It’s Cunt Week!
By kaya | July 22, 2008
Well, it’s only cunt week if you want it to be. Cunts seem to be the shared theme among bloggers this week. Everyone should show their cunt!
Cunt is an odd word for me these days. It’s my name, my Master-appointed name, and I answer to it as casually as I answer to Tess. I’m also fiercely protective of it. Master, when He’s irritated with a woman (a woman driver usually. He’s such a road rager!) will say something like “she’s such a cunt” and I get mad! I’m like hey, dude, that’s MY name. You can’t go around calling everyone a cunt. It’s mine, motherfucker. Hmmph.
Thing is though, I think the intentions He had in mind when He started calling me cunt haven’t worked quite as well as He’d hoped. It was supposed to be objectifying, derogatory, debasing. I was supposed to begin to see myself, see my purpose, as the name implied. A cunt for use and abuse.
I don’t..lol. Cunt is my pet name. Like snooks. He calls me snooks. He calls me cunt. I feel the same with both nicknames. *shrug* What do ya do?
But speaking of cunts I have a clip I’ve been supposed to post for almost two weeks now. (Oy. He’s not gonna be happy about that I’m betting. I’ll do that tonight after work.) (He’s not home yet, btw ~boo~, but He’s hoping to be home tomorrow night ~yay~)
Anyway, after the awful scene where I felt all dead inside, He set about making sure I could feel something. He attacked my cunt. Now, that’s hitting below the belt (pun optional). That’s not playing fair.
I loathe pussy pain. I hate it. I hate it so much I crave it because that’s what dumbass masochists DO. So He laid me down, spread my legs and.. made it hurt.
And I love/hated it. More love than hate considering that I’ve masturbated to the memory a billion times. Next time, I hope He’s even meaner. (oh! wait a minute. what is that? is that a.. a.. desire? Oh-em-gee!)
The zipper made me scream like a girl..lol How embarrassing.
I tried to get away but He had me locked in thumb cuffs. Who knew you could be so trapped by just your thumbs!
*sob* Owieeee.
So there you have it. My contribution to Cunt Week. Where’s yours? 
~cunt
Tags: pictures | 13 Comments »
If you ‘wannabe’ submissive, act like it.
By kaya | July 20, 2008
This thread makes me sad. (you’ll need a fetlife account but you don’t have to be a member of that group to read it.)
In summary, it’s a bunch of (mostly) single gals who are looking for a dom bitching about the “wannabes” and the “trolls” who approach them on bdsm dating sites. They’re quite gleeful about this man-bashing they’re doing, seem really proud of themselves about it.
I dunno, call me crazy, but wouldn’t it behoove you in your searches for a dom if you actually acted like a submissive? And, golly, why is it wrong again for a dom to behave dominantly?
Seems like a no-win situation for a single dom. If he makes the approach too aggressively (read:in a dominant manner) then he’s a troll, and if he makes the approach too passively, he’s a wannabe poser.
Master and I met online. I was just as ’spirited’ (cough) then as I am now. I was also submissive. I can imagine if my reply to His first dominant personality quirk had been something along the lines of calling Him a name, telling Him that “submissive does not equal doormat!”, or to ‘put Him in His place’, then we’d have gone no further in our relationship than that moment.
Sometimes I suspect that some “submissives” join these sites merely for the purpose of collecting man-bashing material. So they can giggle with their subbie-sisters and hold up the *proof* of why they are still single. “See?! It’s not that nobody wants me! Just look at what I have to choose from! Look at these losers. I’m single because I haven’t found anyone worthy of me, NOT because I’m not worthy. So ha! Ha ha! I have proof! He told me to kneel. Stupid wannabe.”
I think if I were a dom in search of a submissive, I would probably give a simple order right off the bat too, purely for the purpose of weeding out the man-bashing wannabe posing as a submissive.
~cunt
Edited to add: Sadly, Fetlife itself is making me sad in it’s entirety. I’m watching the few people I respect and admire trickling out and I’m not even wondering why. I know why. I think I’m not far behind them.
Tags: rants | 86 Comments »
I want to be a part of it, New York, New York…
By kaya | July 19, 2008
I’ve spent the last several days looking up travel/tourist information about Washington DC and New York City.
My eyes are crossed, my brain is numb and I’m more confused than when I started. So I turn to you good people.
