Changing red tides

Cautionary note to reader: If you are repulsed or culturally offended by frank discussion concerning normal female biology, including menstruation, this is not the column for you.

I read Sassy's blog today about her experiences with her Dominant unlocking the doors to her mind, specifically her sexuality. It lead me to think about the ways my boyfriend has changed my view of myself and yes, my sexuality.

For the record, this is not the first D/s flavoured relationship I've been in, although as I grow in this one, I tend to characterize the last one less as a D/s relationship and more as just abusive. The thing that has set this one apart from any other relationship I've been in is how it's expanded me. Where other men have worked hard to make me less than what I was, or just didn't care, Michael (pseudonym alert) is interested in opening me up. This isn't always an easy process because it bounces up against a few basic principles I like to think most of us subscribe to: consent and respect for limits. When is a Dom pushing too hard, when is he violating a limit, when has he transgressed past consensual? When is he leading me past the limitations of my own beliefs and when does he know that my refusals are negotiable, even if I don't know that they are myself? If I can ever get Michael past the nastiness of our former blogging home, he might volunteer some thoughts on this matter. Until then, you're stuck with me.

While my parents are neither prudish nor conservative in any sense, I was raised in a very proper and some would say formal home. My father is a wonderful and generous man who will discuss almost anything at the drop of the hat but there were some topics that were simply Mother's bailiwick. Chief among those topics were everything to do with menstruation and contraception.

Menarche, for me, was awful. I suffered wickedly from 'cramps'. I felt dirty. My body didn't feel right. I was bloated and my clothes didn't fit properly. I was moody and depressed by days. And then the flow…that was the worst. The ick factor of this junk coming out of me. The constant fear that something would leak and overflow. The dirtied sheets. The soiled panties.

And then there was the pain. I didn't just have menstrual cramps. I had three days a month of living hell. I would hurt to the point of nausea. My belly hurt, my back hurt, my legs hurt. Twice in high school, I had to call my mother to come get me from school because I couldn't continue. The pills the doctor gave me helped but not enough.

Of course, time is often the cure for these things. As I've grown older, my monthly cycle has either eased up or I've just become accustomed to it. It's not an every month hell fest anymore. I have just an occasional reminder every three or four months of just how nasty this all can be. I hadn't realized how much I had absorbed a belief of "menstruation as taboo" until I moved in with Michael. He came home from golfing one afternoon this summer to find me on top the bed with a hot water bottle, curled tightly into the fetal position, suffering like a dog. I felt nauseous and dizzy and oh my God, I hurt. The spasms were relentless.

"You okay?" he asked as he came into the darkened bedroom.

"Cramps." I grunted in reply.

"Oh, babe…" I could sense his sympathy as he slid onto the bed behind me, rubbing my arm and shoulder. "Anything I can do to help?" He did help, actually. Rubbing my shoulders and my hip, stroking my hair, helped me release some of the tension that had moved into the rest of my body. Mostly, it just felt good lying in bed, resting, with his arm over me. My breathing smoothed out a bit and while I still hurt like hell, the blind panicky nature of my body's assault on me had subsided.

He kissed the back of my shoulder. "I heard that hot, wild, orgasmic sex is good for them."

My entire body stiffened immediately. "Don't even go there. That's disgusting. I'm completely gross right now."

"Hmmmmmmmmmm" was the reply from behind me in that tone that tells me this discussion is far from over. His hand slid up under my blouse, fingers stroking the oh so sensitive underside of my breast.

"I don't want to. No." I complained as he rolled me onto my back. He knelt over me, knees on either side of my hips, undoing the buttons on my blouse, exposing me. Even through the fog of the pain, I could feel myself responding in those old familiar ways.

"No, what? No, you don't want me to touch you? No, you don't want to be bothered? No, you hurt too much? No, you're refusing me? Which is it, doll?"

I couldn't answer him. My mind was stuck at "it's gross, I'm disgusting right now". My body was the enemy right now. I hated it. I hated its filthy bloated nature.

His touches were both gentle and firm. The sensitivity of my little breasts was … exquisite. He pulled his shirt off over his head and as I looked up at him, I could see his hardness against the zipper of his jeans.

