Several hundred people are gathered in the main amphitheater and the chatter is low, solemn, but cheerful. Ownership Day is usually a really big celebration, the day when owners are permitted to take their slaves to collar in public ceremony and submissives are acknowledged as being part of a household or in the collar of a particular family.  Every year I’d loved that day and looked forward to the O.D. when I’d have my own collar cold fused to my neck or the wristband permanently attached to my hand.

And my Ownership Day had finally come and I was devastated.

I had reached a point in my career and service where I was obligated to be under a collar, as a slave. Problem was, I didn’t have an Owner.

Usually slaves would be housed with a loving Leather Family of their choice if this point in their lives came and they weren’t Owned. Due to the odd quirks in my character, by not finding a suitable House with a position befitting my status and the fact that most Owners simply cannot abide the idea of having their slave’s reputation eclipse theirs, I reached a position of Senior Slave without the necessary counterpart of an owner.

An old clause was invoked and I was “offered” the position of “Slave in Service to Leather.”

That is in quotes because I didn’t have any choice, really. I couldn’t go any further solo and I was being given an essentially face-saving honor that no one even gets anymore.

And it was killing me.

I stood in line at the processing and registration center with my flesh frozen on my bones as other bright eyed submissives and slaves came to me and congratulated me on this honor. I could taste their carefully worded congratulations tinged as they were with the patina of coppery pity. No one comes into their need for slavery and ownership and prays for the day that they are dedicated to the Community. The original title was “Utility Slave” and this was reserved for those who were unplaceable but conducted themselves well. Only after years of progression had the title slid towards an honorific.

But tradition is slow to change and the collar still bore the simple insignia U.S. and on the reverse indicated that you have reached the “Exalted level of service to Tradition, To Honor, and To All.

And I hated it.

The day of my number assignment, my collar fitting, my O.D.  slipped around me like a chilled shroud and I can’t even remember how I got to the Ceremonial amphitheater. In the assembled crowd were the main family groups with their flags and colors. Groups of households, Alpha slaves to new trainees all in their place rank, some standing or kneeling according to their status and the Family’s tradition.

Here and there in the crowd, gems in a diadem, I saw the people who had moved through my life and though whose lives I’d passed. My first Trainer.  Mentors, friends, lovers, play-partners, all of those who had stood behind me and supported me and broken me and taught me and brought me to this point.

This day where, very shortly, I’d be cut off from the one thing I had wanted: the singularity of my Owner’s hand on my heart.

In the front and to the left were the men to whom I had, in one way or another, offered myself and yet not ever been accepted as Family. They had to sponsor me into this collar. And that was so very, very galling. I would gladly have been their but for one reason or many, they never applied to take me.

Sure there are plenty of reasons…but as of now, even in the moment of profound ceremony, all I could do was rend myself inside and wonder why I was not enough. Why I was too much. Why it wasn’t ever right.  And as I felt the curious piteous smug condescending empathetic blend of their emotions cover me, I did my best to shake it off.  They could hardly look at me. I thought they were taking the easy way out by turning their gaze elsewhere. But then again, had they not already taken the easy way out?

The worst was the downcast demure kneeling of their slaves, gathered around them, never having to wade upstream of the humiliating, face-saving “Honor” I was about to accept.

The ceremony was a blur until my portion, set apart as it was by the fact I was the only one going U.S.

I knew there would be no prince on a horse to save me from this. I held in one hand my ceremonial Lead-tether and in the other the collar. A few simple words, the collar was on my neck, the serpentine platinum sighed as the cold fusing weld was applied and as surely as I was buried in my grave my heart would never be under the command of one master.

I turned to face the assembled crowd, who rose and applauded me, and I smiled, and tears surged in my eyes as this applause sounded like the coldest wind on the darkest night of my life.

I was in the receiving line as person after person came to hug or kiss me or shake my hand. My last House Leader finally crossed me and, as was his right, kissed me. Finally looking me in the eye, he stopped cold for a moment. I know he, of all people, saw the emptiness in my heart. He paused in the formality of the congratulatory speech, and blinked. I leaned in and whispered “I am lost.” and stood back and, with a polite smile, saluted him with my right hand on my collar as befitted my status and his. He turned away quickly without returning the gesture and left me to the task of greeting his slaves, my former “Sisters,” and “Brothers” and the rest of the assembled dignitaries and friends in the Hall.

