Over and Over

Yesterday I wrote, "It's Monday and raining, proof the Gods delight in my happiness.". I've given myself a new protocol: tap the keys for an hour as soon as I wake-up, every day, no matter what. It was completed, of course, but the final draft failed to feel worthy of posting. 

It's Tuesday now, a house lot is being cleared across the street. The noise is maddening. Multiple generators, engines, chain saws, stump grinding and a scared Fiona tapping to go in her crate then crying to come out. At least she's resigned that even her biggest bark, from her 11-pound pink poodle self, isn't going to scare the crew away.

The goal isn't to write something to post every day, but the dopamine reward of a completed product would have been such a plump, sweet cherry on a still delish sundae of a Monday.    

Then again, perhaps this pedestrian Tuesday, with its obnoxious noisy start, needs that cherry bump more than my perfect Monday did.  
I appreciate that Fate sees the fine details of the big picture far better than this mere mortal.  

Speaking of ch-ch-cherries, I saw Joan Jett recently. Flow with me through this stream of consciousness. I started dancing about a month before my 21st birthday. I regularly bemoaned that, despite fantasizing about it often, I didn't start sooner. Thoughts like, I have 5, maybe 6 years ahead of me before I'm too old to earn a living this way, worried me often. It felt like I had lost 3 years of income by starting when I was so very old at almost 21. When I discovered and transitioned to work as a Domme at 27, I was so relieved to imagine that I'd likely be able to earn this way until around 40.  By then I would certainly have figured out my calling, and be well established in a real job, a grown-up (but not adult) career. 

Wonder if Joan Jett's parents were supportive when their daughter first declared she wanted to be a rock star? If she even declared it, it sounds so silly, doesn't it? Wonder if she ever thought I need to do something more practical? That this moment might prove to be the last opportunity to choose a viable, still attractive, alternate path. Wonder if she ever worried that she might find herself past the age most people retire with calloused fingers still performing. 

What silly things to have ever spent any time imagining. 

Had a new-to-me client the other day ask if I might make an exception to my 2-hour minimum. Afterall he only wanted to explore foot worship, isn't 2 hours too much time for a foot worshipping session?  I'm happy to report my reputation at almost 53 remains intact. Never in the history of all time has a boy described being in my company using the words too much time. Next time I might make it 3 hours and task him with watching the paint on my toenails dry.

Perhaps it is so very silly. Perhaps I am delusional. Who cares? Every time I declare something so very outrageous, blasphemous even like rain on a Monday is proof the Gods delight in my happiness, I find a new thing to be happy about. Confirmational bias with a side of toxic positivity, I am here for it. A 67-year-old woman named Joan had twenty thousand people on their feet, belting out every classic she slammed out. 

How absurd that I ever spent a moment worried about when I would be too old to do what I love. 

Nothing Compares 2 U

My heart is breaking, but my tummy is snatched.

It's been 7 hours and 15 days. 

No, wait there's another line that's much closer to this moment's vibe. 

I can go out every night and sleep all day.

This weekend, while engaged in retail therapy, my lifelong very most vanilla bestie said, "...you can send me your morning nudes if you need accountability." 

How blessed am I to have such great friends? Here for my tears and my nudes.  

How much shall I share? Perhaps if I lean hard into the obscure, I could hang my soul on a laundry line in the front yard, allow it to bleach transparent by the sun's absolution, and you wouldn't notice it at all. 

Unless a cardinal got all tangled up in it. 

Oh, stop it. Honest there are no emo emus here. Miss Claudia Cream is double dog daring me to paint them red, and I'm doing the math to see if I can hook-up with Ms. Danielle in Croatia. 

It's my intention to pound my feelings out at the gym and in the dungeon every time they pipe up. My second favorite sadist turned it up and tuned me up this morning. And I am certain I can find a volunteer among my cliental to torment.    

Perhaps it's just a pause. A little nudge from the Gods to re-align and reassess my prioritizes.  I am absolutely serious when I say I'm going to start a cult, a secret society, do every outrageous thing I have I ever wished. 

