, like it is the name of someone else.

I call him Master and I think of him as Master… when I ask permission for something I use the word Master, when we are just talking I use goofier words, like ‘sweetheart’ or ‘lover man’.  When he calls me ‘Beautiful’ I call him ‘Handsome’.  Out in the vanilla world he is ‘Husband’ when referred to and ‘Sir’ when being spoken to.   If he is being a bastard (and he so can be), I call him ‘Bastard’ or ‘Monster’ or ‘Asshole’ or ‘Fucker’.  And I can tell from his delighted sadistic chuckle when I blurt out those words that he is pleased with the evidence that he has successfully pushed my buttons.

He calls me ‘Pretty Girl’ almost all the time, with a smattering of ‘Beautifuls’ and ‘Sweethearts’, with an occasional half hearted ‘Bitch’ now and then.  I can’t remember the last time he said my name out loud.  And if you think that ‘Pretty girl’ is all soft and smarmy, you should hear it barked from across the room when you can tell he is pissed about something.  It ain’t soft or smarmy at all then.  It makes your sphincters pucker all up.

Do you have nicknames?

I am sorry but you must have confused me with someone that cares.

I am trained to listen.  Like any mental health professional I am trained to set aside my own prejudices, to be open, to empathize.  I can sit there, totally focused, open, completely absorbed by other people’s issues.  It is a trap.  People tend to confuse empathy for agreement, for support.  I can support how someone is feeling, but at the same time totally reject, disagree, or just generally not give a fuck about what is causing that feeling.  Far too often I am in this odd position where people just assume because I sat there, focused, listening, making all those understanding, reflective statements that I somehow agree with them that I am on their side. 

 And yet, I hardly ever am all that convinced of my own rightness.  I cannot forget the rest of the world.  I hear the echo of other perspectives.  I tend see the big picture.  But I must confess, I do get fascinated by other people’s passion.  I suspect that fascination makes it look like I care as well, perhaps even agree with their issues, drama.  I suspect my interest is confused with agreement to their arguments. 

People love to come to me and tell me about their little dramas, pour out their guts to me.  I am sure they think they have found an ally.  But there is this part of me that is reserved, judgment reserved.  I wonder at anyone that is so passionate.  I wonder what it must be like to be all that sure of yourself and sure of others.

Last month I went to a local writer’s gathering.  When I asked about the absence of another, I got a long story of a disagreement.  There had been a parting of the ways.  The way it was told, it sounded like the teller believed they had banished the other.  But the little voice in my head wonders who left who.  The issues were couched in political terms like censorship and freedom and rights, but the cynic that lives in the back of my head, wonders if it was less of an issue of what was said and how it was said.  The teller does not impress me with her diplomacy or flexibility so much as her passion.

I wonder if I am in the same room as the other, the missing one, if my affect would be any less supportive, open, interested… fascinated.

And in reality, it is not my argument.  I am not sure I even really care all that much.  How much play is appropriate at a munch?  That is hardly an issue that has much influence on my life.  I know I would have some limit, some expectation.  But I am well aware and tolerant of the fact that my limit would not, could not be the same as everyone else’s and I guess I have a natural sense of consideration for other people’s sensitivities.  I see it as an issue of establishing mutually agreed upon guidelines in advance, much like negotiating play with some new and unfamiliar partner.  You can go this far, but no further. 

And when there is a public reading of erotica, is it appropriate for the owner of the establishment to set some limit on the content or is it censorship?  Is all censorship evil, just because it is censorship?  I guess I would say they get to censor anything they want… in their house.  But I am not passionate about it… I would modify my behavior to meet their rules.  I would expect the same of others who came onto my turf… my turf… I think I could find some passion there.  But I suspect I would just as passionately defend someone else’s right to set their own rules on their own turf.

And now as the argument grows to open battle between factions, I get this random message, about support and solidarity… and I cannot help but feel…

I am sorry but you must have confused me with someone that cares. 

And I am not so sure about returning to the writer’s group if it is just going to become one person’s forum for garnering support for her own political issues.

Fuck ups and Fantasies

Okay yesterday I sort of totally fucked up the cha-cha.  I tried to down load a cool new gadget.  Suffice to say it was NOT cool when I finally got it up and running.  It looked nothing like the pictures, did not do what I wanted... and erased all my past comments.  NO FUCKING WAY.  So I deleted it.  And everything went south from there.  I could not get the comments thingy to work at all.  Then I could not get past my "adult content" consent button interrupt thingy... It would pop up and I would click yes... and nothing would happen... arggghhh... I could access my home page and could create a new post and publish it... I just could not see it.  Thank god, Bonnie from MBS sent me an email with a good tip and I got most everything back the way I want.  Thank you... Thank you... Thank you.  I think my heart stopped a few times there.  I deleted all the test posts, so if you got notification about a post and it is not there... don't freak.  Things should be getting back to normal.  Thank you for your patience.

This was the post I wrote last night for this morning... so on with the show.

I am not sure if it is a good excuse, but it is a bitch to get anything done around here.  After a lazy day of naps and walks and dumb TV… (I didn’t even have to cook because I made a vat sized pot of vegetable beef soup yesterday) …I finally took on the task of putting the dishes into the dishwasher and turning it on.

I know, I know… that does not sound like a good service slave.  And the fantasy slave in my day dreams would rather have her limbs amputated rather than leave a fork unwashed even for a moment.  Hell the fantasy slave would experience spontaneous orgasms while washing and polishing said fork… from the sheer joy at doing this thing for the fantasy Master.  But then again, the fantasy Master does not live here either. 

The fantasy Master would care about such minutia as how many minutes a fork may go unwashed.  But in reality, the only expectation here is there be “a” clean fork in the drawer when he opens it and reaches in.  And this not stupid slave has made sure we have a butt ton of forks, spoons, knives, plates, bowls and other things like that.  The sink would be literally overflowing before we ran out of clean anything.

In reality, the Master around here is not very particular about clean floors or cobwebs or piles of stuff here and there.  And the fantasy slave that lives in my head kind of wishes he did, at least a little bit more.  It would make doing it all that much better… not orgasmic… but better. 

So anyway back to reality… I made myself get up off the couch and wandered into the kitchen.  And as usual, the sleeping predator lifted his head, instantly alert… the prey was on the move again.  It wasn’t many minutes before he was behind me… my hands deep in warm soapy water, and my pants around my ankles.

Amidst the myriad of blows raining down upon my ass, between squawks, I asked, “Are you spanking me because I am being a good girl and doing some work?  Or are you spanking me because I have such an awesome ass that you could not leave it alone?” 

He laughed and answered, “Well it started out for the first reason and keeps going because of the second.”  And as I shuffled back and forth from the sink to the dishwasher, hobbled by my lowered knickers, blinking and trying not to duck and weave, I mutter, “No wonder I don’t get much done around here.”