And a bell rang.

And rang.

And rang, and the edges of the hall were pulled away as the bell’s metallic tone rolled into the signature of a strange telephone ring…I woke up to my hand reflexively reaching for a telephone. Hotel. Florida. Phone Call from the gracious host of this leather event.

The events of the weekend smash back in and I compose myself to take this call, extended to me with so much grace it shakes the threads of this nightmare away.

I’m rolled in bed. Sweaty, shaken. This dream slams back in as I wrap up my phone call and I cry.  I cry because this fear is so very, very real and yet, even so, it is, of course, “just” a Bad Dream.

Yesterday afternoon I was walking through the lobby of the Beyond Leather host hotel here in Fort Lauderdale, Florida.

Not long after teaching my second class of the day, I found myself in an intriguing exchange with a dashing salt-and-pepper haired gentleman of British extraction. He was holding my hand and pressing his lips to the back of my hand. He’d been gazing admiringly at me as I crossed the lobby, and when he’d initially spoken, I thought he was taking the piss. See, in the class I’d just been teaching I had mentioned I had a particular weakness for accents.  I thought this might be a bit of a flirtatious gambit. That was fine actually. This was day 2 of Beyond Leather and I’d had many conversations in passing and some of the more silly ones had involved quite a bit of mental jockeying and word play.

This particular flirtatious ex-SAS Englishman and sadist had no of way of knowing he had scored a few points on my personal “WIN!” list.  As he smiled at me, I was certainly intrigued. He asked if I was going to be playing that evening.  I was, for the first time in 13 months of national Leather Events, able to say “Yes, in fact, I do have a play date about which I’m very excited!”

He mentioned that he, too, would be playing. And even offered the approximate time and location of the scene he would be conducting. For those not familiar with typical Kink Scene interactions, this is about as big a “flirt and flex flag” as a top or dominant can wave when in this situation. 

See, I don’t know this dude from Adam. But inviting a bottom to watch you play demonstrates a modicum of confidence in displaying your skill, inviting them to check you out, so that they then have a common point of reference with regard to your play style.

And he seemed to be very interested in watching me play.

 Kissing my hand again he lamented aloud “Ah, well…would that you were submissive!”

 I sighed. 

 ”Actually, I am.”

 His gaze focused.

He smiled.

Yeah so.  

Presumptuous?

Perhaps. 

As my long time friend Bailey pointed out, this may well have been a “fish” for information.  There are infinite ways of information gathering with a potential play-partner.  By veering for this tack, he then had the opportunity to gauge my reaction to his question. The level of enthusiasm or dismissal can provide a great deal of information.

Though I was certainly at least interested in such an opportunity to observe, I don’t often commit to multiple scenes in one night. I tend to go pretty deeply in playing and need to have that focus.

But I gave him my card. He clarified his interest in learning more about me.

One never knows.

One might not know, but if you are me, you do often have “knowing.”

Oddly, I’d had a very strong feeling, a few days ago, that the playdate to which I was so looking forward wouldn’t materialize. But I had no real  reason to think that I would miss out of that opportunity. I mean, this had been planned in advance, there were THREE days in which to have plenty of flexibility, somewhere in there a scene could be arranged at sometime, yes?

Yes.

Of course.

Or no.

I’m not of a mind to divulge my friend’s personal shit. I can say that, despite good intentions and despite my limited expectations, things derailed. And derailed badly.

A personal issue came up for my friend. He had to go deal with this in his own way. He understandably needed some space. I sent a series of text messages to check in as I was not at all sure what had happened. I did receive a bit of information from him which lead me to believe that yeah, something was uncool, but no emergency situation was unfolding.

I was disappointed but didn’t wanna be selfish. Gotta let go of expectations, yeah? And probably this would resolve later.

I also was not, to be honest, convinced that I would let a distant situation derail me from enjoying something I wanted.  There is a lot that happens in life over which you have no control. But you do have control over your reaction to these troubles. I know for me, I loathe the idea that some fuckery deprives me of joy. Life is too short.

