Why I am officially a Cannon Fan.

Jun 172013
 

I’m not often asked to play. I don’t wanna dive into the reasons for that, because I have a Demon who loves to chew idly on the deepest recesses of my guts by idly speculating it is because I’m a fat dowdy blowhard that no one really wants, anyway.

Most of the time I don’t believe her.

SO! When someone DOES invite me to trip the kink fantastic, and I feel a good sort of connection to them, and I haven’t heard any Bad Shit about their skills, and none of my Rumbly Inside Voices are suddenly on alert, even for “No Apparent Reason,” I’ll say yes. A little bit ago, I was hanging out in one of the informal lounge areas at Kinko De Mayo, a really fun event in Ohio. I was unwinding from having presented a class, and was shooting the shit with another presenter. I’d met Cannon a few times in the past, and in the past few years he was cropping up as someone with a passion to learn and teach about rope. In the course of our conversation one of his partners, Tifereth joined us. They both mentioned that the other person in their family, Fen, sent her salutations and was bummed she wasn’t able to make the event. We talked about the rigors of presenting, news and notes from around the scene, some juicy gossip, and we even told on ourselves, when it came to hard-won lessons and “Fucking Opportunities for Growth” that, despite occasionally inducing winces, ultimately mold us into who we are. I was privately impressed at the degree of humility Cannon displayed in sharing about some of his own “Growth Ops,” as he did so with a candor and self-effacing humor that, frankly? I don’t observe in many dominant type people. It was refreshing to see that, and to hear of the credit he paid his partners in facilitating his growth as a dominant.

As the conversation hopped and sprinted and meandered, eventually, as it should, to rope, I mentioned how I’d had a rather disappointing moment during a negotiation to play. Due to a rotator cuff issue, I am not able to assume the Tried-And-True “takate-kote” position favored by…well….Almost. Every. Rigger. Who does Japanese-style rope bondage when creating a base for a rope scene. When I mentioned I can’t maintain it safely/comfortably for more than a few minutes, that Rigger said “Oh, well we can’t do rope then. That’s the basis for my ties.” and decided we’d not incorporate rope into the scene. Mind you, I have been rigged hundreds of times without that particular tie, but the fact that this rigger dismissed me as a potential rope bottom because of my limitation broke my heart a little.

Cannon lit up. “I’ve been working on a tie…” he began, with that look I do so love to see in a fellow pervert. That mix of pure deviousness and childlike glee. “…a tie that specifically avoids that position. I would love to share that with you, if you’d be interested in doing a scene with me.” Continue reading »

Service. Every Day.

Feb 212013
 

Desire (photo by melvin moten mErocrush)My memory is, on a good day, unreliable.

On a bad day, it is achingly evocative, stunningly accurate, and capable of processing, it seems, every moment in my life in one breathtaking, eviscerating Technicolor swoop at the most inopportune moments.

And the trains-of-thought it pulls…well. Seemingly random and yet cripplingly logical, I can go from listening to a favorite song to having the rise and fall of an old school R&B jam shove me through a pane of crystalline recall to sitting in the schoolyard in High School, sneaking a Camel Light and pounding a Jolt Cola to being yanked forward 25 years and breathing ache, dizzy with sadness over the loss of a relationship to roiling back before the previous memory, even, wondering whatever happened to Spencer, the boy I had a terrible crush on who thought I was funny and great to hang out with but really only had eyes for my friend Alice to a brutal whiplash of recalling the last time I felt at peace sitting at the feet of someone whose whim was my will and who I desired only to serve.

And then the song is over and I’m left with the emotional loose-leggedness experienced when stepping from a moving walkway back onto ground that behaves itself without mild deceleration trauma at the dénouement.

And then? On a good day? I’ll do it again. Listen to that song, read that old blog post, pull apart stories of my own life and experience so that I can offer them as “Talking Points” and “teaching moments” when I teach or lecture on kink.

Some people think it is “brave” to share so much detail about myself, my life, my journey. Others push me away with ear-clasping eye-covering, mouth slapping three-monkey style shrieks of “TMI!!!” when I reveal the darker, sticker, messier stuff. Some people see me so bent by the prism of their own perception that the life they see me leading has several degrees of separation from the life I see myself leading.

And so it goes.

The turning toward spring cannot come fast enough for me. This winter was dark; not only in the wild imbalance between the nocturnal stretches and the brevity of daylight, but also in terms of emotional overcast. But the days are incrementally, slowly, lengthening back into warmth and light, and I am slowly thawing out as well.

