Tag Archives: thoughts

Same Dance, Different Steps

 

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The rhythm of routine is a comforting one in a world that no longer makes sense to me.

I see hate in so many places and cruelty where there once was kindess. I admit that I hade in the welcoming arms of my community. I mark, I protest, I growl with the rest of them, and then I run back to my land of misfits to dance another day.

My routines are simple, and exhausting. And I suppose, simply exhausting. I go to BaGG every week, managing to show up hours early to sit across from the stubborn asshole I love while he works and I work.. and then we dance.

We have yet to physically play, James and I. Not since he took my collar, slave ring, and pendant. I often wonder about the box they’re placed in. Is it plain, decorated. Does he take it out, along with photos and momentos, love letters and notes, and godde knows how many gifts, or does it stay locked away in some corner of his closet, another mistake he doesn’t want to look at? I don’t know. It’s eight months today, and I still don’t know.

What we do end up doing is dueling. Trading cards. An old game called Yu-Gi-Oh that he’s been into for eons, and that I enjoyed as a kid. I never played before him. I ‘built’ decks in the loosest of terms, with the childlike mindset of “Oh, this is pretty! Let’s put this with this!” and never had anyone to actually play with. Eons ago, a world ago, he tasked me with learning the game again. I did…and then the world exploded. And exploded. And exploded, and playing cards was the furthest thing from my mind.

After I was released, there was a time when playing cards was…all we ended up having. He shoved the fact that I hadn’t build a deck in my face during our breakup, and my rebuttle was to show up at the Citadel two days later with my skeleton of a deck, ready to duel. Since then, it’s been the only thing guaranteed safe to talk about. When he’s in a foul mood during a ride I bring up Yu-Gi-Oh. When he’s overly stressed and obviously needs a break from work, like he did today. When the dungeon is slow on a work night and I can seek him getting stressed. We duel.

It’s become such a lovely ritual as time has gone on. The banter has increased, to the point where there is quite a bit of sexual tension with our duels. There’s more joking, more teasing, more… comfort, and slowly, bit by bit, we have begun to feel like our old selves. He’s more approachable and less intimidating, and things like sitting in silence together have stopped feeling so uncomfortable. They are, in many ways, oddly comfortable. I know why he’s quiet some nights; I can still read his body like a book and can tell when he’s stressed, or sore, or in a mood.

That being said… the duels are all I get. I can’t touch him. I can’t snuggle him, or kneel at his feet, or go in for the big, long hugs that other can. I still am only permitted a hug goodbye most days, and I am touch starved. We spend so much damn time together that in certain ways it can be cruel smelling him, hearing him, being surrounded by him and yet being unable to reach him. There are times when he looks so damn fucking good… and I curse that he still pushes all of my fucking buttons. All of them. He always has, and I have no clue anymore what I push of him, if anything good.

Today, we dueled as always. He brought out his Blue Eyes deck, I my Lightsworn, and he destroyed me like he always does. He topped me through cards, because he could. Any progress I make he lets me do. I’m well aware of this. It’s always been that way with James. Any progress I’ve made, it’s because he’s let me. The banter, the dance, lasted until a friend mentioned that she played.

This friend is not a threat in any way. She doesn’t make me jealous, at all. She is safe, a beautiful soul who still calls James my person and is well aware at just how complicated she is. And the truth is, I love watching James duel. It’s fun sometimes when it’s not me. It wasn’t that they dueled… it’s that they interrupted the ritual that triggered some brain squirrels in my mind.

He doesn’t top me right now, in any way but the cards. That’s all I get. I don’t get swatts at BaGG. He won’t pull my hair, or bring me to my knees. I’ve forgotten, for the most part, what his lips feel like. I don’t get casual kisses or bites. He still won’t even just… poke me in the arm in a friendly way. Touch was so much a part of our love language that it was one of the main things taken away when we ended, and so I cling to the cards. I cling to the ritual of every Wednesday I get my dance with him. He will give me time, top me, and then go off to the others.