Here’s what we want to do. Fly to DC, do the educational-touristy round there, and spend at least a small amount of time doing the same thing in NYC since I’ll probably never be that close to NYC again.
It’s a dream vacation. I’ve wanted to go to NYC since I was a little kid. Growing up surrounded by cornfields and pig shit led to some very romantic notions of life in the big city. I’ll never live there, but to see it even for a day would be huge.
I took one short plane ride when I was 15, but the kids have never been on a plane and I barely remember my trip, so the plane ride itself is part of the excitement. Master of course travels all the time so He’s nowhere near as excited as we are..lol In fact, I wouldn’t doubt that for Him “vacation” would mean staying home for a week. 
It is not set in stone. We didn’t win the lottery and any number of things could come along to force us to cancel, or drastically reduce(cheapen) the fun. So my task is to keep it as simple, cheap and doable as possible.
We’re thinking that renting a car would be an unneeded expense. Hopefully, the public transportation system through DC and NYC is easily managed. Any thoughts on that from anyone who uses/has used it?
The cheapest method of travel (that I’ve seen so far) from DC to NYC is a bus. This bus line to be exact. Amtrak, which was my first preference, looked pretty darn pricey (upwards of $400.00). I guess my question is - given the distance between DC and NYC, is it even conceivable to try and combine the two cities into one trip? Would renting a car just for the purpose of driving ourselves to the city be more of a headache with parking and traffic than the prospect of traveling by tour bus?
As for must-sees out there, I’m thinking the Holocaust museum, the Vietnam Wall, the White House -Statue of Liberty and Central Park. Other than that, I don’t know! Oh - and the ocean. I’ve never seen an ocean. And the Empire State Building. And Ground Zero. And and and…
So any travel tips for a small-town farmgirl heading to the Big City?
~cunt
Tags: vacation | 55 Comments »
“If one dream should fall and break into a thousand pieces, never be afraid to pick one of those pieces up and begin again.”
By kaya | July 19, 2008
On the long and boring drive to retrieve my children from Granny’s house today I gave lots of thought to the comments given to my expectation/desire dilemma of the past week. I cannot reply to each comment individually, but many of you were saying much the same thing so I think I can reply appropriately to each message in this post.
First, I seriously considered the depression comments. Believe me when I say that I do not see the need for medication, or therapy, as a weakness or as anything to be ashamed of so I’d not dismiss the possibility of depression for those reasons. However, I have come to the conclusion that I am not suffering from any sort of clinical depression, at least not of the variety that might warrant treatment.
I think it *is* a depressing situation, and it’s certainly not anything that causes me happy-happy-joy-joy feelings. But in my every day doings, and how I cope each day, I’m quite content and happy, pleasant and capable. I do not exhibit other signs of depression. My “problem” is completely limited to that one specific thing and has not (yet) affected other areas. Having said that, I think it may have the potential to become something that bleeds over into other areas, therefore, due to your comments, it is something Master and I will keep a watchful eye on.
The next common suggestion was communication. What can I say about this. It’s not anything I can argue with as being “bad” advice. It’s kinda like snatching a marothon runner up at the finish line and advising them to “breathe! You just gotta breathe!”. Totally inarguable as something vital - yet also really, really obvious and inane and a tad insulting.
I really do hate to say that I was insulted by advice that I’m sure was not meant to be insulting, it’s just that I had hoped that I’d put forth the impression that I was able to think of breathing on my own without being told to, you know?
Here’s another thing about communication. There can come a time when communication becomes excessive to the point of being a hindrance rather than an aid. There was a time when I needed, and Master required, that I spill every thought, where I was open and honest and transparent, where He needed to know me in order to control me. We’re just not there anymore. He knows me, and He knows enough about me, that my continued blatherings are as interesting as Seinfeld reruns.
I know that I no longer need to repeat old information to Him like a broken record, just as well as I know that He needs to hear the new information because He’s not a mind reader. I gave up the “well if you loved me enough, you’d know what was wrong!” game a long time ago.
Wants vs. Needs was next. Now there’s an endless debate, eh? Master decided on my needs long ago. I have four basic needs - air, food, water, shelter. Everything else is a want. I may think my want is a need because I long for it with every cell in my body, but that longing does not magically transform it into a need. There may be wants that make me a better person, a person easier to live with or better able to serve, but again, that only gets to be a need if Master *needs* me to be that person. He can, and does, change what He *needs* from me on a daily basis, thereby adjusting the catering to my *wants*.