Now, I've always been a very good girl and I'm all for looking after my man when Mother Nature inconveniences me. I firmly believe that is why the finer art of the blow job was invented in the first place and that's what I offered.

"Not what I'm interested in today." He pulled my shorts and panties off roughly and I could feel my ass against the roughness of the towel I had on the bed to protect it in case of 'an accident'. He pushed my knees apart and I felt embarrassed, humiliated that he could see me in less than perfect condition.

"Let me go shower first." I pleaded.

"You showered this morning. I want you now." He finished undressing and was on top of me. He was gentle and tender in his touches and his kisses. Stroking me, warming me, helping me over the hurdle of m own disgust in myself. I stiffened once when his fingers found my sex. I didn't want him soiling himself on my unclean state.

"Shhush shush, little one. It's only me." It didn't take long before my body surrendered to him. As I relaxed on the bed, basking in the pleasure that he brings me, I could feel him pushing inside me. It was different: slicker, smoother. He felt so good. I felt so protected and warm, comforted by the increasing urgency of his strokes. The look on his face wasn't one of disgust or repulsion. This is a man who loves me in all my states.

And, for the record, wild, orgasmic sex does ease menstrual cramps. I felt much more like my old self in a couple of hours when we awoke from the much needed nap. When we did arise from our lover's fog, and found our way to the shower, something changed for me. The shame was gone. Was he right to push past my "No's". In this case, I think he was. The results were an improvement for me. For someone who has been trapped and wounded by the false Gods of "perfection", having him embrace my "imperfections" is liberating. Could I have stopped him if I really objected and truly could not go there? I believe I could. I trust my ability to communicate non-consent to him clearly, and more so, I trust he will always respect those boundaries.

But I think that this was a boundary I needed to be pushed past. This man loves me. I am always beautiful to him. He desires me even when I'm not 'spa perfect'. It bodes well for our future. It's comforting to know he'll still find me beautiful through future body changes. We're not ready yet, but someday, I hope my body is swollen and contorted with his children. If nothing else, he has helped me feel comfortable in my woman's body, instead of pining for the 'purity' of a girl's body that has long faded into the past.

~~doll~~

Ego Te Absolvo – I forgive you

I have been in the relationship where I was expected to be perfect. The perfect girlfriend. The perfect cook. The perfect housekeeper. The perfect slut. Within 18 months, I was a physical, emotional and psychological wreck. I was afraid every single nanosecond of the day. I was exhausted. I was discouraged and demoralized and eventually dumped because...wait for it… I wasn't perfect.

In the meanwhile, I had fallen out with my parents over this man and had irreparably damaged relationships with friends who are not near so forgiving as parents. My parents completely despised this man and I'm sure it was the happiest day of their life when he kicked my scrawny, weeping, shaking self to the curb. My parents did whatever was needed to get me out of his clutches for good, including moving me to another city. I'm sure my father longed for the days when you could ship defiant daughters off to the nunnery until they came to their senses.

I nearly killed myself trying to be perfect for a man. It wasn't a lack of trying on my part. But here's the truth of the matter – you cannot please someone who doesn't desire to be pleased. There will always be something wrong. There will always be a fleck of dirt, an incorrect seasoning, a misplaced object. A girl will be either too fast getting to her knees or not fast enough. If a man wants to be displeased, he will be displeased. And it was always my fault. I took on the burdens of the world. If only I was more…this…or less that… he would be pleased. It never crossed my mind that the fault did not lay within me but rather in his expectations and his increasingly ridiculous demands. For him, it was a power trip. The more he could make me feel worthless and filled with self-loathing, the more powerful he felt. Unfortunately, I was so in awe of him that I tossed my commonsense out the window along with my self-respect. He never beat me. He didn't have to. His withdrawal of affection and constant disapproval was enough to cow me. In fact, it nearly destroyed me.