Today, that wasn’t the case. He played a few rounds with me, and then moved on to someone else. It was bound to happen. The nature of games is that you play other people. It’s a silly game; it’s fun. But… it’s our fun. It’s our thing, and for an hour I sat and watched while they played. I watched the bit of time I normally get with him tick away, and as it did I felt more and more invisible to him.

Emotions rarely have logic, and unfortunately for me my emotions are almost always written on my face. If anything, I’m sitting and writing this all out to get the kicked puppy expression I know I’m wearing to disappear. I am posessive of the few points of connection that I consider mine with him, logical or not, and I don’t think I realized how posessive until tonight. I felt.. inferior. Our friend is a better duelist than I am, with more experience. She was more of a challenge for him, and he and others commented that despite having months of practice now, she played better than I have. She lasted better.

There was a moment, hearing all of this, that I realized how easily replacable I could be. I wonder what value I still hold to him, this man that never seems to want to know his own heart. Over a silly game of cards that have been our safe-zone.

Maybe it’s the time of year; that Valentine’s Day is fast approaching, and I remain without a primary. Maybe it’s looking around and seeing other people valued by partners, and finding myself at war with my self-imposed loneliness. Maybe it’s that fear that… I’m just another background piece for him now.

None of this is logical. Time is gold to James, and more than anyone else I get his time.

Except, for when I don’t.

When the dance gets interrupted, the partners changed out, and you find yourself doubting if it was a dance at all.

It’s time for BaGG. Perhaps I will be brave and approach him for a different type of dance.

Yours, in routine

-Rene

 

Day 3

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Day 3

How do you know you are submissive or have the potential to be submissive? How do you feel when you express your submission?

How do I know that I am what I am? Honestly, that was something I asked myself for a long time, before I really understood what a submissive was. Before I knew that someone could take on that label.

When I was 17 I had my first real boyfriend. There were follies before that, including the boy that I gave my first blow job too, much childish groping, and some very bad kissing incidents (I nicknamed one of my potential suitors ‘fish lips’ at one point…), but eventually the 19 year old from U Conn stuck. He was literally a farm boy from a small town in Connecticut, as vanilla and wholesome as you get. He was also addicted to video games, specifically the Halo series and a few others. He taught me how to play some, but rather than play along I often sat and watched him play. There was an open couch to lounge in, a bean bag chair, and his favorite arm chair that he liked to sit in when he played games. Rather than sit on the couch or the bean bag chair I sat at his feet on the floor every damn time, for not other reason other reason than it felt good. No one ever prompted me to, and I have no idea why I ever thought it was a good idea. It just felt…right. As time went by I asked him to pick out my clothing. I would bring thing to him when he asked..and then when he didn’t asked. I made him breakfast without question when I spent the night and learned quickly what to make him for breakfast before asking.

Certain fetishes have developed over time. They show up with specific people, in specific circumstances. Not every person I’m involved with spanks my ass till I cry or pulls my hair, turning me into a rag doll, just like not every person I’m involved with flogs my bag or pets my head or scritches behind my ears or tucks me in at night and reads me a story… My kinks are eclectic and continually developing, but the instinct to submit has been there for a very long time. It’s a core part of who I am. It comes out, whether or not I’m trying to lock it away.

How do I know I am a submissive? The same way I know that I am an artist. Even when I can’t work, even when I don’t have time to get in the studio, it’s a need inside of me. It’s part of who I am. I have no choice.

As for how I feel when I express my submission… It varies. When it’s casual play it depends on the motivation for the play. Sometimes I need a cathartic spanking.. I want to cry, but I don’t want it associated with the person I’m closest to.. Sometimes I’m playful. I want to try new toys I’ve never felt before. Sometimes I’m feisty and bratty and goad tops into biting back. It all depends.

But submitting to my primary? To the person I belong to?

I feel at peace. I breathe better. Muscles that I never remember tensing relax. Even if it’s pain that follows my submitting.. Even if it’s his hand coming down on my chest or thighs or ass. Even if it hurts, it’s so good. It itches a scratch, sates a need that only one person can fill. Submitting makes me feel whole and cherished.. For however long there is a collar around my neck or a strong voice ordering me to present my chest or lean back so he has access to my legs, the giant weight I carry around during my everyday life is lifted. Someone else has control in those moments.. someone else calls the shots. Someone who can read my body like a book, who knows how far to push me and when to back off, who knows when I need a tender touch after several very harsh ones before I vocalize that need.