Whether or not He comes to the conclusion that I *need* something else, or something more, from Him in order to maintain my purpose in His life remains to be seen. I’m not approaching this problem of mine from the postion that He *needs* to fix it. Because it wasn’t a problem that HE identified (which would have acknowledged that it’s a problem for *Him*) my approach, and my question to you all here was what can *I* do, or what have you all done, to cope with this.
Expectations and Disappointment. Align my desires with His, lose the expectations, and voila! no more disappointment. Sage advice really, if that’s what I was trying to do. I guess I wasn’t able to clarify that that’s what I had already done, which, in essence, is the “new” problem.
Oh I admit this was a huge issue for me once upon a time. I had my expectations, mostly unrealistic I might add. I came into this with some hugely fantastical ideas of what it should be like, of how He would act and how I would act and how life would be. And I was sorely disappointed when reality kicked my ass. It was a job to pull my head out of the clouds and align myself with Him. It was a job to not be as annoying as a chihauhau on crack, bouncing and yapping around His ankles, going “play with me! play with me! PLAY WITH ME! yap yap yap!” It was a job to learn to not be devastated when play was put aside in favor of sleep, food and paychecks.
But I did it, see. I stopped expecting and I stopped being disappointed. I rolled with the punches (pun optional). If whatever happened, then - whatever happened happened. Or didn’t happen. I did my stuff, my service stuff as He wanted, without constantly thinking about what I would get out of it or when I would “get paid”, accepting, finally, that I’m not going to get paid, it’s not about what *I* get out of it, and either way, I still have to do what I do. His expectations didn’t change, mine had to.
There’s no build up of resentment. There may have been early on but that proved pretty quickly to be a useless waste of energy.
So when I read the comments advising me to align my desires and drop my expectations all I could think was I did! I have. Mission accomplished. And as a result of doing that - now I have this. This.. apathy… and what do I do about *that*.
Walk away. Leave. Do it or don’t do it (but ’shut the fuck about it’ seemed to be the rest of the message). I despise this as advice. Seriously. Not everyone is looking for a way out, nor should giving up be encouraged so readily. There are instances where “get out” is appropriate immediate advice, but I am not one of them nor do I think I’ve ever given the impression that I need that. And honestly, how discouraging is it to hear that the only “fix” for your situation is to abandon it? Or that it’s not okay to whine about it (if I am whining and I’m not decided that I am yet) without someone dooming a relationship to failure. Besides, unless you’ve only just started reading me today, you should already know this - leaving is not an option. Period.
I’m more than willing to have the whole “can I or can’t I leave” discussion if anyone is interested, but for now let’s just scratch that off as an option. So since it’s not an option, what I’d really like to do is find a way to deal with this *within* the confines of the relationship.
Which leads me to “harden the fuck up and deal”. That’s really not bad advice. That’s also what I’ve been doing for months. I’m ‘dealing’. I’ll continue to ‘deal’ because, thus far, there is nothing more I CAN do. I thought I could talk about it and maybe find something more attractive than “harden the fuck up and deal”, something more pleasant - but maybe there isn’t anything.
I am still deeply considering the accepting of the acceptance, which ties neatly into being Master’s puppet. There is truth in that if He wanted me to return to that eager, greedy, yapping painslut who begged for it, He knows how to create that again, just as He knows how to shut it(me) off. Perhaps He needs to do His own experiments with me, creating and destroying multiple times in multiple ways before He can decide which of me better suits His needs. Maybe I suit Him now, as is, and indefinitely shelving what I once was will continue on. Maybe beating me while I hang there, impassive and detached, excites Him. Beating me until the pain trumps the apathy; a moment of triumph not quite equalled when I’m otherwise so willing.
If He were here, He’d pop me in the mouth and tell me to stop fucking analyzing everything to death.
Now there’s some sound advice that I should take.
G’night
~cunt
Tags: M/s rambles | 27 Comments »
“My passions are all gathered together like fingers that make a fist.”
By kaya | July 17, 2008
Master must think I have go-go-gadget arms or something. Srsly, who can do this??
I tried.
But darn these limited joints of mine!