Weeks of dismay, and pain, and frustration in the wake of some surprising, disappointing truths about the Leather community are finally coalescing into resolve. No small thanks to the friends who pulled together and the strangers who stepped up to the plate. As I get my bearings in the wake of feeling my foundations shift a bit, I realize that I have, slowly, quietly, gathered around me amazing people. That I have, somehow, stayed sober for almost six years. That I am, regardless of my scatterbrained recklessness, managing to make a life where I am doing what I want to do, and on my terms. Continue reading »

Accepting your submissive self.

Mar 072011
 

Some anonymous person asked me the following on Formspring…and I felt more like talking to them rather than writing about it.

Admitting my submissive side is one of the hardest things that’s happened to me. I don’t know what to think or do with myself anymore. I wonder if it’s a result of past sexual abuse I thought I had sorted out. think I’m depressed . Do you have any advice?

Listen!

I hope it helps…hang in there.

You are Beautiful as you are.

A Lust of Shakespearean Dimensions.

Nov 252009
 

Hmm...kinda hot, akshually...“The Taming of the Shrew” is a problematic show. The main plotline revolving, as it does, around a woman being forced into an arranged marriage to an apparent loony who then proceeds to beat and starve her into submission. Literally.

There is another plotline but that shit is boring and I don’t give a motherfuck about Bianca. Fuck that ho.

I’ve seen “Shrew” done many times.  Most memorably while I was working at the New York Shakespeare Festival, and we produced it for the Delacorte summer season. Morgan Freeman and Tracy Ullman played the raucous couple. I was interested to learn that the show was  controversial even back in the day, and of course Katerina’s final speech is still debated. Was she truly broken? Sarcastic? Complicit with Pertruchio in order to secure the loot on offer from the “gentleman’s” bet about which wife would be most obedient when the assembled husbands demand their obedience?

This is all debatable.  But dammit. I really wanna star in that play! Continue reading »

Submit. Fiercely.

Jul 212009
 
'Sekhmet" ~ by Laurel Green
“Sekhmet” ~ by Laurel Green

 As often happens my brain revs up to impossible speeds just as I’m going to sleep. I am certain that this is because “normal working hours” are at odds with the hours in which I work best. I am NOT. Bloody. Diurnal. If the average person has an 8-hour window within which they can best rock the mike, mine is sure as fuck not 9-5.  I’m at the height of focus at the 6PM-2AM shift. I loved working graveyard, back in the day.

Every day I fight against the way I have been my entire life to squeeze into a system that isn’t working and never did. My Mom has stories of literally walking me though morning as a kid, and yet finding me under the blankets with a book and a flashlight in the middle of the night.

Last few nights I have been flipping back and forth between thoughts about a solo show that is hammering on my brain…a story that I have to tell and it is becoming more important.

OK, fair enough.

Continue reading »

Incidental submission.

Jun 122009
 

The other day I was told “No, you’ll do it this way.” In my professional life.

And, Ganesha help me, I loved it.

Sure, at first, not so much.  But within a few minutes I was strangely pleased. Smoothed out. Dare I say, perky, even.

I had a customer issue I needed to address, and it had been shuttled around for a bit. A number of people had their fingerprints on the e-trail for this problem, but I had to actually respond to the customer. This is something I do well, and I have in fact been given recognition, prizes, plaques and awards for this shit.  I fucking RULE at customer service.

Yeah, shocking, I know.

So this fairly standard issue, addressing a customer complaint, was a piece of cake. I dusted off my high-falutin’ CorporateFuckYouHaveALovelyDay approach, dashed out an e-mail, and forwarded to one of the Powers That Be for approval.

And they said “No, I don’t want it this way.”

I sat, a bit frustrated because I am rather proud of my writing ability and my 20+ years working in Customer Service of one kind or another. 

Then I realized that I wasn’t angry or even really that frustrated. That what I wanted was to receive the back-patting I felt I deserved for my not-inconsiderable skills.

After some lighthearted banter, I (only partially joking) pulled the “Well if you can do better, bring it! Let’s see whatcha got!” gambit.  And then I waited for the re-write.

The new draft of the response to the customer had little to do with my initial response, which was not designed to leave much room for the complainant to continue their diatribe. It was far more personable, friendly, all that shit.

I made one or two tiny adjustments to make it sound at least a BIT like something I MIGHT say, and sent it off.