Today I'm perfectly happy being perfectly imperfect. I'm in love with a man who loves me not in spite of my personality quirks but because of them. My little idiosyncrasies are part of his delight in me. And for the first time in my adult life, I'm not afraid. I haven't been truly afraid in months. For sure, I've had moments when some event has frightened me or I've become anxious over a specific issue. What I don't do anymore is quake and feel nauseous for two hours every afternoon wondering which rule I've broken this time. I don't wonder if I'll be spoken to tonight or will I be exiled again.

It's not that the man I'm with now and I don't fight. We're a real couple and we have real disagreements: Differences of opinion – about daily; Full fledged disagreements – about monthly. An out and out fight – well, we've had one. Only once in the little better than a year we've been together have I had to knock on his door to say I was sorry. We weren't living together at the time and I don't even remember what the issue was about now. I do remember I was in the wrong. And after having agonized over the problem, going from enraged to truly contrite in the space of about four hours, I drove over to his apartment to ask for his forgiveness.

Obviously, I was absolved. The fight's content has never come up again. In fact, I asked him last night if he remembered what it was about and the details have escaped him as well. It's either that, or he's just a very remarkable gentleman and true to his word that he had forgiven me.

Something changed in our relationship that evening as I stood weeping my shame and contrition against his chest, his strong arms around me. His words "Yes, I forgive you" cracked something in my psyche. It was the beginning of me letting him into my heart and my life. I lost my need to protect myself around him, from him. I was learning to trust him enough to let him see my flaws and my errors, my weaknesses. I could let go of protecting me long enough to start building an "us".

I'm not in awe of my boyfriend. He's not some remote God-like figure in my life. He's much more than that. Fundamentally, he's a good, decent and caring man. He's funny and loving and even when I disagree with him, I respect him enormously. I can count on his good character to protect me and nourish me and help me grow. Am I stupid in love with him? You betcha. Do I trust him? Absolutely. And it's all because he was big enough to truly forgive me instead of using my very humanness as a weapon against me.

Note to reader: This is a part of a writing assignment given to me by my boyfriend when I was struggling with writer's block. He gave me a list of Latin phrases and expressions to use as inspirational fodder. This is one from that series.

Theory versus Reality

This blog is largely inspired by two I read yesterday. The first was A Dominant Character’s on Reconceptualizing Dominance. The other was from Green Girl’s What I wonder blog. Both blogs are ~~doll~~ recommended and worth the time it takes to read them.

I have a confession to make. I’m typing this blog wearing jeans and a sweater and winter ankle boots in a café at the edge of campus. Like Green Girl, I don’t run around all day in silk lingerie, stilettos and a dog collar. There is no fur on our floors unless the cat is shedding again and I haven't found the time to vacuum. My boyfriend is more likely to be spotted in a dark coloured tailored suit and a white shirt than a loincloth. Loincloths are so impractical for our Canadian winters and he carries a briefcase not a broadsword.

I’ve been talking with some friends lately about on-line relationships versus real life ones. For the record, I hate that terminology, but I’ve not found a substitute that didn’t feel clumsy. I’ve never had an online sexual/romantic relationship so it’s a bit hard for me to compare the two approaches. If nothing else, having met people who are involved in cyber love affairs has made me appreciate dirty socks on the floor that didn’t quite hit the “basket”. At least I get to plant my cold little feet on his kidneys at 4 in the morning for revenge.

We may be a D/s couple but we’re a couple first. Like all couples, we are constantly negotiating with each other and with life. We have a theory about how our life is supposed to work and then we have the reality. Theory says I’m supposed to cook dinner and have it ready for him when he gets home. I’m good with that. I love cooking. I love cooking for him even more. I get a great deal of pleasure out of making his meals.

And then reality hits. Printer dies before my paper is printed and new ink cartridge is nowhere to be found. I lost the file with my bibliography. The cable guy, who promised faithfully he’d be here by 2, isn’t. The toilet in the guest bath backed up and the cat threw up hair balls all over the shirts he’s going to need for court tomorrow. Welcome to my real life.

Dinner? Whatever he picks up on the way home. Chinese? Greek? I don’t care. Just deal with it because right now, I’m trying to rescue your shirts.