The sad thing was that I so heartily threw myself into cleaning to earn that orgasm (and the house is shiny I might add *beams*) that I cleaned until about 8pm, at which point I was so bloody tired I didn’t care if I came or not..lol
I vibed for a little while but kept getting distracted by worrying over the homemade laundry soap (which is working fine and it’s certainly a money saver, but the website clearly stated that it would be a gel-ish goop and what I have is cloudy water. So I’m obsessing over what I did wrong. Anyway… ) then I watched porn for a little while, but I was only getting irritated at how they are “doing it wrong!” so finally I just got-r-done, as Larry would say. I did come, though, I mean shoot, I’m not going to waste it or anything.
In other news, my butt itches. I know I know, that’s probably more about kaya than you wanted to know but that is kinda the “theme” of my journal here isn’t it? I should change the name from ‘Under His Hand’ to ‘TMI About Kaya’s Privates’.
I walked around at work today shoving my hands down the seat of my pants every time I could sneak off into a hidden corner or doing The Twist in my chair claiming I had taken up chair dancing as a new exercise.
But WHY does my butt itch? Surely no one will sleep tonight if they don’t get the answer to that question. I know I won’t sleep tonight (because I’m too busy scratching, but that’s not the point). Well. I shall not share that sort of private info out here in the open. Me and my itchy-butt-secrets are jumping behind a cut.
Tags: fisting, pictures, tasks | 24 Comments »
Any movie buffs out there?
By kaya | July 16, 2008
I’ve been trying to find a movie that I saw a million years ago.
I *think* it had Alec Baldwin and Michelle Pfeiffer in it. Though I could be so wrong on both of those actors. And I think Michelle Pfeiffer played a dual role, playing her own twin who was in prison and they did an escape/switch so the one could kill Alec Baldwin.
I think there was one scene where Alec Baldwin was on his way home in the middle of the night and had called home with a very precise list of what he wanted her to have cooked, what she should be wearing, etc. And I seem to recall a rather steamy bathroom/sex scene where she did a little strip tease.
Sound familiar to anyone?
EDIT::::
It might be Final Analysis. It could be that I’m remembering two different movies and am mixing the two plots together, too. The abusive husband angle fits for sure, as does the lighthouse scene that seems vaguely familiar. But I am positive, for sure positive, about the woman playing dual roles and switching places with her “twin” in prison. The point of that, if I’m not mistaken, was so the murder would be gotten away with. (How could the twin do it when she was locked up kinda plan) I *think* the husband didnt know the twin existed. Or something. I don’t think Basinger and Thurman look enough alike to have played the twins that I wouldn’t remember it being two different woman in the role.
I sure can’t find it though. I’ll have to pick up a copy of Final Analysis to see how much that fits and where I’m mixing up plots. What makes the movie stick out in my mind was the clear domination/submission role between the husband and wife. Especially the scene where he called home and gave that precise list to her.
Bah.
A change of scenery does wonders.
By kaya | July 16, 2008
How’s that for a change of scenery? *snicker* Sometimes it’s just too damn difficult to work a photo into a post. But Master wants the picture, so Master has the picture. Ta-fucking-da.
Before Master left, I told Him that we can’t blame the house being messy on the kids anymore. They’ve been gone for a week and a half and the house is a disaster. Considering that He and I have done nothing more than go to work so we can rush home and fondle each other’s gentalia, it’s no big surprise. Doing dishes and vacuuming just doesn’t hold the same appeal, yanno?
So as He was leaving, He told me I can’t masturbate until the house is spotless. Which just cracks me up. It sounds so much like something I say to the kids “No, you can’t play with your friends until your room is clean”, instead He’s saying “No, you can’t play with yourself until the house is clean.”
It’s a motivator though! I also have a task to do today (how long has it been since I’ve had a task!?) which I can do either with or without an orgasm, makes no difference to Him, but I certainly prefer to do it with an orgasm so a’cleaning I shall go.
That’s my plan for the day. I’m done working and I’m laying aside that other topic for a bit. I’m going to sink into my June Cleaver persona, put on the apron that lovely kate sent me, and clean my messy house. In fact, I may start right here as I think there is a drip of semen on the wall to my right. (tee hee) And a dildo that needs washed. (how nasty would it be if I stuck it in the dishwasher with the dishes? Is that too much or do y’all do that, too?)
There is a big thunderstorm rolling in, I can already hear the thunder rumbling and I love wicked thunderstorms. Imma lay out the candles and unplug the comp and turn up the stereo and go clean clean clean!
