In the Pink

Awake, inexplicably, and reveling in some Wynton Marsalis and Eric Clapton, courtesy of DomMale4Fem.

And I wonder to myself, as is my wont, how it is that suddenly so many people are interested in my blog. I asked around, you know. It would seem that my blog gets daily numbers, regardless of whether I have posted, of an amount comparable with the popular Hebrew blogs.

It's enormously flattering, particularly when I stick to my denial of the more insidious reasons why a person might stalk (sorry, read) another person's musings on Life, The Universe and Everything. Especially when quotes and attitude are then copied and presented -- in Hebrew, natch -- as innovations of a purely original nature.

Yes, I can read, and no, I don't forget quickly. The elephant and I have much in common -- my nose is somewhat shorter, and in some lights, my backside can even be perceived as somewhat smaller. But memory? Woo, yeah baby.

The more perceptive of you may have noticed that this is a topic I return to on a regular basis. I raise my hands in defeat -- you caught me. I am astounded at the numbers -- eternally grateful, of course; I have never hidden my inner blog whore -- but it would appear that there are more people out there who enjoy communicating en Anglaise than I could or would have ever imagined.

Basically, it's fucking bizarre. In fact, here's a challenge. Lurking Lovers of English Bloggery -- next time there's a munch -- soon I hope, it's in the planning stages as I type -- come up and talk to me in English. G'wan -- I dare ya.

Sometimes, you dive into a musical experience, and it grabs you and pulls you under.

You don't struggle or try to flee, because frankly, it's better this way.

This is me, today. Enveloped in Peter Gabriel, and loving every second.

Happy Friday, y'all.

Thanks for reminding me.

Love.

Such an underrated word -- such an overblown concept. The ancient Greeks (for all I know, the current Greeks also) have a plethora of words for love. It's a sensible way to handle things, since the one single poxy word that we use is greatly overstretched and strained to bursting.

Love, to me, when talking about my primary BDSM relationship, is mutual, warm, and all-encompassing. Not a day goes by without my thanking the *insert deity of your choice* for the love I have been blessed and honoured to find with that evil rotten Cat of mine.

****************************

I lay next to him, with him curled around me, and me around him. Outside the wind blew, belying the sunshine that streamed in through the window, but I was warm and enfolded in the arms of the Cat.

Unusually, it had not been the regular rollercoaster ride of a session, with upended furniture and paraphernalia hanging from various wall and ceiling fixtures. One could go so far as to call the previous few hours "sedate" -- word rarely used in conjunction with the Big Bad Cat and his notorious collection of pervertibles.

Distressed at seeing me in tears (over an incident unrelated to the session), he held me close and soothed me until I subsided. And that's how we stayed. Entwined and interwoven limbs, stroking and whispering, until my hiccups had faded and my breathing had returned to normal.

Still slightly sniffly, I turned to him.

"You don't mind that this session turned into a BDSM-less cuddle-fest, do you?"

He shifted fractionally, until his chin was resting on my head.

"Of course it's BDSM. Everything we do is BDSM. The difference is that it's also love, and a relationship. So it didn't involve flogging or spanking or roped restraint today. So what? You're still my Pink Tabby, and I'm still the NEMRF -- the bane of your existence and the love of your life."

He has such a wonderful way with words.

"Well, cuddles are on my fetish list on Fetlife."

"Zigackly."

😄

It always amazes me afresh, how badly skewed self-perception can be.

Seriously.

Rudyard Kipling, that purveyor of mightily fine tales, wrote a short story, dedicated to his Best Beloved (who, in the context of this site, one might think was his sub or his slave or his Dom, but who, I rather believe, was actually his daughter) called "The Butterfly who Stamped".

It was about a butterfly who wished to impress upon his mate, Mrs Butterfly (natch) that his foot stamping was the stuff of legends, and that when he stamped, all the animals in the jungle quivered.

It's a lovely story.