Submitting, like making art, allows me to function.. It gives me release when I have no words…

Huh. No wonder the kink world leaks into my artwork so much.. They’re both the same catharsis for me… Intriguing.

Three days done, 27 to go.

Yours,

-Rena

Training Thoughts

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Yesterday was an exercise in “distract the pixie”, where I had been so determined to get my damn work done so that I could relax afterward and not stress as much about money.

Ha. Haha. HA.

The good thing that came out of this distraction was coffee with a friend of mine. Squeeks is a switch, and one of my few friends actually really close to my own age. She’s been in the scene even longer than I have, and is actually the reason that James and I ended up close. We’ve been friends for a good while now, but she moved back down to San Jose from San Francisco after graduating from college so I don’t see her nearly as much.

She was going to an event at the kink.com Upper Floor, I was putting off driving in circles. We both had time to kill, so I collected her from the Mission and we went to go catch up.

After much cuddles and a couple spankings to make the people in the coffee shop twitch (tee hee…) she started poking me about my relationship with James. She… kinda continually whopped the two of us upside the head until one of us finally asked the other out, and as I said she’s friends with both of us, so girl gossip happens. And so I smiled, and I giggled, and I sighed a bit, and I talked about being in a healthy relationship for the first time in a long while.. and how difficult it seemed to be for me to wrap my head around the feelings that had started to come up.

We started talking about Kane, and about how much damage he actually did to me keeping me a secret for so long. As much as I loved him, as much as I always will, there is a part of me very angry at him for how ashamed he acted of me. For all that he promised.. he disappointed a lot, and I still have quite a bit of trouble actually saying that certain things were purely his fault.

Casting blame on a Dominant has always been difficult for me, from the start. When something goes wrong my mind goes to “What did I do and how can I fix it?”, which isn’t always how it should be.

“It’s because of how you were trained,” Squeeks told me as we munched on our coffee house treats. “Consciously or subconsciously, you were trained to cast the blame on yourself, when a lot of us were trained the opposite. When my primary was training me he told me, over and over, ‘If something goes wrong it’s on me, not  you. I’m your Dominant, I’m your caretaker, and I’m supposed to have control of your care and your training. If that goes awry it’s on me, not you.’ You seem to always do the opposite. You shrink like you want to disappear or like you’re about to get hit with a newspaper. It’s not something you think about, it’s just something that happens. Your mind and body automatically respond that way.. it makes me sad.”

Honestly? It makes me sad too. I’m not quite sure where that reaction came from.. whether it’s a blender effect from a few bad relationships mushed together or from back in the beginning of this journey with the Cal and girlfriend debacle.. or even more ripple effect from Kane.. But it’s there, built in.

Retraining yourself is not the easiest thing in the world.. All of us have had to do it in different ways, with different behaviors. It took me a good 22 years to look in the mirror at myself and see someone beautiful and not a bloated whale who should be a size 2 looking back. It takes some months to get into a healthy exercise routine and see working out as a good thing to be enjoyed and not a painful struggle. Routines and thought patterns, once set, are extremely hard to shake.

… Like right now.. I’ve been fighting going to work, because it’s not nearly as fun as other things I could do, but I need the money, and coming up with all of my rent in a week is not a fun social experiment with Leather Alley coming up… so…

Time to start making some healthy mental habits. I’m off to work.. Who says you can’t teach an old dog new tricks? Not that I’m that old… but still.. It’s hard to change mental patterns, but not impossible.

Especially given the right support, and a healthy environment..

Right. Work. Off I go!

Yours, as always

~Rena

One Pain for Another

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I have been thinking a lot lately about pain.

Okay, that came off REALLY wrong.

Is it possible to think about pain in a good way? To analyze, as a submissive, why I need (not want, need) a good spanking to get my head on straight, or a flogging to make me fly? Why anal sex is my favorite because of that pleasure/pain line that pushes my body so?