~cunt
Tags: pictures | 18 Comments »
“I keep clicking these damn shoes, but nothing happens”
By kaya | July 15, 2008
(my response to a comment a few posts back)
I think, possibly, the phrase of ” all day fantasizing about something” has been taken literally when, for me at least, it’s not. I understand what you mean, and should it actually be the case where I were sitting here all day building up fantasies, then the let-down would indeed be understandable, and my own fault to boot.
But I see it, I mean it, as a more abstract idea of “all day fantasizing”. In that, this is the situation that He created, the focus that He wanted and fostered and sacrificed to make. He systematically eliminated, with great skill and determination, the outside distractions that prevented me from focusing on slavery and service and usefulness (etc. etc.) He demanded, still demands, that my number one priority is being His slave, of always being mindful that what I do is in service to Him. I don’t *just* clean the house because I’m a housewife. I clean it the way He wants it cleaned because He wants it cleaned on the day He wants it cleaned. Which may sound like I’m trying to romanticize the simple fact of cleaning the fucking house like every other person has to do, but it’s not meant to be that way at all. It has been beaten, sometimes literally, into me that every act, every move is done for Him or because of Him, or because He allows it.
The very existence of my day IS focusing on slavery. Not hours spent daydreaming about it, hours spent doing it. So yeah, I focus and focus and focus on the mean, awful, rotten but lively things about it because I cannot NOT do so anymore.
Maybe that makes no sense. I don’t know up from down anymore.
You’ve hit something right on the head though. And that’s the manipulation, the topping from the bottom, the bargaining.
I well remember the bratting, and I think we’ve moved far past that. Except in instances where we both know it’s happening and it’s actually happening in a teasing, enjoyable manner, we’ve conquered that beast.
However, to lay this particular beast open for Him feels much, MUCH the same way. Here I am saying “Look, if you don’t beat me/use me as I need to be beaten and used, I’m left to fall down this rabbit hole of angst and depression and self-denial” is it not exactly the same thing? Am I not saying “do it my way, as I need it, or else”? It feels like I am, when in fact, I do not mean to be. I’m merely acknowledging the problem without expectation that He can or will do diddly squat about it. In fact, I’m more searching for ways that *I* can “fix” it because I dare say that whether He acknowledges it as a “problem” for Him, I do not anticipate that He’s going to change or alter what He does with me anymore than He ever has.
~~*~~
There are still a lot of comments to explore and absorb and try on for size and either reject or embrace as usuable, applicable, advice. I’m also trying not to systematically reject each one based on “nobody gets it, nobody gets ME, because I am special and unique and blah blah blah…” because I am not even though I wish I were.
The thing is, this isn’t a new “problem”, not something that’s plaguing me now out of the blue. It’s not even a new topic of conversation between Master and I, nor is it a subject of heated debate. It’s just something that is, something that happens. Which is nobody’s fault and I’m not looking to lay blame, unless of course I can demand a refund from the Universe.
What brought it up so poignantly for me was, though I try really hard to bury even the lack of desire that comes from burying the expectations (I have a literal graveyard in my head I think), on this occasion I was not able to. When Master pulled me to Him at one point, either Friday or Saturday, and began the dirty talk of what He wished to do to me, I reacted. By not reacting.
Kinda threw Him for a loop, to be honest. Of course I have times where I’m not in the mood but these moments of being in the dead zone, which are a far cry different than a “mood” are not only happening more frequently, but stronger. It is disturbing.
I remained in that dead zone throughout an entire session. I felt.. nothing.
I was cut and I was whipped and I was flogged and I was fucked and I was clamped and I was spit on, slapped, paddled and pissed on.
And I felt nothing.
Nothing.
I felt dead.
Never before has that feeling persisted throughout an entire scene. I may feel it going in, that familiar lack of desire, but always before it’s been tapped and opened and I am not able to resist the pull of masochism and slavery and use. I did not try to resist it this time either. I waited for it to come as it always has, the endorphins, the adrenaline, whatever it is that makes me tick - I waited for it, until it was over and I was showered and bandaged and left silently crying and telling Him that it was gone.
It was quite the emotionally disturbing scene for me.
But there is more and is not all so doom-n-gloom as this was. Unfortunately, work awaits me as it is my ‘two-for-Tuesday’ workday where I do both the morning and afternoon shift. So off I go to be a productive and responsible member of society!