Wanna hear a silly story from retail therapy? There was a section of marked down summer items, and I was looking for resort wear. I pointed out to Vanilla Bestie that it concerns me how pineapples are such a prevalent summer motif. It feels risky that the reference has become so visible it is no longer a safe secret code. To which she replied, "Oh Mr. Vanilla Bestie's Husband (Let's call him Jim for short) said that's just an urban legend." I said- Has Jim ever been to a sex party? No? Remind Jim, your bestie has hosted parties, it isn't an urban legend you silly goose. 

Speaking of parties, are we FetLife BFFs? I am once again scaling up my privacy protocols, and I will be using my Alchemy group on Fet exclusively to share my travel and event plans. Here's the current, note Croatia isn't penciled in yet: (1) Any Way the Wind Blows - Alchemy with Mistress Cassidy | FetLife 

There's a post here too: (1) Writing by MistressCassidy | FetLife

Every Time a Bell Rings

A few weeks ago, I had a session with one of my favorite clients. He proposed. It amuses me that I have had so many clients offer me their names, while my progeny must reply same when prompted with the internet's most common riddle. 

Oh, I have had many husbands, just none of them have been mine. 

Now of course when clients propose they are just being silly. If I am doing my job well, and I always am, I have coaxed their vasopressin levels to the brink of a coronary, only to throw open the oxytocin floodgates. Their offer to take an oath before God is just the grandiose nature of being intoxicated. 

My exes-of-note knew my views about marriage. They each, carefully, suggested it once or twice. Do I look like the sort of girl a man would marry? If you want to be happy for the rest of your life, never make a pretty woman your wife. More importantly, why would I wish to participate in such an outdated, and barbaric tradition rooted in ownership and possession?  

Yet ask me what my tattoo symbolizes. 

There was a bridal party at the spa during my recent getaway. When it became clear I wouldn’t find my Zen amid their enthusiastic planning for The Big Day—loudly unfolding by the aqua terrace—I chose instead to quietly observe. A woman around my age, likely the mother of the bride, or maybe an aunt or Godmother, encouraged the bride-to-be to indulge. “It’s your day,” she said. “You’re the princess.”

Just for one day, poor thing. 

There was a time when the idea of being the princess for a day held a certain appeal. An ex of some significance—he’s been mentioned here before, if you’re keeping score—once dared me to marry him. He looked so silly backpedaling when I showed up in white. Double dog dare. It would have made such a cool story, if he had been just a little braver. He confessed recently that his mother still reminds him—thirty years later—that he made a mistake. I’ve always loved her too much to cast her as the evil mother-in-law. Maybe that’s why that path veered when it did.

Truth be told, I’ve never understood marriage.

As a young adult, I’d listen to friends explain why it mattered to them. I found a kind of curiosity in what they shared—like hearing someone describe a faith I didn’t share. I have my own beliefs. You’re unlikely to convert me. But I’m always interested in peeking through the lens someone else uses to frame their world. Yet as I’ve grown older, when someone staunchly defends marriage—or monogamy—it sounds like they’re telling me they still believe in Santa Claus. Scratch that. I think I might actually have more respect for someone who believes in the magic of the Christmas spirit. At least that has a touch of whimsy. But telling me—with a straight face—that you’re betting your immortal soul on finding one person, and only one person, interesting until the day you die… and that they’ll feel the same about you? That you will enjoy that, find it fulfilling, and that it will keep the love you have today alive and thriving. You can't really mean that, can you?

Of course, if you say it's for health insurance, that I understand.

I’ve been told that makes me jaded. That I don’t believe in love. But that’s not accurate at all.

I believe in connection so deep it bypasses reason. In protocols negotiated, not assumed. In power exchanged not with a ring, but with a look, a gesture, a whispered command.

I’ve had men try to give me their name—as if it were a prize. 

But I was never interested in what they had to offer.

So you can keep your name.
I’ll take your soul.