I caught up with Bailey. We chatted up some girl talk and caught up while I tried to not take any of this crap personally, to see if possibly this could be salvaged. I didn’t want to bug my erstwhile play-partner. He wasn’t in a great headspace, and needed personal time. And if, in fact, this situation was so vexing his headspace wasn’t in playing, well…so it goes. There was still Sunday…

I didn’t hear back after several messages and a voicemail. SO, I went to ground and just tried to relax. I really didn’t feel like going to the dungeon and watching all of these people enjoying, once more, everything I was, once again, denied.

Then my phone rang and I was advised by a mutual acquaintance that my date had come out of his funk and, it seems, was cheering himself up by scenening with someone who was not me.

Let me say I was not in a graceful place upon receiving this news. Walking in to the playspace and confronting the situation was, for ME, out of the question.

So I lay in bed sobbing and feeling like absolute shit.

Once again, I wasn’t enough, I was disposable, and I could be pushed aside in favor of someone else.

Regardless of whether or not this is true, this was how I felt.

Things were tangled and unhappy and only became more so after my distraught posts to Twitter were read by some people who were here at the event who, after offering me sympathetic support, conveyed to my anticipated play-partner that I was…not happy.

Interestingly, once he did contact me and came to my room (at my invitation)  to talk, his affect was angry. Evidently my own expressions of upset were seen as an attack on his character.

I wasn’t in a good place to have my own disappointment and battered ego confronted with his backlash. So I took a series of deep breaths and let him explain his side of the story. It was convoluted. And I have zero reason to think it was a lie. But my feelings have a right to be respected.  And he fell down in the chain of communication by not responding to me.

I had to do something I have an absolutely difficult time with, and that was to make clear I thought there had been a failure. On his part. On a very basic level.

I know that life intrudes. I know that slings and arrows and sticks and stones and all of these things can belay even the best laid plans.

And I believe also that how one handles stress and storms is even more important than how one lives in smooth situations. 

We all make mistakes. And sometimes those mistakes wound and slice the emotions of others. And at that point the only thing you can do is to take responsibility for your actions and reactions to this stress.

As I have a promise made to myself many years ago not to sleep on anger, we talked through my feelings, my reaction, his view of the situation, etc.

I can say I am proud of myself for remaining grounded by my emotional truth. I did not cave in to my reflex to “Let it go.” I weighed what forgiveness I could give him and what was just too much. I let my compassionate nature soothe my nerves and to trust that I was making concessions in the right place and standing firm in others.

And in the morning I did receive the apology that I needed to have that piece of responsibility acknowledged.

Today is a new day.

In these Leather Event situations, when you are in high profile mode, you certainly don’t have time to be a mopey shithead when you are a presenter.  And especially when you are me.

I had to publically interact with my friend, our very new truce in place. I will pat myself on the back again for handling that.

Though I certainly have no love for feeling like refried shit and having to suck it up and repair damaged friendships, I learned that I have the capacity to be strong and also to handle my shit with some dignity.

I also am proud that I held fast to my personal standards and not cave in to loneliness and desperation for play and pain and affection when it wasn’t offered on terms that I could accept.

I have compromised before.

I have felt what that is like.

I have let people have what they wanted of me and leave the rest.

I know what that feels like.

I am not enthralled with the sensation of standing firm and holding fast to my core values and still feeling alone and lost. But I have to do this.

If I settle again for crumbs, delicious and tempting as they are, I will be left alone. Again.

See, the thing about compromise for me is this: if the other person gets everything that they wanted and I get some of what I want, I will soon find myself with an emotional deficit I have no way to close.

But I held my shit together. I had friends call and write and offer their love.

And someone does want that, can handle, is worthy…and someone will care with the capacity and focus that matches my own.

So tonight I will lie low, I think. I am not of a mind to be used and played and then left behind.  Sometimes that can be very sexy. Not so much tonight.

And I have been invited back to Beyond Leather 2010, which is, for me, quite an honor. I heard I received universal glowing reviews. I can stand alone there too. That is all me, absorbing, distilling, filtering and serving up my life, my essence, me.

 

In Florida for the Beyond Leather convention…I am loving this hotel room. a mini-suite, and the weekend unrolls before me. All potential. All maybes.

I had the funnest sensation as I was leaving my home on Tuesday evening. One that often happens  when  I go away on a trip.  That I will not be the same person I was when next I see my home. This is true every day, no?