~cunt
Bah.
By kaya | July 15, 2008
Scratch that whole smoking post. Doesn’t fit.
“If you must play, decide on three things at the start: the rules of the game, the stakes, and the quitting time”
By kaya | July 14, 2008
(First, I want to apologize for not being present sometimes when the conversation in the comments gets as interesting as it often does. Well, I don’t apologize for not being here when I’m off being where He’s told me to be, but I do feel like I sometimes put something out there and then sort of “abandon” the topic when He pulls me away. I hope any of you who comment know that I never intend to be rude, and that I do read, and appreciate, all of your words. Since Master is leaving ~sob~ I hope I can catch up with what’s been said. I don’t always like having to choose between comment or post, but such is life and in this short amount of time that I have right now, I want to post. So get on with it then, right? )
Three and a half years ago I quit smoking. I was a wonderful smoker too. Extremely dedicated to the art of it. I’d been smoking since I was quite young, 13 or so, back when you could buy cigarettes without an ID and when a pack was a mere $0.75. Quite often my little group of ‘homies’ would pool our change, buy a pack at the gas station and then smoke the entire thing between us. Of course back then, smoking was still cool, the Marlboro Man was a sex symbol, cigarettes weren’t addictive and cancer wasn’t caused by tobacco. By the time “they” admitted that it did, I was well and truly addicted.
By the time I was 16 and able to finance my habit on my own, I smoked a pack, sometimes two packs a day - for the next 18 years. I smoked when I was pregnant, I smoked in front of my kids,(go on and beat me up for it, you cannot possibly beat me up more than I have myself. I was blessedly lucky that none of my kids, so far, suffered any ill-effects from my selfishness) I smoked all the time. I chain-smoked. Buying cigarettes, as the price began to rise, came first out of each paycheck. Before rent, before groceries, before anything, was cigarettes.
I enjoyed smoking. I liked it. I liked the taste, the feel, the smell. I liked holding it, I liked inhaling it and exhaling it. I liked having one (or six) with coffee. I liked having one after a meal. I liked getting that first deep drag on that first break at work. I loved having one after sex, and I liked to smoke while I was driving. Having the window down, radio on, arm out the window and a good tasting cigarette made a summer afternoon drive pleasant. But the best, the very very best cigarette of all, was with a drink, in a bar, hanging with some friends.
I look back on my smoking years with some fondness. Obviously. I know that for all the bad that surrounds smoking, that doesn’t subtract from the genuine enjoyment I got out of it, an enjoyment that I still miss.
You know what I didn’t enjoy, not one stinking tiny little iota? Quitting. Quitting smoking was without a doubt the most difficult thing I’ve ever done in my life. Smoking was(is) a horrific physical addiction, as well as a horrific mental addiction. People who want to say it’s “just a habit” are full o’ shit, because while part of kicking it IS kicking the habit of the ritual of smoking, there is a LOT more to it than breaking a simple habit.
Quitting smoking, and anyone who does smoke and who has ever tried, and either failed or succeeded in quitting, will likely agree, is a bitch. A big, fat, smelly, rotten bitch.
It sucked, from the very second I crushed out that last cigarette - the very. second. that I knew I would never have another one, was the very second I started craving one.
And it’s never stopped.
Sometimes it’s nothing more than a low buzz, like constant background noise, almost forgettable until I see someone with one, or catch a pleasant whiff and then that low, buzzing, background noise kicks up into a quick, high-frequency beep for a time.
Other times it’s a deep and stong pull. A heart-thumping, palm-sweating need where I can picture myself going through the motions of tapping one from the pack, settling it between my lips, the quick flash of the lighter and the harsh burn that I imagine that first puff will be. The sweet heaven of filled lungs, and the rush of nicotine coursing through me– light-headed euphoria.
There are two reasons why I have not smoked since Master handed me that last cigarette three and a half years ago. The first reason, and what should be the more important reason, is because Master has forbidden it. I say it *should be* because, well, because it should be - but it isn’t.
Not so long ago, a few short weeks, my friend from Illinois came to visit. She smokes. She and I used to smoke together. In fact, I dare say that our friendship’s roots can be traced to a smoking hut, where we met at work and took our breaks together. Over countless cups of coffee and hurriedly puffed cigarettes, in 15 minute intervals, we became, officially, BFF’s. (though she has not gotten me the cool BFF necklace. *pout*)
During her stay here, for one afternoon, Master left us alone together for several hours. We sat outside and she chain-smoked. And I craved, in that heart-thumping, palm-sweating-need kinda way, I drooled over her cigarettes. I wanted one. I needed one.