However, my focus tonight is more concentrated on the sort of butterfly who stamps and never enjoys anything but the sort of result that one might expect, were a butterfly to choose to stamp. It's quite disappointing, or at least it would be were such a butterfly capable of acknowledging any sort of reality. However, it doesn't preclude the butterfly from perceiving the world as entirely butterfly-centric.

What's more, when this kind of butterfly stamps, sometimes it likes to pretend that it didn't, and wipe out and obliterate all traces of the action.

Fortunately for those of us who enjoy a good evening's entertainment, not everyone is willing to succumb to the treacherous wiles of a revisionist historian, and we are privileged enough to see the truth as it was and as it is -- and as it will continue to be.

There was a point to this story, but if it isn't clear now, it never will be.

Time for bed.

Ta-ta, my lovelies...

...to entertain you all with some fablious soundz.

The beginning riff to this turns my knees to jelly, and melts my knickers as if they were so much rice paper.

Please note that I searched for an original version so that the purists among you (coughsighnomorecough) wouldn't complain about "hip' and "hop" -- although I like that version too, being a fusion-y, hippy chick type of gal.

(The harmonica riff reminds me of my Auntie May. Boy, was she ever a groover. Eight years older than my dad, and still going strong. And I'm no spring chicken, i can tell you.)

And just because I can, here's this, with infinitely preferable hair:

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Happy Monday y'all.

It is stupid that I cannot sleep.

Why does sleep elude me?

Ugh.

I love this song, despite the advert. Enjoy.

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There are ways in which it is better to attempt to communicate, and others in which it would be wiser to call it quits even before you start.

This goes for all communication, although the ways differ depending upon the medium. For example, when speaking with a person directly and face to face, screaming at the tops of your lungs is only acceptable if you are in a club-type setting. Anywhere or any time else, and screaming is hostile and unpleasant -- not to mention unlikely to get you laid. Which, let's face it, with the possible exception of business negotiations (and i say "possible" with my tongue firmly implanted in my cheek) is the required result of most discussions, directly or otherwise.

However, in this particular discussion, i would like to focus primarily on the range of online communication methodologies. Whether it be via email, chat or status message, there's a certain etiquette that should be followed, of basic and simple fucking good manners.

[And I do not mean the manners one exhibits while actually engaged in the act of fucking -- vanilla or otherwise.]

Don't get me wrong, the bad behaviour so often exhibited online is not confined to the BDSM arena. However, this blog being what and where it is, allow me to indulge myself, and concentrate on the Doms and subs who would, do, have and will approach(ed) me, with a few tips.

It does not matter to me how you describe yourself. Switch, Dom, Master*, slave, Top -- whatever. First and foremost, I want to meet a person. Only then, when we have established that we like each other as people, can we proceed to who holds what role, and when. (And where.)

Speak to me as you would speak to somebody who you just met, for that is exactly what I am to you. Introduce yourself, so that I know with whom I am dealing. I'm not asking for information which, by imparting it, would make you feel uncomfortable. I don't need to know your home address or your bank account number. Just an inkling as to who it is I'm entering into *something* with, and what you're like. If we can't establish communication that makes me feel good at this level, nothing else is EVER going to happen. Trust me on that one.

Once we have held the exploratory first conversation, whether it be held via chat, email or whatever, ensure that you follow up. I don't deny my own responsibility in the back and forth nature of a two-way conversation, but I make a point of ensuring that I don't do what I'm asking you not to do. Don't duck out or disappear on me. It's one thing if the conversation has run it's course, but another entirely if a message goes unanswered.

If you're trying to use leadership skills on me, forget it now. I'm blonde, but I'm not stupid. I'll see it, recognise it for what it is, and call it. Attraction, as a principle, is either mutual or it isn't, but don't fanny around playing silly buggers just to show what a domly dom you are. This does not impress me, and will earn you a swift trip to the Land Where One Does Not Get Any. One-way ticket.