What the hell does this have to do with kink?

OK, I’m getting to that. STFU. Furthermore, as I work on kink-oriented websites (to get meta on that ass) anything work related IS, technically, kink related.

But that’s not my point.

My point is this: I have shifted my perspective a whole lot in the past 2+ years of sobriety. Things I never noticed before are thrown into sharp razor-slicing relief, and loom large as blue whales.  And things that used to be crushing blows to my ego roll off of my back like so much dew on the head of a cygnet. But I only take criticism with calm, unruffled grace in a HANDFUL of situations. 

  • From a director I respect, while working in theater.
  • From a dominant I respect while working in submission
  • From a friend I respect when I KNOW they know me well and intimately.

In most other situations, criticism usually had to filter though defensive mechanisms more Byzantine than I am even capable of describing to you now.

So when I realized I’d accepted a criticism in a NEW way, and not had the hackles raised, and in fact feel calmed and pleased that I was able to see the value in the criticism without it having to diminish my self-worth, that is kind of amazing.

To further wonkify it, it felt…submissive. Yah OK so, what’s new? Work IS submission, right? Submission to the clock, to the almighty dolla bill, y’all, dolla bill y’all.  But I had an additional little extra frisson in that I actually kind of enjoyed it. It felt good, to me, to be able to take that adjustment in stride, to remain on task. It mirrored other branches of submission.

I let go and managed, somehow in the relinquishing of my ego, just for a little bit there, to see that what I wanted, and my own pride in purpose, was perforce secondary to the larger vision, which wasn’t necessarily mine at the time. That type of release is something I am not often aware that I do when in a submissive mindset, because that IS one of the pillars of my submission.  But for me, submitting is dissolving into a larger spiritual lattice. I am losing my focus on submitting to a person, in total and finding that I submit to my life itself. To what I do, and to what I do not do.  To people who are in and around and throughout my life.

But not in a way that permits them to abuse me, not by a longshot. In fact, when I take stock, I feel more honored and loved and respected than I have in a long time.

But there is something to submitting to one’s own life.

I hear so many people talking, myself included, about “managing their lives.”

Increasingly this sounds like so much bullshit.

You can’t manage it. You can only ride it. Submit to it.

And in doing so, with the fight between me and destiny and pain slowly grinding to a standstill, the quiet is filled with some really strange and beautiful music.

I’m sure I won’t hit mental subspace each and every time I am smacked down for a decision that is at odds with the position of someone in authority over me, and that is OK.

Because even the occasional emotional smackdown is sufficient to help me to “get it.”

…and frankly, it doesn’t hurt to get the “correction” from someone wearing Engineer style motorcycle boots.

Submission vs Obedience: Mo’s Internal Committee is no help at all.

Jun 052009
 

“There’s a difference,” I mused, while furiously scanning kinky profiles to find a couple of dozen that meet the insane criteria for my Nefarious Corporate purposes  “…for me there IS a difference between being obedient and being submissive.”

 This gets the attention of Mo’s Internal Committee for a moment. Today we’ve had some shit rolling around that, in retrospect, really dug itself in yesterday but has been simmering for a couple of years.  I am not super adept at managing my emotionality on multiple fronts, so the past 6 months or so have been…challenging.

 “So, uh…what’s the difference?” the MIC finally begrudgingly responds.  Like starved squirrels on a pack of peanuts they’ve been worrying over the same shit for a while now, so a change of pace is a nice relief.

 ”Unfortunately I have to dedicate a lot of bandwidth to external shit like…oh…work…so I don’t have much room to process this fuckball right now.” I reply to the MIC, wincing at the florid overwrought prose of a self-styled “Master_Sir_Mucketymuck” demanding the submission of every nubile slender single female reader of his profile.

 The MIC grumbles snippily “You can’t bloody well bring that shit up and then claim work-impunity here. Don’t fuck around with us. We’ve gotten you on the brink of tears TWICE today before 2:00 PM PDT, so it isn’t wise to be a fucking smartass.”

I back off, because yeah, we’ve been at it for hours now.

“Fair enough, Committee.

What I’m hitting my head against is this. 

I often am obedient. I do what I am supposed to do, follow the rules, smile and nod, but still try to maintain integrity.

And sometimes it is second nature.

And sometimes it is insufficiently contained, barely-restrained, sociopathic crazymaking energy.  