I got the shakes.
It wasn’t Master’s order that I would never smoke again that stopped me from begging one, just one quick puff from her. I’d already considered, and already knew, that I could do it and I could get away with it with relative ease, and probably relatively little guilt. (spoken like a true addict. rationalize and excuse.) I knew that she would give me one if I asked, and I also knew that for all her teasing about tattling (as she’s well aware of what our relationship entails), that she would not. Probably would not. And if she did, well.. it is easier to beg forgiveness than to ask for permission.
But what stopped me, what has stopped me every single time I’m face to face with the possibility of smoking a cigarette, is knowing that once it’s over and I’ve snubbed it out - I’ll have to quit again.
I have not forgotten, nor romanticized, the absolute hell that those first few weeks were. I do not ever, ever, ever, want to have to do that again. When I’m standing there, with my hands shaking and my mouth drying and my lips quivering with the possibility of one more cigarette and I think for just a moment about going through the process of quitting again? No thank you. I’d rather deal with that brief moment, and stuff that craving down, than feed it, awaken it, bring it back alive - and have to slay it again.
Count me out. I won once and once was hard enough.
Imagine for a moment, if once every 2 or 3 months, Master sat me down and handed me a couple of smokes. Imagine that He lit me up, poured me a drink, and sat with me, laughing and joking and creating this jolly good time around those smokes. And when I’d finished a couple, or even finished a day or two of indulging in chain-smoking, imagine that He crushed up the rest of the pack, tossed it in the garbage, forbid me from smoking again - and left me, once more, to quit.
On my own, no help, no support, no sympathy. No listening to complaints, no excuse for being cranky or crabby. To just quit - again.
Only to do it again some couple of weeks, or months, or days, later. Hand me cigarettes, create the setting where smoking is fun and glorious and indulgent - and then take it away. To quit again and again and again.
I would think, and perhaps I’m wrong, but I believe that no matter how badly I might crave that cigarette, no matter how much I may want to feed that desire, knowing the hell of quitting that will follow would make me shy away from each smoking session. To begin to see smoking, even given with His permission and without having coerced Him into it, to see it, know it, as the enemy. The prequel to having to quit, to stuff it down and kill it again.
And that is exactly how I have begun to approach scenes. It’s not about having unrealized expectations or about disappointment or about finding happiness in what I get. It’s not that AT ALL. I am, I HAVE accepted what He gives, no more and no less. I do not manipulate or coerce or beg or whine or plead for something more or even for something different.
What I can’t figure out, what I can’t seem to DO, is to be that happy, laughing masochist, or that happy smoker trotting out with the ashtray, joyfully accepting the process of quitting that I know is to follow.
Maybe there is no way. I know I cannot “fake it”, I know that I wear my emotions on my sleeve and that He knows, sees, feels, breathes my reluctance and my fear. I know that it’s difficult for Him to understand it. Here He is, giving me that which I crave and need, and I’m mentally sidling away, trying to find a corner of my mind to hide in because I know that if I hold a bit of me back, it’s easier to get back to where I’m safe. It’s easier to stuff it down and shut if off when life takes over again.
I’m not asking how to deal with the expectations. I’ve done that. I’m not asking how to deal with being disappointed as I’ve done that too. I’m not asking about fairness or needs or how to manipulate or how to behave or whose fault it is or if I should leave. None of that.
Maybe I don’t even know what I’m asking. Maybe I’m not asking anything because it’s unanswerable. Maybe it just IS. Maybe I’m just acknowledging that a piece of me is dying and it saddens me, scares me a little and maybe I’m fighting to hold on to something that I shouldn’t.
As always, when I let it be, something better usually awaits.
… to be continued…
~cunt
ps. I’m not sure that the smoking example fits. I thought it did when I was babbling away to Master earlier, but now it’s all fuzzy and has holes and… bah. I should not be allowed to post when He’s just driven off and left me alone. I’m quite…. unstable. Unstable but really wide awake, which sucks butt considering I have to be to work in 4 hours. Bugger.
Tags: M/s rambles | 12 Comments »