When he gets home, there’s no talk or threat of punishment because his dinner isn’t on the table. He’s grateful for the shirts being rewashed, starched and ironed. He puts the groceries away and feeds the cat while I set the table. This is where our relationship is forged. We might express the nature of our relationship in the bedroom but that’s not where it’s made. It’s made with all the little things. It comes from him getting up early on a Saturday morning and taking my Jeep in for new winter tires without me asking or even thinking about it. It’s about me leaving the dishes so he can watch his hockey game in peace without the whirr of the dishwasher or the clanging of cupboard doors. It’s the dinner table conversation over the day’s headlines.

And when the hockey game is done and the dishes are put away and we’ve both made our way to that sacred space known as the bedroom, this is where our relationship is renewed. Rough, tender, fast, hard, soft, slow, bound, unbound, it doesn’t matter. This is the place where both of us become naked – not in the physical sense although one or both of us may be completely unclothed. No, it’s much deeper than that. This is the place where we drop the masks and the walls. This is where we let ourselves be vulnerable and unguarded. He sees my full personality – the wanton, the lustful, the innocent, the perfectionist, the hedonist. All the dolls are there for him to play with.

This is release and not just the physical release of orgasm. This is the release from expectations and conventions, social roles, obligations. We’ll wake up tomorrow and again be that nice, polite, middle-class professional couple who lives down the hall. But tonight, we are free from everything and everyone save each other.

Dixi -- I have spoken.

It’s easy to obey a man when he’s right. I might grumble about some of the decisions handed to me. I don’t always like them, because I’m being required to do something I’d rather not do. Most of the time, it’s easy to get past my moment of “I don’t wanna” because deep down inside, I know he’s right. He’s made the correct decision and that the “I don’t wanna’ is actually good for me. Frequent topics of “I don’t wanna” include going to school, appropriate bedtimes, taking time for myself, and other issues of self-care, like retirement savings contributions. Even at my most petulant, I know these decisions have been made with my best interests at heart and obeying him is pretty easy. It takes a little extra effort sometimes to obey cheerfully but that’s another column.

My point is that more or less, any idiot can obey the right decision. It’s not rocket science to handle those ones. The much more challenging ones are to obey him when he’s wrong. I’m not talking a little detail wrong. I’m not talking a minor quibble wrong. I’m talking dead-ass, just plain, no matter how you slice or dice or squeeze it, WRONG. Wrong diddy wrong-ity wrong wrong wrong.

Now there’s a moment for you. It’s a whole lot harder to obey when every fibre, every instinct, every thought is arguing with the decision. It’s harder to obey when you think the decision is unreasonable, unfair, based on a double standard, or made in haste or without a full possession of the facts.

So what’s a girl to do? These are the times that challenge my pledge of submission. I struggle. These are the times I wish I was a brainless automaton. I want to argue with him and the more wrong he is, the more I want to argue. I can feel my anger growing even as I obey physically on the outside.

“Anger”, Judith Lassiter Hansen once wrote, “is directly proportional to our need to be right.” How true. It takes milliseconds for the old ego to kick in the defences until my need to be right subsumes the actual point of contest between us.

Fortunately, I have an understanding boyfriend who can read my expressions well. He knows when I’m struggling with inner turmoil over something and to his credit, he is not a moron about it. Where some men would be offended that their judgement was being questioned, he’s cool about it. He doesn’t natter or nag about it. He doesn’t throw some big “I’m the Dom” hissy fit. He gives me the time and space I need to process the emotional reactions. My anger, even when my anger is with him, doesn’t faze him. He’s perfectly fine with me being angry, or hurt, or just conflicted. He lets me have MY anger and allows me the space to deal with it.

He does listen to my viewpoint. He’s very calm at times like this. I guess one of us has to be because usually I’m way too busy emoting to be calm. Unlike some men who don’t listening to what you say because they’re too busy mentally constructing all the arguments of why you’re wrong to really appreciate what you’re saying, he actually listens. He listens with his ears, his brain and his heart. He can very quickly deliver my arguments back to me, including an accurate assessment of my emotional state. “You think I’m being unreasonable” or “you think I’m not listening to your concerns”. He’s usually spot on.

Sometimes he does change his mind. He’s not an unreasonable man. Sometimes I hear the words “You’re right. I didn’t think of it that way.” Much harder, of course, is when I hear the words “I appreciate your viewpoint but my decision stands.”