But this was a particularly strong feeling.

 So, as I left, I took a moment to ring my prayer bell and meditate for a few minutes, contemplating my beautiful altar Ganesha.

And a few minutes ago, I find myself thinking about nothing in particular and trying to figure out a HNT.  As I thought about what it means, to me, to expose myself somehow week after week, post after post, I thought you know, I don’t think I have ever done one of my middle.

I cringed because I am thinking less-than-loving thoughts of having to see my body in a light that is loving and delightful. But then I thought about my Lord. His belly is one of the most famous symbols of fullness, power, groundedness.

And then I got a Lovely Whisper and so, I thought, “OK, I will.”

So, here is my tummy.  If Ganesha’s can be lovely and beautiful mine can be too.

 

Happy HNT from Florida, everyone.

 

Love

 

Mo

I love it when I am surprised.

I week or so ago I had a bit of glumness because a big event was looming, and though I was looking forward to a pending playdate, it is best, I find, not to place too many eggs in these baskets.

Life happens, things change, and often Conventions become so hectic that the best laid plans of mice and men often go wrong.

Though I have often wondered what the hell mice plan. Well, not Pinky and the Brain. Their plans are consistent. But other mice.

What the fuck ARE they planning?!

But I digress.

Over the weekend, things started coming together. And then I was asked to bottom to one demo, and then another demo…then invited to participate in a rope bondage performance, and now the weekend is looking pretty fucking awesome.

And I am, for a change, not bone-crampingly nervous about my own classes.

I am so honored to have connected with people who I respect, with whom the respect is mutual, and who I share common ideals in what BDSM can be.

Also, they are awesome.

So yeah!

As you can see, even after yesterday’s cranky ass rant, I have plenty of people who are more than happy to put the Happy Hurting on my fat black ass.

Ms. Sarah Sloane with me using me as a pincushion for her piercing class.

As yo can see from the flyer I’ll be doing…er…something for the Rope Performance.

Then I am going to be abused in some manner by Graydancer for his…what class is it, man? Hah. I’m not sure. Surprises are wunnerful, ain’t they?

Then I have my classes, and classes Id like to attend myself…yes. I am pretty happy about my prospects over the next week or so.

Add to that I am also catching up with some very dear friends I’ve not seen in a long, long while and I am feeling at peace in this moment.

May I have the love in me to enjoy this peace as it holds me, and the grace in me to pass so that the next moment has room to breathe.

Om Sri Ganeshaya Namah.

I’m fat.

(For the record: I do not use / identify with the euphemism BBW (Big Beautiful Woman). I respect those who do, it just isn’t my choice.
“Large,” “Plus-Sized,” “Big” are terms I occasionally use. For me, I prefer fat.)

I am, unsurprisingly, ambivalent about it.

There isn’t a whole lot of acceptance around fatness today in the US.

And then, I’m kinky.

Yay!

Oh, AND Black.

sigh

Today we will just rant about being fat and kinky.

Ahem!

<rant>

 

I came into the BDSM community, saw people all shapes sizes and body types in the Dungeon.

I thought “Oh wow! Fantastic! A place where your body type doesn’t matter, where you are accepted for who you are, and no one judges you!”

Well.

No.

I started paying more attention to kinky porn. The models are still slender.

I look at photographs. Tough to find someone not unsvelte.

Hrm.

So then I think “Well, that is still mainstream, right? It ain’t like Skin Two is gonna put fat people in there, they are pretty mainstreamy…”

Then I started going to kink events. Watching classes. Seeing that almost all of the demo bottoms are petite.

The rope people claim to need slender models because it is easier to work with them. You also hear it is tougher to find fat demo models because they are less likely to volunteer. The bondage gear people hide behind the “equipment limitation” issue.

And so on.

And so on.

I recently saw a post on FetLife calling for demo bottoms. Since this was for an event I’m attending, I was eager to volunteer. Then I read the post. The instructor specifically asked for slender models, because (and I am paraphrasing a bit) fuller-figured people’s skin doesn’t clamp / pinch easily.

I was really angry.  And a bit stung.

Then I stopped myself.

How the fuck do we, an alternative outlier community, fail to see that all people being represented is far better then some people being represented?