I am a psych major..and I forget that most of the time. When I am how I’ve been lately, covered in clay and plaster along with the crazy cat next to me (also covered in clay and plaster…), pushing myself to sketch out new pieces, search for kilns to fire in, get the courage to approach galleries.. I forget that I went to Lesley originally for psychology. Art is in my blood, but there is a part of me that loves picking things apart. Figuring out why people react the way they do. Why they love what they do and do what they do…

I do this with myself, often. Most of the time it’s in a healthy way, to stop myself from harmful behavior, from spiraling or over-eating or getting angry without reason. I stop, analyze what I’m about to do and why, what led me there, and what I should do next.

Kinda weird from someone who so often exists in the moment, and functions on emotions and action I know, but it happens.

I’ve been doing this lately with my relationship with pain; physical pain. Where it started. Why I put myself through it. In starting off this journey I wouldn’t have said I enjoyed pain at all. I was afraid of it. I still wouldn’t call myself a masochist. I’m a tenderfoot. Even when I was playing on a regular basis (and I mean REGULAR, 3-4 times a week at least) I could never take too much pain. I would cry and shake when Kane would spank me, gritting my teeth and willing myself to make it to the end, to show I could do it. It was to please him, to show him how tough I was..

Where did that start?

I’ve always been into body modification. I see the body as a canvas made to be decorated. My tattoos are my road map, showing my journey through life. What mattered to me so much that I put it on my body for all to see forever. I have 9 tattoos now, want more, and 17 piercings (I had 18 but a cartilage piercing in my ear closed.. must re-pierce that.. I don’t like not being symmetrical). I’ve always gotten the endorphin rush that follows the pain of a needle going through me… But I’ve been poking holes through my ears since I was 12 years old. I never thought anything of it. I loved the product of the pain, the piercing that I got to wear. The pretty jewelry. The feel of the rings in my ears. It made me happy.

My parents, as open minded as they are, were always against tattoos. I didn’t get my first until I was 19, though it was one I had planned for years. A pentagram on my back, with representations of the five elements inside of it (earth, air, fire, water, spirit). Tattoos are different.. They’re not the quick, endorphin rush pain of piercings. It’s a slow, painful burn that slowly wears you down. I max out at 4 hours of sitting.. I know people who can go longer. My older sister can sit for 5+, though she curses like a sailor the entire time.

I did these things because the result was pretty, or the symbols tattooed on me meant something, enough for me to sit through the pain. I didn’t enjoy the pain. I just knew that it came part and parcel with the things that would decorate my body.

The exception to this rule is a set of tattoos I got on Valentine’s Day 2013. My aunt had died on January 27th, and I wasn’t dealing with the pain. I was single, alone, trying to keep my head afloat and finish my senior year of college. I wanted to graduate, not for myself but for her. She was why I had gone to school to start with and not gone rogue, running to New York to be an artist. She had paid for my first semester of college, and given me money for every single semester so that my loans weren’t too horrific. I wouldn’t let her down.

I have always identified as Pagan, for as long as I can remember. I have never been able to read the Runes for divination, but I have always respected them and the mythology around them. I chose two runes, Uruz and Tiwaz. Uruz, for internal healing and strength, Tiwaz for the ability to persevere, to survive battle know matter what. I didn’t want to look at the symbols, I didn’t even really want others to see them. I wanted them to lead the way. To keep me going.

I got Uruz on the arch of my left foot, the bottom. Tiwaz on the right in the same spot. The tattoo artist told me that it would ink out, that in a few years the tattoos wouldn’t exist. I didn’t care. I wanted the symbols to be with me with every step. And I wanted the pain that came with the tattoos.

For the first time, I wanted physical pain to dull the emotional pain raging inside of me. My aunt was gone. My indestructible, strong, always there for me, force of nature aunt had died, and I needed to survive.

I say often that play makes my brain stop. When I’m in sub space, when I’m flying, I’m not thinking about money or stress or partners or.. anything. I’m blitzed out on the endorphins, in a place past pain that I can only get to if I go through the pain.

Is that the same as all my other tattoos, where I sat through the pain for the pleasure of the adornment? Or is this like that first exception, where I traded one pain for another?

Why do I need to fly?

Yours, thoughtful

-Rena