Be a mensch. Be a "ben-adam". Act like a human being. Remember -- respect is earned, not granted automatically by allocating yourself a nickname that includes "Dom", Master" or "Your". Same for the subs and slaves -- let me know you and respect you enough to so that you feel you can trust me -- and then start offering to lick my boots -- not before. Otherwise, you simply pass on to me that you don't care who I am as long as you can worship me -- so why would I let you worship me since you're clearly doing nothing of the sort.

I'm not asking for a lot here, just basic consideration and forethought. Communication is the key. Let a person know that the tree which falls in the forest actually does make a sound.

It's basic etiquette, which in turn is a basic expectation.

No?

* It is my considered opinion that one can only be the Master of someone else. Ergo, calling oneself master when one is alone is anathema, and can be best summed up by the use of the word "bollocks". You're not a master until you have a slave/sub willing to allow you to be hers or his. I rarely, if ever, respond to anyone with such a nickname. Just so you know.

I am not a person who succumbs to sentimentality often.

Not that my consciousness cannot be tweaked by a sweet thought, or a kind word. Not that I do not have a deep appreciation of art and how it variously moves me, in one or any of its forms.

But sentimentality — of the artificial, uniformly packaged and bound variety, such as that perpetuated across the globe on Valentines day — leaves me colder than the mouldy piece of cheese at the back of my refrigerator.

I make a point of not participating in any calendar-scheduled romantic events, partly because for many years i was not in love and it made me feel excluded, worthless and inadequate, and partly because being of Jewish German, Polish and Lithuanian origin, i have a genetic tendency to be stubborn, argumentative and “just-so” about these things. Why should I necessarily demonstrate my love for another on *this* date?

Moreover, does doing so on this date make it more special, or does it detract from every other day of the year, and the love that should be going on 24*7? As if this date superseded any other, or precluded myself or my lover from doing so publicly at any other time.

It seemed false and manufactured, two of my worst fears when it comes to feelings between my heart and another. The fear being, of course, that said feelings were not genuine; that they had been summoned specifically in order to display how another heart felt for mine as a public, almost staged gesture. Which would prove me right, or rather, would prove Captain Paranoia right. I carry him with me, he sits happily and persistently on my shoulder, swinging his feet in the breeze and whispering mean and cruel nothings into my ear.

“He doesn’t really love you. He never did. He’s just doing what’s expected of him in order to keep the gossip-mongers down, or to make himself feel better. It’s about him, and the rest of the world, not you. Never you. You’re not worthy enough of the attention from another — and why would he or anyone else be able to truly love one such as you?”

Have you ever noticed how Captain Paranoia has a Santa Claus-like quality in that he manages to affect many people all over the world, all at the same time? No? Just me then. OK.

However.

When love is shown me spontaneously, particularly in light of the above, I accept it with no strings attached, and no second-guessing. It takes more than a single occurrence for me to be able to return the love as love per se, but i can and do reciprocate as honestly and genuinely as I can.

The NEMRF once sent me a poem. It happened on Valentine's day, but despite Valentines -- it was, in fact, a happy coincidence.

It wasn't that unusual an event. We often exchange poetry, since we both share a love for language and especially the beautifully intricate way in which a poet uses imagery to suggest feelings, emotions, notions, ideas, pictures and sensibilities. Imagery that belies the fact that, were they to be communicated using plain speech, they simply would not have the same effect.

Either way, I choose to share this poem with you, with all due credit to the original poet and translator. The beauty of receiving the poem on February 14th, the traditional celebratory date for the various Valentines who existed, but not as a “Valentine”, was very special for me. Much like everything he says, does or sends to me. Much like everything he is. Intended with love, but not because he has to.

El Alfarero (The Potter), by Pablo Neruda

Your whole body holds
a goblet or gentle sweetness destined for
me.

When I let my hand climb,
in each place I find a dove
that was looking for me, as if
my love, they had made you out of clay
for my very own potter’s hands.

Your knees, your breasts,
your waist
are missing in me, like in the hollow
of a thirsting earth
where they relinquished
a form,
and together
we are complete like one single river,
like one single grain of sand.

—Translated and © Mark Eisner 2004, from City Lights’ The Essential Neruda