Title, Photo and Final Draft Pending

As I have shared so many times, subtlety is not my kink or strength. I can do obscure, but then just like if I'm not talking to you, I will find myself unable to resist explaining the reference. Still, I am better at obscure than I am at subtle. Also please note, it really is a gift if I take the time to tell you I am not talking to you. It does mean that I still intend to talk to you again. 

Perhaps I'm better at subtle than I think. 

No, you're right, it needs more work.

Some of my readers read between the lines, most missed it. A client nearly wet himself when he put it together. Wait, why are your nails red? Then he proposed, and I referred him to my real estate agent. Go ahead, shoot your shot foot boy. 

 

Things change. 

Or they don't, and that's unfortunate too. 

I'm packing for a little spa vacay with my Most Vanilla Friend. Yes, another one. Here you should hear Sheila E taunting... it gets kind of rough in the back of our limousine.

During our last little getaway to that delightful cottage by the lake, in the Blueberry Moose state, I found myself trying to explain what I get out of my dynamic. Trying to identify what need of mine it meets

It's a challenging question to answer no matter who asks. I think we would all agree a D/s dynamic is by definition, alternative. Mine is unconventional even by the standards of our alt community.

The moon up above it shines down upon our skin, whispering words that scream of outrageous sin, we all want the stuff that's found in our wildest dreams...

Do we? Do you? Wildest? For real, because my wildest is rather intense. Consider where my baseline is set.  Sometimes my wildest is fucking terrifying.

 

Did I mention my most vanilla BFF is a therapist? It's important to me that if I explain at all, that I explain it well. If she were to think that I have Stockholm syndrome, I want her to know that my inoculation was intentional and with enthusiastic consent.   

It isn't just the endorphin rush of a high-risk behavior. It isn't only the flood of dopamine when a complex goal is satisfactorily met or the little bump when a small, routine one is checked off.  It isn't only that I am a standard issue gen X girl model, with abandonment issues who just wants to find meaning in any of this nonsense that is the human experience. 

For quite some time I've had a note to myself pinned in my inbox. A reminder that I had an idea to explore how sadomasochistic play echoes my birth experiences. Not in the obvious ways, and not through a lens of breeding kink, but the hormone-driven, extreme emotional experience of each. How in even the most carefully, thoughtfully, informed based plans will still likely give way to moments of extreme vulnerability, humiliation, terrifying fear, indescribable excruciating pain and then most of us,  fall deeper in love than we've ever experienced. 

So I suppose it's the oxytocin. And not the polite serving size one gets when they slip on a fuzzy sweater. I need transformative, alchemic level doses. It doesn't matter if it's terrifying, I wish to experience, to really master, acceptance and unconditional love.   

And I don't wish to be bored, not even for a moment. 

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