Then I sat there pinching myself.

Quite literally.

I found it was pretty easy to grab skin on some areas, tougher on others. I imagine that to be the case with anyone.

To my jaundiced eye, this smacked of “Look, I don’t wanna play with fat girls so I’ll say something about how it is critical for the class so that I don’t have to reject a bunch of fat people.”

I’m fuming, thinking  “So…your class is on “playing with thin people”? You are specifically EXCLUDING an entire class of folks because of their size? What happens to the person in class who is fat, has a fat partner, or might play with a fat person? You have no info for them? Why not have a few demo bottoms? Why not just put your your fucking call for bottoms and pick who you want without being so OBVIOUSLY exclusionary? What if you were teaching a goddanmed class and said “No brown skinned people because the marks don’t show up as well on dark people.” ?!?!”

But then…I didn’t say anything. Because I thought I was being hypersensitive.

Now, I wish I had.

If I run into this person at Beyond Leather, I will ask them about this situation.

I’m willing to bet they will stick to their assertion that it isn’t prejudice, that it really is just utility!
And my response would be, “No.” As an instructor, as a representative of “Our Community,” you have an obligation to educate. Not titillate. That is for the dungeon. We are responsible for helping people play safely and well. How does limiting your pool of demo bottoms further this?

I have to check myself, though.

The BDSM community is no different that the world at large, really. It just has that self-segregating aspect to it.

It is a microcosm. Not a utopia.

When BDSM porn producers consider a size 12 woman to be a “large” model, we haven’t made any strides towards inclusion.

The few classes I have seen that SPECIFICALLY include fat people and kink tend to approach it as an “issue to be “addressed”

I don’t have a fucking issue.

I’m just fat.

And I want to be seen.

I don’t want to be fetishized for being fat.
I don’t want to be beautiful in spite of being fat.
I don’t want to be beautiful because I am fat.

And I sure as hell do not want fat people sidelined and marginalized because we aren’t in your goddamned fetish magazines being held up as the ideal because we aren’t slender.

As beautiful as anyone can be, I want to be.

Years ago I had a lover grab hold of my belly during a fuck. I, of course, instinctively elbowed him in the ribcage and hollered for him to stop grabbing my fat. It made me uncomfortable. I didn’t want him bringing attention to it. Being him, he smacked my hand away and grabbed me with BOTH hands this time and continued to fuck me.

“I like it. So shut up.”

Yeah I did.

Having been the fat girl that some men have “gone outside of their physical ideal” for, I am kind of tired of hearing “Oh but you are so intelligent, so beautiful, we have such amazing chemistry” and having them OVERLOOKING my size.

That is a lot to overlook.

I don’t need for everyone on earth to think that fat girls are sexy, but I do need for my chosen family, the BDSM community, to take a look at our lock-stepping with mainstream ideas about beauty and own that shit.

Only then will it be OK for fat people to step forward and let ourselves be seen as part of the whole, and not set apart.

These photos in this post are from a photographer I’m looking forward to working with soon. The reason I chose to work with him is that he selects his subjects based on who he thinks is hot. He had lots of women of varied body types in his photography. You can see examples here.

But for this post I chose the beautiful ones with bodies that look like mine.

Because I needed to remember that I am beautiful.

And I WILL fucking be seen.

</RANT>

Sunday Morning Sexytime II from Mollena Williams on Vimeo.

Some things are indelible in the soft clay of my heart. Those moments of connection with someone where it isn’t about verbal communication. Where the lips the teeth the tip of the tongue aren’t in play because you look at someone and you get volumes of information instantaneously.

I love this moment. I have them often. I’m highly empathetic and I am easily read so those feedback loops are readily accessible.

I more often have the problem of receiving too much information from someone. I’m left winded and looking at them thinking “Oh mercy…that is too much for me to feel with you right now….”

And then sometimes there is the opacity. The moment where, in the words of the unlamented Donald Rumsfeld, we realize we may be up shit’s creek.

There are known knowns. These are things we know that we know. There are known unknowns. That is to say, there are things that we know we don’t know. But there are also unknown unknowns. There are things we don’t know we don’t know.

~Donald Rumsfeld

BDSM is exactly the path of Unknown Unknowns.