Obedience I can do. I click into it. Submission is another animal. No, not another animal…an animal and…a parasite? A symbiotic…no, no…wait…”

 MIC waits patiently as I fumble this one out. Kinda patiently.  My Id is idling now, feeling stabby and ready to go back to gnawing at the ragged feet of my self-esteem, hobbling under the weight of a metric fuckton of guilt and pride. But they, unlike, me, have All/None of the time in the world.  SO they wait.

 I take another breath.

 ”What I think I’m trying to say is that Obedience is the part that I can do, even when it sucks, but I don’t have to like it.

Submission is the part I do even when I don’t like it, but it becomes something I DO enjoy…because the submitting feels right.”

 The MIC mutters, and Bubbles, of course, knows what I’m talking about. Being the part of me that is addictive, she knows all about doing what you don’t wanna do for the best and the worst reasons.

After a few minutes of confabulation, the MIC has an interim verdict.

 “You,”  they proclaim “are a hot mess. And you probably have no idea what the fuck you’re talking about.”

 ”I don’t,” I reply “and that is why I’m writing this right now. I’m taking the 15 minutes I need to disgorge this cud and swallow it back to another stomach for continued ruminations….”

 The Committee waves the yellow flag

 ”Your Analogies are fucking grossing us the fuck out. Please.  Just…just stop. Yellow.”

 I back off again…mostly because I have lots of work to do but also because the Office Whistler is making it impossible for me to think.

 ”Oh and doofus, do not fucking post this on your blog,”  they add “because someone will sure as fuck, and rightfully so, advise you see someone about that MPD you have going untreated there.”

 I don’t listen, of course.

 But I do wonder, in the back of my mind, in a small cage with a smaller hamster, running running running…why it is so easy for me to be obedient but so hard for me to really deeply submit…

When I know I don’t know.

Apr 172009
 

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.

Choking on “Shoulds.”

Mar 012009
 

One of the Happier Discoveries I made about being a pervert is that lots of the idiosyncrasies, pathologies, fetishes and freakish desires that many people frown upon in the General Public are not only just fine by pervs, but are actively encouraged.

You Like to boss people around? Great! Find yourself a pliant submissive and knock yerself out!

You wanna be degraded and heaped in abuse and scorn? AWESOME. Get yourself at the feet of a skilled top and you can rootle like the pig you are to your heart’s content.

But it is a continuous process, for me, accepting myself.

I have yet to run across a fetish or a play-style that I absolutely cannot fathom. 

I understand why people wish to pretend to be children.

I can see why scatological play fascinates people.

I absolutely grok furries.

I have no trouble at all embodying the desire to hurt, be hurt, to hit some dude in the grapes with a ball-peen hammer.

And I can view these things with compassion.

Except in one notable case.

And that is me.

See, I need a boss. A Daddy.  A Platoon Leader for my Army of One.

I need guidance, encouragement, a cheerleader, a parental figure.

Someone who will put my picture up on the refrigerator and call me in the middle of the day to tell me how proud they are.

And I see this as a fatal weakness. A character flaw.

I SHOULD be self-motivated. I SHOULD be able to be a “Self-Starter.”  I SHOULD be able to motivate myself to do for myself by myself. I SHOULD not need someone to pull me along by the nose, sometimes kicking and screaming, toward what I need.  I SHOULD keep my room tidy because that is what Good Girls Do.

That’s a whole shitload of shoulds.

The drawback to functioning so well under the measured guidance of a Boss is that the absence of said boss leaves one at loose ends sometimes.

Now, sometimes I do get motivated.  I was quite proud of myself last Friday when I took much-needed time off of work, wrestled the Mighty Kaiser Permanente, asked for help by way of borrowing a friend’s car,  saw 2 doctors for 2 different issues,  got my Flu AND Pneumonia vaccines, had my scrips filled, fucked shit up at Target,  did my shopping, hauled my loot home and up; the the 3rd floor all by myself, went to dinner for delicious matzoh ball soup,  and got back to bed in one piece.

On Friday, I had my Big Girl Panties on.

But it fucking stung to want nothing more at the end of the day to have that acknowledged by someone who was present and loving. 

The thing about being in service to someone is that it takes you out of your ”You-centric”  headspace and puts you into a mindset of gleaning joy from the service to another. 

And I love that, and I get that.

And I miss that. And it is an unshakable seismic ache, sometimes.

That’s all.

I…um.

Yeah. 

I have no pithy clever wrap-up tonight.

Just me, wondering why I’m built in this strange way.

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