Now the ball is in my court. My only choice is to obey or disobey. Which is more important to me: my need to be right or my desire to obey?

So far, my desire to obey has won the day.

Later on, sometimes much later on, when I sit in his lap and snuggle in, my face pressed into his neck, the anger is but a memory. “I still think you’re wrong.”

I can feel the warmth of his smile, even though it's out of my sight. “I might well be. I’ve been wrong before and I’ll be wrong again before I die.” He strokes my hair which is something I find very comforting at times like this. “And if I’m wrong, it’ll be my job to fix it – which I have done in the past and will do so again in the future.”

And that’s why I start to appreciate that being the dominant partner doesn’t give a man the inside track on the Truth. He’s as fallible as any other man alive. The difference is his willingness to own the consequences of his decisions. He won’t always be right. In fact, there’s going to be days where he’s going to call it wrong ten ways from Sunday. My job is to remember that his intentions are always good. Even the boneheaded decisions are made with my best interests factored into them. He makes his decisions with his head, of course, but also with a clear heart.

I can feel my body relaxing against him as the stress of conflict just dies out. It’s not “resolved” or “negotiated”. The tension just evaporates when confronted with the strength of my submission.

Note to readers: this is part of a writing assignment given to me by my boyfriend when i was suffering from writer's block. He gave me a list of Latin phrases and expressions to stimulate my thought process. This is one from that series.

How did i end up here...

Right now, I'm feeling a little on the down side. Up until this afternoon, I had been blogging on another private site but that sort of went downhill fast.

One of the things that makes the Web wonderful is that we can post our thoughts anonymously. We can work stuff out in our head without being publicly censured for it. We can post with honesty about awkward subjects without fear of social repercussions. One of the things that makes the Web horrible is that we don't always have to be honest and other people get hurt.

To make a long story short, the participants of my former blogging home were sandbagged by someone who told a whole bunch of stories, was essentially an energy vampire and hurt a whole bunch of feelings. Details largely unknown to me because it was mostly before my time and I chose not to indulge in gossip.

The aftermath is what became the problem. A lot of the residents of my previous blogging home became understandable suspicious of 'strangers'. A lot of distrust and a lot of accusations are getting tossed around. I understand their hurt but you know what, I didn't create the problem. But being late to the party, I was under suspicion.

I've put up with more than a few snide and veiled remarks that perhaps I'm not who I say I am. Once, I was accused of having been a new 'stage name" for the one who caused all the hard feelings in the first place. Today, things came to a head when a well-intentioned (give her the full benefit of the doubt) person approached me in the private chat function and informed me that I was the subject of a lot of gossip and speculation. The tone of the conversation got pretty aggressive fast and it wasn't long before she was demanding that I identify myself and my boyfriend. I'm assuming she was looking for name, rank and serial number. Considering that the whole point of my previous blogging home was to create a community for people who express their sexuality in somewhat different ways, the whole "out yourself" thing was a bit much.

To be fair, she isn't an official of the site. She's another user but she pretty much finished me off for the whole thing. The suspicions and the mincing little digs...who needs it? I'll give her this much -- she said it to my face instead of being mean behind my back. But it was still mean.

So, I decided that maybe I needed to go elsewhere. It's not my intention to cause upset or chaos or "drama" anywhere. My intention when I started there was to read some other people's thoughts about alternative sexuality and contribute my own thoughts. I tried to post on a reasonably regular basis because if no one posts, there's nothing to read. Interestingly enough, the one chucking bricks at my head this afternoon wasn't much of a blogger. She says she finds it difficult to express herself in writing. That might be so; however, she did an excellent job of making me feel unwelcome to the party. All around, I'd say "Mission Accomplished". The point was perfectly well communicated today. In the interests of full disclosure, my legal name is not "Doll". It's what is called a "pseudonym" or a "nom de plume" for those of you who wish to get all fancy and Frenchified.

In any event, it's time to move on. I've left the community. My boyfriend left the community. I wish the owner of the site all the best. She's a wonderful woman. It's all good.