One of my favourite moments in BDSM play is the moments just as a scene starts. Mostly because those moments are so fleeting and often The Look is the only clue you have some Fucked Up Shit is about to go down.

And it is right then I KNOW I have no fucking idea what is going to happen and that makes me so fucking high.

As a submissive, I tend to not be a fighter. Someone who wants constant resistance is not going to be amused by me. Because if you are doing it right and you somehow manage to intimidate me, I’m in. You win.

There is, however, an interesting second breaking point, where I suddenly wake up from that “bird in the cobra stare” and realize I am about to be lost and there is no turning back, and THEN I’ll fight you.

It is that borderline between drowning and kicking to the surface for that one last desperate breath of air before my own submission reaches up from the depths, wraps its mute, reptilian tentacle around my ankle and pulls me back down to the Abyssal Plain of my being. That Cold dark place of tremendous pressures where nothing exists but that faith and prayer that maybe; maybe perhaps, by being still and quiet, I will survive “This.”

If you are one of those who willingly take that ride, and take it again and again, you might know what I mean.

And if you are one of the people who operate that ride, you certainly know what I mean.

Of late I’ve had several very dark fantasies that have felt more like sensememory of brutality that are revisiting me. Depending on your cosmology there may or may not be a reason for these feelings.

Were I in an ongoing relationship I would be interested in talking about these things to my partner, pulling at the edges of that tarp, peeking at what is beneath.  But that isn’t an excavation I can conduct solo. I instead I am treated to ever increasing odd recollections of moments. A look, a scene that viscerally terrified me. A particularly tender moment suddenly recollected yet juxtaposed with a sobbing ecstasy.

And then I leave that room, and shut the door behind me.

But I can still hear the echo.

…clearly I need to get my ass beaten.

Sugasm #163

The best of this week’s blogs by the bloggers who blog them. Highlighting the top 3 posts as chosen by Sugasm participants. Want in Sugasm #164? Submit a link to your best post of the week using this form.

This Week’s Picks
Another Night With My Beer Buddy
“She nodded, her eyes closing with pleasure, his arm working.”

Blowjob in Red
“My voice descended into lust.”

Her dirty talk got me off. twice.
“Why does that turn me on so goddamn much?”

Sugasm Editor
Sex Work And Honesty: The Correct Answer

Editor’s Choice
Stockinged Feet

More Sugasm
Join the Sugasm

See also: Fleshbot’s Sex Blog Roundup each Tuesday and Friday.

(Sugasm participants should re-post all the links above within a week. The following links may be excluded as long as you include all the above links.)

Thoughts on Sex and Relationships
Is Sex Positivity Bad for Feminism?
The Mark

NSFW Pics, Videos and Audio
Deviantly Different -HNT

Sex and Politics
It’s All Over Now Baby Blue…

Erotic Writing and Experiences
Ah, those heels
Domination Fantasy
Fucking Ratios, Part 1
Fun With Rose
Kiss Me
Lisa’s torments 2 & 3
Naughty Photoshoot!
A Perfect Welcome
The Reunion
Shivers
Wet. Confession #258
Wet Spot #1 (Crescent Moons)
Wild Dream

Sex Advice
Nookie Tip
Steps Towards Enjoying Sex

BDSM & Fetish
Carnal Conversations
Cop Performs Subdrop Aftercare
Dream Whore
Explaining Cell Popping
A Pain-Drenched Rolling Stone Gathers No Moss
Poetic license

Sex News, Reviews, and Interviews
The Hitachi Magic Wand – How it saved (or literally started up) my sex life
Pasties: Tassel Twirling 101
Race Play Interview, Part I
Radio Interview Tonight

An odd emotionally whipsaw day curls into the lap of a busy night and once we landed it unraveled a bit. I’m  not willing to cry in front of everyone yet…but you don’t worry your pretty little heads none…the lachrymal letdown continues.

It is, after all, only half-nekkid Thursday, right?

There are lots of kinks I’ve not fully explored.  Some because of a lack of interest, some because they are a bit esoteric or don’t really grab me or some because I just haven’t gotten around to them.

 

As a performer, role-playing is a fairly easy BDSM scenario for me to embrace. Pretending and make-believe has been my second home since I was 5 years old and went on my first audition.  My first boyfriend and I used to have all sorts of silly scenarios we would play out, and so it has never been far from my sexuality.

 What WAS new to me was playing a non-human role.  OK, yes, I did play a flower under the troll bridge in “The Three Billy Goats Gruff” in the first grade, but that was a departure for me. I had not seriously considered the idea of reverse anthropomorphization prior to actively entering the kink community.  And even then, I thought “Well, if it does it for you, than great, but if not, why bother?”

 But trying and tasting is half the fun, is it not?

 My first exposure to animal role-play was through several friends who were pony and puppy play people. I certainly saw the appeal! You get loads of attention, you can behave as you wish, and correction is never personal, never damaging, and never harsh. Communication is simple, hand gestures or vocal cues are all an animal can rely on when hearing from their human “trainers” or “owners”

 I always found it delightful to watch people play in this headspace. Years ago, at a Black Rose event in DC, I remember walking through the dungeon and SWEARING I heard a horse in the other side of the space. It was, in fact, a human pony who had mastered, eerily, the sound of whinnying horse.

 I’ll never forget being in a private party with a friend very much into pony play and getting to play a bit while they were in pony space. To be honest I was very startled at the emotional and energetic change that overcame them, and how looking into their eyes was an entirely different experience than it was over supper several hours before. Something was definitely…shifted.

I have only had one glimpse into that realm myself once when attending one of the Bizarre Flea Markets hosted several times a year here in San Francisco by Lady Thorn. It is a fun place to hang out, browse toys and meet up with friends.  I was chatting with a friend near a table that displayed lots of pony play gear when a particularly elaborate piece caught my eye. As someone who loves costuming, I am always the “crow to a shiny object” when it comes to fancies.  This bridle and harness had the added draw of being unusual in its composition; it was made with brown suede, very beautifully crafted.

 The woman vending it looked at me, and looked back at the piece “You know, it is remarkable…that is almost exactly your skin color…”  I nodded absently, as I was mid conversation with my friend who suddenly squealed and threw the thing over my head insisting that I try it on.  I looked to the vendor for help, thinking this wasn’t a cool thing to do but alas, she was busily unbuckling the other side of the thing to run the straps over my forehead, around my ears and under my chin.  A miniature snaffle thudded against my teeth and within 30 seconds, I was sporting a soft brown horns nosed muzzle, perky ears, a miniature mane and bright red plumes.

 

 I felt pretty dumb.

“Oh my GOD you look AMAZING!!!” the vendor trilled

 “Yeah, of course…$475 worth of amazing if I fall for that…” I grumbled to me.

 The reins were tossed over my head and my friend, petite as she was, slapped my hip and ordered me over so she could ride.

 Bemused, I complied. Why not? We are all perverts here!

 

Well, on board she dug in her heels and I set off around the space, with people seeming quite amused at the display.

 ”I didn’t know Mo did pony play?” I hear more than a few times as I trotted around, thankful that my friend had some riding experience and that my hips are pretty damned sturdy.

 At one point, we stopped and someone asked her if they could pet me. “Who the fuck do you thnk you are?! I am right here, hello!!” I thought.  I turned my head to one side to glare at them but the blinkers made this difficult without a whole body shift. Then the whole thing shifted. He hadn’t asked me if he could touch me, because…he didn’t have to. I wasn’t a speaking person, I was this role, and therefore vulnerable to the whims of my owner. Even more than a person in a submissive role, a person in an animal play role is dependant on their “keeper” for protection.

 As she gave her permission and the person stroked me mane and shoulders, approvingly patting my rump, I felt oddly soothed, arranging the bit in my mouth and just enjoying the attention. I’d never had the experience of tough being grated around my permission, and it was incredibly soothing, actually.

 Several more people decided they wanted to play, so of course I was soon stamping out my age with a “hoof” and tossing my head in delight at a particularly lovely “scritch”

 Alas, playtimes soon had to be over. The harness returned, the bit dropped into disinfectant and the seller offering me a really good deal on the outfit…if I wanted it.

 I wasn’t able to afford it that day, and besides…I’m not into pony play….

 …but every once in a while, I wish I had that harness, that soft nose, those perky ears, and perhaps a tail and hooves.

 Who doesn’t sometimes want to be the very special pet of a loving owner, if only for an afternoon?